My tank of life is emptying

I have a birthday coming up soon. It's not a "milestone" birthday to be marked by celebration, it's just one of many innocuous numbers that mark a decrease in the years I have left until what's left of me gets put away to rot.

When we are young, we are excited, maybe even proud, of reaching ages 5, 10, 13, 16, 18, 21, 25, 35 -- because each of those numbers indicate added privileges and authority.

Later on, 65 means money from Social Security and Medicare, and senior discounts at unexciting restaurants.

After 65, each new number means that there is less left in the tank of life.

I've been assuming that I'll die at age 89. That number is now five years closer than when I picked 2035 as my last year, for my blog about dying.

Time is speeding up as it passes by. Sometimes years feel like they have only about five or six months in them. 

2035 is approaching quickly. It's a mere two decades away, now. But there are many unforeseen horrors that could move my exit date closer. I'm taking things off my bucket list as I realize they are unattainable fantasies. I am buying less and giving way more.

I watched both of my parents -- both previously super-smart and vigorous -- fade away to become useless, barely animated collections of atoms.

Damn. Shit. Hell. Fooey.

I'm not depressed, just pissed off. 

Am I a man or a ball?

Too much to do that people expect me to do that I don't feel like doing.
Too much to do that I want to do but can't start or finish.
Too much that was fun but is no longer fun.
Too many books unread and unwritten.
Too many bills that I can't pay.
Too much news I can't stand.
Too little to look forward to.
Too little tolerance.
Too little energy.
Too little time.
Too little joy.

Is this depression, sadness, pissed-offedness? Sometimes I seem like a ball on a pool table, bouncing around and reacting, not initiating action.

I still have a tear in my right eye from a Bob Edwards interview on the radio over an hour ago.

I have to pee but lack the motivation to stand up and go to the john.

Some body parts always hurt. Others have no sensation. My typing is filled with errors caused by my brain malfunctioning, not by sloppy typing.

Have I lost "it?" Where/why did "it" go?

Have I finally, at age 68, passed from middle age to old?

Why did I type this instead of finishing writing three long-past-due books?

Will reading this help me? Can I give myself a good kick in the ass?

Sometimes it is too late

I was reading an article in the NY Daily News about a woman who is near death after being hit by a "speed demon" on a $4,000 bicycle in Central Park. At first her name didn't mean anything to me, but then I realized that Jill Tarlov is the daughter of my late father's late first cousin, Malcolm Tarlov from Norwalk.

I probably have not seen Jill in more than 50 years and probably would have gone the rest of my life without thinking of her. It's sad to be reminded of relatives when they are dead or nearly dead.

If you have old friends and relatives whom you don't hate but have not spoken to in a long time, get in touch. You may not have another chance.

Apparently there are no speed limits for bicycles in NYC. There should be.

From Australian News.com.au:

>>Police sources said it’s common for athletic cyclists to pedal in the car lanes, enabling them to travel faster.

“These guys think that they have entitlement and they don’t ride in the bike lanes,” one source said.

Witness Phillip Fenton, 21, visiting New York on a geography field trip from England’s University of Exeter, said Marshall was “speeding,” adding, “It didn’t look like he tried to stop.

“He was yelling for her to get out of the way, but I don’t think she heard him,” Mr Fenton added.

Mr Fenton’s pal Tom Longman said Marshall was hunched over the brakeless, triathlon-style “aerobars” attached to the handlebars of his high-performance, yellow and black ride.

“She went down pretty hard,” Longman said. “The right side of her face looked very bad. There was blood all over her.”

Local residents have long complained at Central Park Precinct Community Council meetings that the cyclists are a danger.<<

Update: Jill died.

I've learned some things in 68 years

I've done a lot in 68 years, probably more than I'll do in the next 21 years. I did some of the right things and some of the wrong things. I learned lots of lessons and now I'm putting them into a book. 

Do As I Say, Not As  I Did

If the old me could have spoken to the young me, maybe I wouldn't have made so many stupid mistakes. 

From an early draft of the introduction:

Time travel is a pervasive theme in popular culture. For something that doesn’t actually exist, time travel is surprisingly popular.

• Google shows about ten times as many links for time travel as for European travel.
• Time travel has inspired countless books, movies, TV shows, videogames and comic books.

My interest in time travel has often been extremely personal. I fantasize about interacting with myself—not with dead presidents or great grandchildren.

I’ve contemplated how the eleven-year-old me would have reacted to the twenty-year-old me. Would the fifteen-year-old me think the forty-year-old me was interesting, cool, smart, boring, stupid, scary, a creep or an asshole?

More importantly—and the impetus for this book—I’ve thought that if the old me could have spoken to the young me, maybe I wouldn’t have made so many stupid mistakes. Maybe I’d now be healthier, wealthier and happier.

I wish I could forcefully advise myself to “do this, not that.” The ten- and twenty-year-old me might have ignored the advice of parents, teachers and doctors—but not the advice of me. If I talk to myself I have to listen.

I’ve learned a lot since 1946. Many of the lessons have been difficult and some have been painful. I figured out many things myself. Some lessons were taught to me by others, especially by my father.

While technology will not yet allow me to go back and talk to myself, I can warn and advise anyone else who’s willing to pay attention.

That’s why I wrote this book. And maybe by looking back I can influence my own future.

It should be published around June 1.

The advantages of being old, or, at least, older

I noticed something interesting in recent photos of writers' groups that met in California and England. I noticed the same thing in a meeting of writers I attended here in Connecticut. There were no young people. The age range seemed to be from about 40 to 85. I don't know why this is so. Are the kids' literary output limited to Tweeting and texting? Are they incapable of writing 30,000 words or more?

Despite deficiencies in appendages and sensory organs, old farts have definite advantages over the young 'uns. We may not remember where we put the car keys or what we ate for breakfast, but we still have long-term memory. We have PERSPECTIVE. We can look back, remember, analyze and compare. We remember things that kids have merely read about or heard about. And, because we can remember when things like cellphones did not exist, we can APPRECIATE -- and maybe even marvel at -- things that younger people take for granted.

After walking around the planet for four or five or six decades, we've seen, heard, smelled, tasted and done a lot.

• Despite the current Republican Party's fondness for "The Great Communicator," I can remember when Ronnie Reagan was a doddering old fool in the White House. (For me, the highlight of his career was starring in Bedtime for Bonzo.)
• I remember the thrill when finally more than 50% of Americans were opposed to the war in Viet Nam, and when LBJ decided not to run for re-election.
• I remember when presidential candidates were selected at the conventions, not in primaries.
• Today, a burger at Mickey Dee's can cost six bucks. I remember the commercial that chanted "Forty-five cents for a three course meal? Sounds to me like that's a steal." (A burger, fries and a shake cost 15 cents each.)
• I remember when one-gig hard drives and plain-paper fax machines finally became available for less than $1,000.
• I remember when people were crippled from polio.
• I remember when most kids had married parents and few mothers worked.
• I remember when men were not nurses and did not teach at elementary schools.
• I remembered when it was shocking that politicians and priests were involved in sex scandals.
• I remember seeing two movies, seven cartoons and a newsreel for 25 cents.
• I remember penny candy that actually cost a penny.
• I remember cars that rusted and overheated and had windup windows and no air conditioning.
• I remember when it was unusual to see an imported car in the USA. Or Ikea.
• I remember the discoveries of quiche and fondue.
• I remember when most women used hair spray, and only strippers wore thong underwear.
• I remember when it was weird for a woman to run for political office.
• I remember when pregnant girls left high school.
• I remember door-to-door salesmen, and notebooks that were not computers.
• I remember typewriters and correction fluid.
• I remember shotgun weddings, people going to Europe for abortions and sex-change surgery, and to Nevada for divorces.
• I remember when people were shocked by Playboy magazine.
• I remember newspapers that did not print color pictures.
• I remember having to choose from three TV channels.
• I remember TV antennas (not dishes) on the roof.
• I remember when headsets were for pilots and telephone operators.
• I remember when people rented telephones and answering machines.
• I remember when answering machines were actually machines.
• I remember when it was weird to buy water.
• I remember Pennsylvania Station, Bethlehem Steel and phone numbers with letters.
• I remember when a doctor made home visits for five bucks, drove a $5,000 Cadillac and lived in a $25,000 house.
• I remember when an expensive college cost $3,000 per year.
• I remember paying a nickel to ride on the Staten Island Ferry, and for a bag of potato chips.
• I remember life before Starbucks, Keurigs, plastic shopping bags, Star Trek and Star Wars, bungee cords, The Pill, cordless phones, reality TV, recycling bins, ZIP Codes, email, word processing, sports bras, $200 sneakers, unisex salons, apps, Silly Putty, The Czech Republic, Trumps, Palins, Kardashians, Lohans, Kims, networking, self-realization, permanent press, videos, value propositions, airplane hijacking, Lojack, GPS, VCR, DVR, LSD, HIV, ATMs, PDFs, FAQs, sex surrogates, texting, sexting, Nigerian scams, men going to weddings without neckties, and seatbelts.
• I remember when 1950s music was not "oldies."
• I remember when the USA had 180 million people and 48 states. 
• I remember commercials for "your DeSoto-Plymouth dealer."
• I remember the USSR.
• I remember co-features.
• I remember mink stoles.
• I remember when Howdy Doody was "live."
• I remember when Dick Clark was young.
• I remember "Kukla, Fran and Ollie."
• I remember "Tom Corbett, Space Cadet."
• I remember when Johnny Carson replaced Steve Allen on the Tonight Show.
• I remember people being concerned about 1984 and Y2K.
• I remember when it was unusual for women to wear pants to work.
• I remember pizza selling 25 cents for a slice. Maybe even 15 cents.
• Although I never drank it, I remember ten-cent coffee.
• I remember soda vending machines that poured liquid into cups.
• I remember when "gay" merely meant "happy."
• I remember when there were just three Radio Shack stores in the entire world, and no BestBuys or Circuit Cities.
• When our family drove cross-country in 1959, gas cost less than 25 cents per gallon.
• I remember preparing for World War Three. Duck and Cover.
• I remember when American men did not wear necklaces, and most women did not have tattoos, or piercings other than in their ears.
• I remember paying for long-distance calls, and keeping them short.
• I remember tube testers at Radio Shack, being able to select either mono or stereo LPs, when mobile phones cost $3,000, and when going online could cost $20 per HOUR.
• I remember when color TVs, touch-tone phones and microwave ovens were luxury items.
• I remember when TVs had knobs and no remote controls.
• I remember having a $1,000 VCR with a wired remote  control.
• I remember open-reel tape, 78s, 45s, 33s, 4-track, 8-track, cassettes, Elcassettes, videodiscs, quadraphonic sound, and record players in cars.
• I remember wristwatches with tiny LED displays.
• I remember when there was a Disneyland but no Disney Worlds.
• I (sadly) remember life without TiVo and satellite radio.
• I remember when cars had just three-speed transmissions. (The first Corvette had just two.)
• I remember when turbocharging was exotic.
• I remember paying to have new cars rustproofed by Ziebart.
• I remember calling relatives to let them know we had arrived safely -- after a 50-mile drive.
• I remember when there was no President's Day, but there was a Decoration Day, and weekends had just two days.
• I remember when it was unusual to see nude bodies or hear dirty words in movies, on TV or radio.
• I remember when tacos were exotic, and pizza was not available with eggplant.
• I remember when pocket calculators were exotic.
• I remember when people stayed home to watch TV.
• I remember when a science magazine said that it would never be possible to produce a color video camera that could be sold for less than $25,000.
• I remember predictions of helicopters in every driveway, flat-screen color TVs, pocket-size phones and the end of war and disease.
• I also remember when cigarettes cost 27 cents per pack, had no cancer warnings, and were advertised on TV. "More doctors smoke camels than any other brand."
• I remember when magazines cost a quarter, paperback books cost 35 cents, computers cost millions, and homes had one phone and one TV.
• I remember when milk and eggs were delivered to homes, mommy was home to cook lunch for the kids, and freezers had to be defrosted.
• I remember hearing about nickel lunches, but I actually remember drinking nickel Cokes.
• I remember when kids walked to school and it was up-hill in both directions.
• I remember when KFC was called Kentucky Fried Chicken.
• I remember when females were not supposed to like sex.
• I remember when schools, public lavatories and water fountains got integrated.
• I remember when Ivy League schools had quotas for Jews, and fancy hotels did not allow Jews or dogs to stay in them.
• I remember when few Jewish people bought German cars and when few WW2 vets bought Japanese cars.
• I remember when computer screens and printers were monochrome.
• I remember floppy discs, and laser discs.
• I remember changing spark plugs.
• I remember snow tires, even studded snow tires.
• I remember when radar detectors were illegal in some states.
• I remember Montgomery-Ward, Gimbel's, Bambergers, Korvette's and Crazy Eddie.
• I remember when people couldn't buy liquor with a credit card, or lots of things on Sunday.
• I remember when cable TV was unusual. So were shopping malls. And wearing jeans and sneakers to school.
• I remember when Howard Johnson's restaurants were ubiquitous, and the signs at McDonald's bragged, "Over One Million Sold."
• I remember when you had to get phone service from the phone company.
• I remember when nobody used lasers at home.
• I remember when most pens and batteries leaked.
• I remember the appearance of the Magic Marker.
• I remember when Negroes became Blacks and Afro-Americans.
• I remember when black people started using the N-word.
• I remember when it was unusual to see black people in commercials.
• I remember when "Protestants" became "Christians."
• I remember when Mormons were considered weird. Hmm.
• I remember when it was shocking to consider that a Catholic could become president.
• I remember when Americans went to Cuba for vacation -- but not to China.
• I remember the iron curtain and iron lungs.
• I remember my Diners' Club card and receiving Telegrams.
• I remember stores that let people charge purchases without using charge cards, and when Macy's started accepting American Express.
• I remember when McDonald's started selling breakfast, and bagels.
• I remember when banks closed at 3 p.m. and on weekends.
• I remember when mail-order items were ordered and delivered by mail.
• I remember the switch from steel to aluminum SCUBA tanks, from dual-hose to single-hose regulators, and from ski boots with laces to ski boots with clips.
• I remember when people without legs did not compete in sports.
• I remember when Saturn was not a car but Mercury was. Now Saturn is not a car, again.
• I remember when Pluto was a planet.
• I remember when "under God" was inserted into the Pledge of Allegiance.
• I remember back in the 1950s when banks paid less than three percent on savings. Hmm. Now two is considered high. 
• I remember hearing about the Great Depression and that it could never happen again. 

Of course, one big disadvantage of all this perspective and memory is that that no young person wants to hear about it.

...
top photo from Fotolia.com. Thanks. 

How much more time do you want?

A neighbor and a high school classmate both died yesterday, both much too young and both apparently of "natural" causes.

We can't control our genes, but we can exert a bit of control over our lives.

Be careful, friends.

The older we are the less we can "get away with." There's less time to heal, and maybe less strength to resist bad stuff.

I've been planning on 21 more years. I am going to make some changes starting today.

Life's a bitch, and then you die.

Today would have been my parents' 70th anniversary.

They were two extremely intelligent people (both attended high schools for the "gifted" in NYC), active and productive -- but degenerated to become like helpless infants.

"Buddy," my father, died on 7/21/09 at age 87. He had a very full life and finally decided to shut down while in a nursing home. He enjoyed singing old songs to the staff, and grinned while doing a dump into his diaper. Pop eventually stopped wearing his glasses and hearing aid and asked my mother to hire a hit man for him.

Rita, my mother, is 91 and has severe dementia.

She's in a nursing home and doesn't know she should be celebrating, sometimes doesn't recognize her children, and seldom says more than "NO!" -- even when she means yes.

When she was more lucid (even a few months ago), she sometimes articulately described hallucinations, such as my father climbed out of his grave and married another woman. Often she substituted words and it obviously pained her when she was inarticulate. Sometimes she'd use a vague term, like "device" instead of "seat belt." Other times the substitution made no sense, like "marshmallow" for "checkbook."

A while ago we noticed that she had exchanged eyeglasses with another resident of the home. Neither woman noticed. More recently she lost a lens from her glasses -- but the lens was from in front of her blind eye. She no longer reads, so the glasses were put away.

Yesterday, bro Marshall and I were at mom's nursing home to discuss final plans. No feeding tube, no heroic measures, just keep her as comfortable as possible.

She shares a room with a slightly older old lady. They have two TVs in the room, a few feet apart. Sometimes they silently display two different programs, but neither woman seems to notice or complain. It's electric wallpaper.

My mother had a powerful brain, but her body suffered greatly over the years.

She's had various body parts replaced, and even had a broken neck. She fell from her bed (or maybe her wheel chair) a few months ago and broke a leg. She has not been able to stand up for several years. In school, mom won an award for penmanship. She knit, crocheted and made ceramic objects. Now she can't hold a fork or spoon, or release her grip from a handkerchief without assistance.

(OK, time for a humorous interlude: mom once broke a toe by kicking Marshall in the ass.)

At mom's 90th birthday party, her long-time doctor, Mark Schwartz, said, "modern medicine can keep people alive long after the parts wear out, but there's no quality of life."

I'm scheduled to become 68 years old in two months. I am not looking forward to 88.

Damn summer!

It's 4:20 a.m. I've been awake since at least 1:24. It's dark out and I don't hear any birds chirping. It seems like just a few days ago at this time that the sun was shining and there was an avian concert outside my window. 

Winter is coming. I'm both pissed and relieved. This summer, like most summers, has been extremely frustrating, even annoying. Many things on my to-do-list remain undone. I want summer to go away.

One particularly annoying item remains on my annual list. My mind sees my body asleep in a chair outside a cabin on the shore of a lake in Adirondack State Park. Brubeck's "Blue Rondo a la Turk" is playing, but not too loud. A breeze is tickling my face. Blue sky, blue water, my dog and a canoe are waiting for me to wake up.

Maybe next summer. Maybe next life. 

------

photo from iStockPhoto. 

Forgive and forget, or ignore and move on?

We've all heard the phrase "forgive and forget." I seldom forget, and if I remember, I seldom forgive.

At a high school reunion about 25 years ago, I was approached by another man.

Years earlier, when his hair was darker and greasier, "Rick" was known as "Daddy Demon." He was probably one of just two Jewish juvenile delinquents in New Haven.

Rick smiled, said “Hi, howya been?” and he raised his right hand to shake mine.
I kept my right hand at my side.

I reminded Rick that in the fall of 1958, when we were both in the seventh grade, on the way home from school, he and a couple of other 12-year-old hoods ambushed me for no discernible reason. Rick poked holes in both of my bicycle tires and then he snuffed out a cigarette on my head. 

A few months later, Rick’s posse held me down on the ground with my mouth forced open so they could spit into it. Later on, one of them stabbed me in the pool at our country club.

I did not shake Rick’s hand.

I did tell Rick to go fuck himself.

I still remembered a lot. 

Fast-forward to a few days ago. Rick wanted to join an online group that I administer. My initial reaction was to ignore him -- a polite way of saying "go fuck yourself" again.

I thought about my decision. I've held a grudge against an evil, sadistic bully for 55 years, the vast majority of my life, and now he wanted -- or needed -- something from me. 

Unlike that day in 1958, I now had power over him. I was in a position to show the mercy that he and his posse did not show. 

I clearly did not forget what they did, and cannot forgive it -- but I can choose to ignore it. 

Maybe Rick on Social Security is not the same person that the pre-teen Rick was.

I've done a few crappy things in my life ('tho I was never a bully) and I'd like my transgressions to be ignored.

So, I let Rick into the group.

If I meet him again, maybe I'll be willing to shake his hand. I probably won't tell him to go fuck himself. I'd probably like to have a conversation with him. I'd like to know what diabolical influences turned him into Daddy Demon, and how he outgrew the demon.

Maybe by being nice to a former nemesis, I outgrew a demon of my own.

I definitely feel better now.

I may have lost "it" -- but didn't lose it.

On Thursday I prepared to take the train from CT to NYC for Book Expo America. I thought I put my cellphone and two bars of Bonomo Turkish Taffy in my shoulder bag.

When I got on the train, I wanted to call home and tell my wife I had made the train, but could not find the phone. I went through the bag over and over again and finally gave up, assuming I had never put the stuff in the bag.

At the show I was not able to communicate properly with wife or office. There apparently are no pay phones at Javits Center. I was able to borrow cellphones and stay in touch minimally. 

When I got back to CT I scoured the car and house. I inspected every likely and unlikely place. I called AT&T to determine whether anyone had used my missing phone. No one had.

A few minutes ago I heard the tell-tale notes of "Louie-Louie" -- my ring tone -- coming from the same shoulder bag I had schlepped to NY and back.

I started ransacking the bag for the umpteenth time and discovered a hidden compartment containing my phone and taffy. They made the round trip with me. If someone had tried to call me in NY, "Louie" would've helped me find the phone.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cec1JInytH0

BTW, I deliberately bought my Nokia Lumia 920 in red to make it hard to misplace. Earlier this year it was misplaced for a month.

Am I aging gracefully, or disgracefully?

I was at a publishing industry trade show in Manhattan today. I met and was talking to two smart, witty, attractive young ladies. If I was not happily married, I would have 'tried something.'

Somehow the topic of age came up. One of my companions guessed that I was 52. The other said 47.

When I revealed that I am really 67, they were amazed.

I am certainly not a prime specimen of American masculinity, but the reactions of these ladies gave me a good ego boost. Actually, when I see pictures of some of my contemporaries, and some of my wife's contemporaries, I think we're doing just fine.

I wonder if I dyed my gray beard brown or black, could I pass for 35? If I shaved it off, could I pass for 17?

Probably not. Oh well.

How old is too old? Who knows?

My mother (for many years an AMAZING woman) is 90 years old and has dementia.

She's in an assisted-living facility with a 'round-the-clock aide and we're trying to find her a bed in a nursing home. She can't stand, walk, read, make a phone call, feed herself, wipe her behind or say more than a few words (often the wrong words). She sits in her wheel chair clutching her pocketbook and a hanky, and her fingers have to be pried off the handle of the pocketbook because she can't un-bend her own fingers.

Until about six months ago, when she was able to say more than a few words, she said some ridiculous things.

She told of the three mechanics who were working in her bedroom and left through the back door (there were no mechanics and no back door), and that my father climbed out of his grave and married another woman, and insisted that her name was written on the ceiling above her bed. She also told me that a noisy family had moved into her guest room.

Last year she had a lot trouble finding "the right words," and was obviously extremely frustrated by her limitations. She used to have an amazing vocabulary, but started to substitute almost any noun for another one, or use a general term like "device" for "seatbelt" or "clock." Sometimes she'd mix baby-talk and substitution, like "toidy sheets " for "toilet paper."

Some sentences were complete mysteries. It took a long time to figure out that "produce" meant a "bank check."

Mom often answered the phone but held it upside-down and yelled and neglected to hang up. (A few years ago, when my father was fading away in a nursing home, he often tried to use the bed control to adjust the TV. One time he ejected himself from the bed.)

Those were the good old days.

Now Mom is mostly silent. She smiles a lot, watches (or stares at) television, listens to conversations intently, and has occasional moments of surprising lucidity. She'll fill in words from old songs and seems to be happy despite her limitations.

I guess that's all anyone wants at any age or stage.

Would I want to end up like her, or would I prefer to be euthanized? I don't know.

The dividing line between life and death is usually obvious. The line between a crappy life and a good-enough life my be hard for observers to discern.

Life was so much simpler when most cavemen were killed by wild beasts before they had a chance to get old and ill.

How long is a year?

I just realized that it's time to buy a 2013 appointment book. I've barely gotten to know my 2012 book, and it's almost used up.

When I was in high school, each 45-minute class seemed to last a hundred years. Now, years seem to have about five months, and are shrinking fast.

(Hmm. I said that in the last blog post. Is repetition a sign of getting old?)

How the heck did it get to be December?

Wasn't it summer just a few days ago? When I was in high school, each 45-minute class seemed to last a hundred years. Now, years seem to have about five months.

I figure I have 23 years left. I hope they won't seem like five years. I have a lot to do.

I can't take it with me, but I'm not ready to throw it out.

When I moved from an apartment to my first real house in 1977, I felt that for the first time in my life, I had enough storage space for all of my shit. Unfortunately, I failed to realize a basic fact of life: shit expands to fill the available space, and then it overflows.

The move to our second house in 2001 required FIVE MOVING VANS, plus about 70 trips in our own minivan, plus the disposal or recycling of about 50 CUBIC YARDS of crap, junk and trash.

• Shit is stuff with value that is mostly sentimental.
• Crap is stuff that can be eliminated with little debate or tears.
• Junk can be eliminated with no debate or tears.
• A collection is a bunch of junk which can be classified and displayed.
• Trash should have been thrown out, not stored for later debate.
• Garbage usually is disposed of promptly because it starts to stink.
• A husband's shit may be considered junk by a wife.
• And, vice versa.

One good way to classify stuff is by applying the 90-day rule (or one-year or five-year rule, or whatever time interval you select). If something has not been used in the last year (or other time interval), there's a good chance that it will not be used in the next year, and can be eliminated.

Unfortunately, if you have enough space, the 90-day rule can be easily extended to become a 30-year rule.

Our second house is huge. Most people think it's much too big for two people and a dog. It's not. A house can never be too big. Not even Buckingham Palace.

Well, we've been in this house for over 11 years. The house now contains a lot of both shit and crap (plus lots of stuff and things). The formerly cavernous attic is almost impenetrable. The three car garage has become storage space. It has about 10 cartons that have not yet been unpacked from the 2001 move. (A shelf in our laundry room has a carton containing a silver serving thing which was packed for a move in 1975 but never unpacked.) A guest room has no room for guests.

I know it's summer, but it's time for spring cleaning. It's always time for spring cleaning.

We have 14 huge bags which were supposed to go to Goodwill by the end of 2010. I hope they get there this year. They're supposed to go today. I'd rather write, go in the pool, watch TV, and try a new restaurant. I also should visit my mother. What the heck. Goodwill is open tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. 

I'm faced with a major decision.

I have a growing stack of early versions of my books which were marked up for corrections. I don't want anyone to read them, so I can't sell them or give them away. I can't throw them away, because destroying books is one of the few (or maybe the only) sin that I recognize.

Sometimes, when overcome with egomania, I have a vision that some future literary critic will analyze the stash and proclaim to the world, that "AHA! -- in version 3.68, Marcus changed a comma to a semicolon in the last sentence on page 254."

I realize that there is little likelihood that this will happen. But just in case, I'll keep the books. Besides, retention is better than sinning.

The next time I move, I want to go horizontal, feet first, in a black zipper bag, with a tag on a toe. I'll let the next generation decide what is valuable shit and what is mere crap or junk.

...

Am I losing my mind -- already?

My mother is nearly 90 years old. She was always super-smart. Like my father, she attended a high school for the "gifted," and she earned multiple college degrees.

In the last year or so, she's had trouble with conversations. Like many people -- even young adults -- she sometimes can't think of a word she wants to use.

My mother, however, instead of merely hesitating, sometimes substitutes words. She may use a general term instead of the specific -- like "fasten the apparatus" instead of "buckle the seatbelt." Or "I need a new thing for the thing" instead of "I need a new cushion for the wheelchair."

She sometimes merely substitutes a word that is the right part of speech, but makes no sense, like "produce" for "bank check" and "poster" for something I never figured out.

Other times -- actually pretty often -- her conversations are perfectly normal.

When she was younger, she read three or four books a week. She recently stopped reading. When she was in high school, she won an award for penmanship. Now she has trouble writing a check.

Although I am "just" 66 years old, I've lately been worried that I might develop my mother's condition.

I never learned how to type the "real" way, but about five years ago I degenerated from being the world’s fastest six-finger typist to a pretty-good two-finger typist. (I actually have ten fingers but I’ve never used them all for typing.)

Now I'm a terrible two-finger typist. I produce a lot of typos -- often pressing an adjacent key, like "v" instead of "c." I frequently hold down the shift key as I press the key to insert an apostrophe, and end up inserting a colon. I often type “i nthe” and “fro ma.” I now tap the Caps Lock key a lot by accident, the semicolon instead of the apostrophe, and the “Page Down” key instead of “delete.” I seldom produce an error-free sentence. [The first time I typed that sentence, I typed "arror," and then I corrected it to "errror."]

A more recent -- and much scarier -- sign of degeneration is that I sometimes substitute words at the keyboard, usually with the same initial letter, like "party" for "path." Sometimes I use the wrong letter sequence, like "nad," "hsould" or "writign."

TRhis is an uncorrected sample of my typign. Anr here is another sample senterncer, and some moer. Today is Sunday and I'll havelots of newsapers to read. I wnatto spend some time writing, readign and editing books, too; and neeed to vacuum the algae for mthe botto mof the pool.

This is really scary. Is it an early sign of dementia? Is part of my brain DEAD? Tomorrow I'm going to call my neurologist and maybe an occupational therapist.

(above) Aging Baby Boomer’s Low-Tech Secret Weapon: If you remove the Caps Lock key, you can’t tap it accidentally.

I think I'm running out of time to read my books.

I'm typing this in a room filled with books, in a house filled with books. A quick estimate indicates that I have about 400 linear feet of books (100 feet more than the length of a football field, with the books standing up, not lying in the grass).


With an average thickness of one inch, and 12 books per foot, those 400 feet mean that I have a frightening total of about 4,800 books. That can't compare with the Library of Congress's collection of several million books, but it's pretty good for an amateur bibliophile.


And that 4,800 doesn't include hundreds of other books on my iPad, Kindle Fire, desktop, laptop and smart phone, and on the UPS truck coming from Amazon. Or what I might pick up at Barnes & Noble this afternoon.


I'm what is called an avid reader. I'm also a collector. That can be fun --  or a dangerous combination.


I read everything. I read labels, cereal boxes, signs and even magazines that I should have no interest in (including one for tow truck operators, one for poultry farmers, one for appliance dealers and another one about air compressors).


When I was a young teenager I subscribed to about two dozen magazines -- everything there was about science, cars, cameras and electronics. They took up a lot of space. One summer I decided that instead of going to the beach club every day, I would devote three days each week to going through my collection. I'd cut out the interesting articles and file them for future reeference.


This was actually a problem, not a solution.


At the age of 14 I could not afford to buy a photocopier and therefore could not resolve the dilemma caused by pages with important articles on both sides -- but about different subjects that should go into separate folders.


But even worse was the depressing realization that the magazines were coming in faster than I could read, cut and file them. I stopped being a librarian and swam more.


And that brings me back to 2012.


I assume that I've read about half of my books. To make it simple, I'll assume I have about 2,500 p-books and e-books to go. According to my theory, I have about 23 years left. I acquire about 80 books a year. I read about 100 books a year. I'll assume that as I age my acquisition rate may diminish, and my reading speed may also diminish, However I'll probably have more time to read.


Although my College Board scores in "verbal" were much better than in math, my quick computation makes me think I'll die with about 2,400 unread books.


SHIT!


What should I do?


Should I read faster, live longer, stop buying, or get rid of a lot of books.


Sadly, none of the options seem likely.


(Top photo is from Fotolia.com)

Is living long really better than dying young?

Several times a month I come home and stand in front of my door and press the button on my car key and get pissed off because the house door doesn't open.

However, my mother (age 89) has recently realized why my late father doesn't visit her anymore. She said that Pop got out of his coffin and married someone else.

She also reported that three mechanics were working on the air conditioner in her bedroom and left through the back door -- which does not exist. She also thinks her name is written on the ceiling above her bed, and that a woman called her at 2 a.m. Tuesday and asked her to marry her. She told me that a family with three kids was living in her guest room and said that my brother and his wife were living under her coat.

Mom was an extremely bright, aware, articulate, active lady with a master's degree and almost a PhD. Now she can't stand up and gets too tired to talk.

I sure hope this is not a preview. Life was much simpler when our ancestors got gored by woolly mammoths or toasted and eaten by fire-breathing monsters -- at age 17.

What is it?

I started a brief conversation with my wife a few minutes ago and she asked me to wait a minute because the garbage disposer was running and she couldn't hear me.

When she turned it off I could not remember the subject of the conversation.

I'm not merely losing it -- sometimes I don't even know what "it" is.

Getting closer to the $$$

Another day older and another day closer to hitting the Soc-Sec jackpot. So far, being 66 is much better than being dead.

...

Counting down to my first Social Security payment

Will I still be alive on 5/17/12?

Will the Treasury still have money on 5/17?
At age 10, 20, 30, 40 or 50, being 66 seems disgusting and decrepit.

But actually being 66 is EXCITING. I feel like I've been stuffing quarters into a slot machine for half a century, and, finally, this month -- JACKPOT! Ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching.

I had thought that my new wealth would become a slush fund for toys, travel, maybe a second house. Now I know it will pay bills. Damn.

Can I get Mitt to adopt me, or buy a ton of my books?

...