Saturday, December 28, 2013

Man on the Cusp II

I have gone over the cusp of an age I always thought was exclusively reserved for people’s parents.

Once I wrote that I was on the cusp of such an agebut that was three years ago. There's no question I've crossed over the cusp because when two times your age is 126, it's kind of hard to argue you're in midlife. Plus I felt a major jolt when I rumbled over the cusp a few miles back.

My name is Perry Block. I am 63 years old, born September 12, 1950. I am a Truman baby. 

I hate all of these facts. 

When I was younger, I thought old people were totally cool with the concept of getting older. They felt they'd finally achieved the age they were always supposed to be. When they'd be shaving in the morning and looked in the mirror and  saw Larry King, they'd point at Larry King, give a wry smile, and make that  satisfied click-click sound people make with their tongues at the side of the mouth.

"Yep," they'd say "that's me!  I sure do look my age, which is great!  I'm worn out,wrinkled, bald, and with absolutely no chance of attracting anything less than the scurviest of women on the planet!   It's all as it should be."

Then they'd go out of the bathroom into the bedroom to masturbate to Judi Dench.

But none of that is true!  Inside we remain 30 forever.  My outsides may look like Abe Vigoda decaying from exposure to Strontium 90, but inside I'm Ryan Reynolds. Or Ryan Gosling, I'm actually not sure which is which.

Ever look at a very old couple ---say 85-90 years old --- sitting together at dinner at a restaurant? You probably think "my, that's charming!"  Trust me, it's not.  The old boy is thinking "who the fuck is this prune danish I'm sitting next to?! And why isn't the hot young waitress groping me under the table every time she brings the cheese rolls?"

Why's he think this way?  Because inside he's 30.  Just like all of us. 

I always knew of course that these days were coming, but I didn't expect them to come at the speed of the drop in President Obama's approval rating. My whole life feels more like a montage than a continuing and fulfilling process over time. And it isn't a montage whereby at the end crowds are cheering for me and handing me roses and champagne. Frankly at the end of the montage I'm sitting in the living room with the clicker going "y'know, this is sort where I came in." 

So what's a bummed out Baby Boomer to do?

I've distilled it all down to a few major goals.  Hopefully you'll see them all realized in next year's edition of the montage.

1) I will live in the moment, as long as it's somebody else's moment.

2) I will never shrink from a challenge.  I will only shrink if somebody has put me in a dryer.

3) I will realize that the only thing I have to fear is fear itself, and all the scary ass things that cause fear.

4) I will be kinder to those people around me.  Those people  above and below me I'm gonna fuck over. 

5) I will do something to benefit and enhance the Jewish people.  I might have to convert to another religion.

6)  I will say the "f" word much less.  It only cheapens discourse, bringing everything to a lower level.  However, I will write "fuck" much more often.

7) I will be kind to animals, realizing they are all God's creatures.  But he's not gonna get my dog!

8) I will try to put all my regrets behind me. Then I will turn around and go through the rest of my life backwards.

9) I will never again whine about what comes to me. I will just generally whine. 

10 ) I will use my time well, except when Duck Dynasty is on.

Oh, and one more thing. 

I will try.

My name is Perry Block. I am 63 years old, born September 12, 1950. I am a Truman baby. 

I hate all of these facts. 

Happy New Year, Everyone!


Thursday, December 26, 2013

Some Kind of Hero

Where it came from, no one knew, but the monster had already destroyed half the town and was threatening to destroy the other half!

The call went out for a hero.  Fortunately I was on the other line at the time, and I have no call waiting.

There came a knock at the door. 

"Perry, open up, we need you!  No one else can stop the monster!"

"I've got the flu," I called back. "And I broke my knee.  Plus I'm not home."

The townsfolk battered down the door.  "Perry, you're our only hope.''

"But why me?!   I passed out during Shrek!"

"Because, Perry, you're secretly Superman!  Did you forget?"

"Shit, you're right!" I said, dropping trou to reveal the familiar red underpants underneath.

One thing that sure isn't super about me is my memory. 


Up, up, and away! That's where most people usually want me to be anyway, so this week I can fully oblige right after I make short work of the monster in my adventurous tale for the Friday Fictioneers based on the picture prompt above.

You won't need X-ray Vision to enjoy the contributions of the other Fictioneers.  All you need to do is click on the up, up,and away which is up, up and above to go up,up,and away to read as many as you want. Whew, even Superman gets tired!

I hope you don't need any saving in the week ahead because I'll be in the Fortress of Solitude watching Shrek.  I think maybe I can finally get through it now ....  

Monday, December 23, 2013

A Baby Boomer Deals with Spam

Of late I've been receiving tons and mega-tons of comments on my blog.  Some days I can get as many as 20 or more comments directed to different posts on the blog, some old, some new, but all of them mine!

No, I'm not becoming popular. My blog Nouveau Old, Formerly Cute is still about as popular as a bad case of acne at a high school dance. The comments I'm receiving are all:

Perhaps you too are getting more spam comments these days. Anymore they roll into my e-mail inbox like storm clouds rolling into the sky on your day off at the beach. Often half my e-mails on a given day are from Anonymous, and it sure as hell isn't that I have a secret admirer.

Typically a message from Anonymous will arrive stating that Anonymous has posted a new comment on one of my posts, say, Rhinoceros Impoceros. And I think "a new comment?" There were never any old comments!

Clicking on the e-mail I get messages like this:

1) Incredible points. Outstanding aгguments. Keeρ up the great work.  Now look at my website

2) Hello! it's truly pleasant for me to pay a visit this website, it consists of important Information. Check out my website: http://Imhenerytheeighthiamhenerytheeighthiamiam  

3) ピックアップ これらのモンクレール ジャケット 
であなた 子供 明らかにすぐに 彼を守るのでは
My web site

What is all this spam? What does it seek to accomplish?  Are they Trojan Horses, worms, cookies, cake, milk? Do they really expect me to click their proffered websites?  If that's the case, they better kiss my ass a lot better than handing me that general bullshit about how great my blog is when if they knew anything my blog they'd know it's the internet's answer to The Wreck of the Hesperus.

Fortunately the spam doesn't go through to the blog itself.  Blogger - which tends to lag behind WordPress in terms of development the same way an ox cart lags behind a Maserati - has apparently found a way to block the spam so it cannot breach the blog.  I've no doubt that WordPress developed and deployed such technology years ago, probably around the time it implemented 24 hour concierge service for subscribers.

But my in-box remains a breeding ground for guys named Anonymous.   I feel like I'm sponsoring the annual national convention for the United Perverts of America. 
So how do I get rid of all the spam in my in-box?

I assume of course WordPress probably developed a fix long ago, but if I wait for Blogger to come up with something similar,  Duck Dynasty, the Musical will have multiple touring companies throughout the United States before I lose even one Anonymous from my in-box.

So, do I need to change my metatags?  Or is that my metacarpals?  The whole thing seems metaphysical to me.  Damn it, I'm not technical!  I was born in 1950; technical for me is knowing how to operate a Pez Dispenser.  Probably I need to adjust my html.  The last time I had my html checked  it was a tad low, and I've been taking vitamins ever since.

The only hope, I think,  is some kind of mystical approach.  A chant.  A mantra, an invocation to banish the spam forever. But how am I ever going to find the right one?

I've got it.



Thursday, December 19, 2013

Dolphins Swimming Before My Eyes

"That's pretty!" said Farbman, who'd just stopped by my shop. "What is it?"

"Oh, it's for my biggest and best customer. He's coming by in a minute."

"But you're not an artist, you make contact lenses."

"Yes, as I said, it's for my .... here he is!  Hi, Goliath!"

I thought Farbman was going to pass out.

"Ho, Mr. Block!  Are my new contacts ready?"

"Sure are. Hope you have better luck with these."

Goliath popped in the two new contact lenses, blinked, and roared!

"No good!  I still see dolphins, dolphins swimming before my eyes!"

"Pity.  As I told you, Goliath, you've got hallucinations, has nothing to do with the contacts. But, want me to try again?"

"Yes, please."

"Okay, I'll need another $8,000 to start." 

"Like I said," I whispered to Farbman, "he's my biggest and best customer!"


Of course, I'm not really an optometrist. It's just that this business opportunity came my way and even with only one client, it's a fortune!  Or at least it is in my entry for this week in the Friday Fictioneers Extravaganza based on the picture prompt above.

Is it art or is it contact lenses? What's Flipper got to do with it?  Will I ever again bring in a story at 100 words or less? These and many other questions will not be answered when you check out the work of the other Fictioneers for the week by clicking right here.

"Fee Fi Fo Fum, Goliath's caught on to the Jewish one!?"  Ulp!  Being pounded into guacamole dip is not on my "to do" list for today.  See you next week! 

Tuesday, December 17, 2013

My Jewish GPS

I’ve always had a problem with directions.

Whenever I get them I pay strict attention to the lefts and rights but not so much to the distances between them.  If the directions say “turn left on Medford Street and continue straight for 1/10 of a mile, your destination is on the right,” I turn left on Medford Street and continue straight until I drive into the sea.

So I went out to buy a GPS.  

But which one to get?

There was the New Yorker GPS which sneers  if you ask directions to anywhere outside of NYC, the French GPS which gives directions that insult you, and the Comic Con GPS which takes you anywhere you want to go as long as it’s in Gotham City! 

I chose the Jewish GPS. How could I go wrong with a GPS that understands my ethnic identity and has the ability to locate places with great corned beef whenever I’m outside my home territory of Philadelphia?

"Now, Jewish GPS," I said as we left the store, "kindly direct me to 489 North Cavendish Street."

"North Cavendish Street, darling?" replied the Jewish GPS. "That's not a good neighborhood for a nice Jewish boy."

"Where's your sultry voice, Jewish GPS? You sound like Harvey Fierstein.”

"You bought the Jewish GPS with the matronly voice, boychick.  Hot is extra.”

“498 North Cavendish, please.”

“By the way, you’re looking frightfully thin!  Doesn’t you wife cook for you?”

"I'm not married."

"Single at your age!  What's the problem?  No steady income? You gamble?  Gay, bubbeleh?"

"Please, Jewish GPS! Just give me the directions to 489 North Cavendish Street."

"Drive straight for three blocks, then make a left on Buchanan Street. Go to the light and make a right. That's Fulcrum Road."

"Now we're getting somewhere!" 

"Then proceed about 100 yards to 453 Fulcrum, there's a nice Jewish woman lives there, 57 years old, an accountant!  Not a beauty, but neither are you!”

For the next several days, the Jewish GPS was carping, disagreeable, and always finding fault. I didn’t drive right, didn't park well enough, and wasn't anything like Joel, the Jewish boy who programmed her at the factory who goes to shul each week and never fails to call his mother.

"Jewish GPS, please give me directions to 15 Glasser Street."

"Why, so you can see some shikseh there?"

"No, no, no, it's a restaurant. I'm meeting some friends."

"What kind of food?"

"Burgers, fries, that kind of thing."

"Chazerai!  Why don't we go back home, I'll make you matzoh ball soup."

"You can do that?  But you're a GPS."

" I'm a Jewish mother first! I just need a chicken, some dill, and matzoh meal."

"We could get that at Acme.”

"If you don't mind, bubbeleh, I don't know where ..."

"Sure, Jewish GPS!  Turn left on Medford Street and continue straight for 1/10 of a mile … don’t go into the sea … your destination is on the right."

Yep, no more carping now.  Just delicious and well-appreciated matzo ball soup almost every night.

Can’t beat my Jewish GPS!

And her kugel is to die for. 


Monday, December 16, 2013

Your Holiday Medley

Your Holiday Medley!

Sing along with us now....


Fordy the Snowman was a jolly happy soul,
With a big crack pipe and an enlarged nose
And bloodshot eyes that burned like coal.

Fordy the Snowman is a sorry tale, they say.
He always had great blow and the voters 
know he rarely came to work each day.

There must have been some magic in that
 old crack coke he found,
For when he used it to feed his head, he began to fuck around!

Oh, Fordy the Snowman could connive, oh lordy be;
And party brethren say he could drink and play,
while shaming you and me.

Thumpety thump, thump, thumpety thump, thump,
look at Fordy go!

Thumpety thump, thump, thumpety thump, thump,
It's a Drunken Stupor Show!  

Fordy the Snowman knew the law was hot that day,
so he said, "Let's run, and we'll have some fun now, before I'm sent away."

Down to the village, with his small stick in his hand,
Stumbling here and there, all around the square,
sayin' "you can kiss my big fat can!"

He led them down the streets of town, right to the Canadian cop;
and only paused a moment, when he heard the cop holler, "Stop! (you dickhead)"

For Fordy the Snowman had to hurry on his way,
But he waved goodbye, sayin' "Don't you cry, I'll be back ELECTION DAY!"



  Just hear those sleigh bells jingling
Sexually commingling too!
Come on, it's lovely weather
For a Dismay Ride together with you!

Outside the snow is falling
And friends are calling "WOO HOO!"
Come on, it's lovely weather
For a Dismay Ride together with you!

Get-it-up! Get-it-up! Get-it-up!
Let's show!
Me first, then you go!
We're tweeting in a wonderland of SHOW!

Get-it-up! Get-it-up! Get-it-up!
My gland!
It's here in my hand!
Come gliding along with my schlong
 in a twittery fairy land!

Ass cheeks are nice and rosy
At my comfy cozy PC,
Let's snuggle up together, flippin'
birds, oh how clever we'll be!

Let's shoot our load in chorus,
Until my hand is sore-us, it's true.
Come on, it's lovely weather
For a Dismay Ride together with you!

There's a decadent party at the website 
of Madam Gray.
 I will show my perfect ending in a perfect way.
I'll be slinging my schlong I love 
to sling without a single stop.

At the fireplace while you watch my chest hairs pop!
Pop! Pop! Pop!

There's a happy feeling nothing in the world can buy 
When I pass around my pictures, I'm a hunky guy.

It'll nearly be like a picture print that's creepier than hives,
These scandalous things are the things that can ruin political lives!

These scandalous things are the things that can ruin political lives!

Just hear those sleigh bells jingling
Sexually commingling too!
Come on, it's lovely weather
For a Dismay Ride together with you!

Outside the snow is falling
And friends are calling "WOO HOO!"
Come on, it's lovely weather
For a  Dismay Ride together with you!



My nuts are roasting o'er an open fire,

Jack shit is what they say I know!

"Fool!" they me deride, and they call me a liar! 

And folks pissed off like no one knows.

Everybody calls me a turkey and a great big schmoe. 

They said I'd not get health care right.

Taking shots, Fox News is enjoying my woe,

It's a big a trump card for folks on the right!

You know their mantra's on its way:

"Obama's a Socialist, a Muslim, and he's gay!"

But ev'ry mother's child gotta comply ....

To see if Obamacare really can one day fly!

And so I'm offering this health care maze

To cover kids from one to ninety-two,

Although it's been decried many times, many ways!

What the Fuck?

"Merry Christmas 
to you!"