Man on the Cusp III

In less than a month I will be 66 years old.

I doubt very highly I'm going to be getting my kicks on Route 66.

Several years I wrote the line that "I am poised on the cusp of an age that I thought was exclusively reserved for people's parents." Frankly I am no longer poised on the cusp. I am so far over the cusp that I am now at the age exclusively reserved for people's parents even if people are 50!

My name is Perry Block. I am 65 years old, born September 12, 1950. I am a Truman baby. I hate all of these facts.

When I began my blog in 2010, I called it "Perry Block - Nouveau Old, Formerly Cute." But frankly I'm not Nouveau Old anymore. I'm Nouveau like the dinner specials at the House of Pancakes are Nouveau.  I'm Nouveau like striped bell bottom pants are Nouveau. I'm Nouveau like someone eagerly looking forward to the next Chevy Chase movie is Nouveau.

And I realize that although I am no longer cute, I still have long eyelashes.   What's the point? It’s like somebody pasted them on the wrong person.  Maybe I should donate them so that some eyelash-less young guy can be fluttering his baby blues ---yeah I’ll give him those too --- while I’m feeding pigeons on a park bench and muttering about how I used to have eyelashes and how the government is conspiring to poison our toothpaste

I used to love the classic movies from the 30's, 40's, and 50's, watching Bogart, Jimmy Stewart, and Hepburn (Katherine and Audrey).  But now I can't help avoid the fact that all of the beloved stars I grew up with are ten feet under, maybe more if the soil's been shifting! I never thought Frank Sinatra, Cary Grant, and two out of four Beatles would ever be described in the past tense. 

So I struggle anymore to block out thoughts of the inevitable whenever I watch Casablanca and search the TV listings for movies starring folk who are yet breathing like Keanu Reeves, Nicholas Cage, and Adam Sandler. 

That may be the most depressing fact of all. 

And what kind of legacy am I going to leave behind?  What will they write about me in generations to come?

Well, Perry never burned anything down. Some days he didn't spill the coffee. And remember how Perry took that courageous stand against the smell of cheese, once almost directly within earshot of an Italian? 

So what is a guy heading straight on down Route 66 to do?  Well, for starters …

1) I will set aside all my prior regrets, leaving ample room to create new ones. 

2) I will never again be self-deprecating although this will difficult to achieve for a loser like me.

3) I will take a strong stand on the issues of the day, but cave in on any issues that come up at night.

4) I will rededicate myself to the great traditions of Judaism, especially the ones involving matzoh ball soup and drinking Passover wine until I not only pass over but pass out.

5) I will live my life boldly, unafraid, and with total strength and confidence.  I’d like to talk to you further about it, but you scare me.

6) I will never again take the easy road unless it saves on tolls.

7) I will not give in to fear of any kind except for the kind that involves spiders and anyone with a thick black mustache. 

8) I will no longer worry about the Grim Reaper, although I’m hoping he will be satisfied if I make a significant contribution to the Grim Reaper Foundation. 

9) Recognizing reality, I will only approach women who are in my age range. Then I will ask them if they have a much younger sister.

10) I will strive to broaden myself intellectually and spiritually every day right until it's time to leave for the dog track.

So, it will soon be time to see if I can truly get my kicks on Route 66.  And guess what, Boomers?  Although Martin Milner has met his maker, George Maharis is very much alive.

If only George Maharis had starred in Casablanca.  

My name is Perry Block. I am 65 years old, born September 12, 1950. I am a Truman baby. I hate all of these facts.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

But What The Heck Is It Called (Part II)

By now you know this is called the philtrum. 

 It's how you learned that word that is our topic for today.

Almost each and every day in every aspect of our lives we encounter certain things and certain behaviors with which we are oh-so-familiar. We've been doing 'em, partaking of 'em, and annoyed as hell by 'em almost from birth. 

But what the heck are they called? 

1) Contractors Never Showing UP 

At some time or other we've all hired a contractor to do work at our homes. Perhaps he or she has been hired to do some small repairs, a bit of painting, or even add a mighty deck to your humble abode.  Now comes the appointed date and time for the contractor to commence the work.

Do you know where your contractor is?

I've had contractors by their absence stretch out jobs that should have taken minutes into entire life cycles. I've had contractors fail to show as planned and never be heard from again. I believe there is a "Bermuda TriContractor" into which contractors regularly vanish which looks something like this*:

  Contractor’s Home _________________  Your Home

                         \                                    /

                          \                                 /

                           \                               /

                            \                            /

                             \                          /

                              \                        /

                               \                      /

                                \                    /

                                 \                  /

                                  \                /

                                   \              /

                                    \            /     

                                     \          /  

                                      \        /                              

                          Contractor’s Other Clients

A contractor missing in action is something with which we are all familiar. It must have a name.

But what the heck is it called?  

2)  The Rite by Which You Learned the Word "Philtrum"

By now, you know that the odd indentation between the bottom of your nose and the top of your mouth is called a philtrum. You know this because relatively late in life you happened to chance upon a person with an indentation so pronounced that he could store enough grain within its confines to get him through a particularly virulent winter.

This prompted you to stick your index finger into you own such indentation and feel it thoughtfully, hoping it was not large enough to store grain for even a mild winter and also wondering how you were 37 years old and didn't even know the name of a facial feature that was as much a part of your face as your eyes, nose, and mouth!

This time-honored rite of learning the word "philtrum" is common to all of humanity. It must have a name.

But what the heck is it called? 

3) The Hand Wave/Scratch

I've written about this before. You wave at someone you think you know, determine thereafter that that he or she is a total stranger, and then feel as embarrassed as the person who finds he has mustard on his face just after addressing a session of the U.N. General Assembly.

It doesn’t matter if you are President of the United States or just an ordinary schlub like you and me. How to save the moment?

You take your hand, still aloft from the initial wave, and scratch the top of your head.  True, it is an imperfect fix to the situation, but it is the best that humankind has devised in all the history of recorded time. Of course the other person in truth is paying absolutely no attention to you at all because to him you are just an ordinary schlub, whether you are just an ordinary schlub like you and me or the President of the United States.

This maneuver is one you have executed more times than you’d care to remember.  It must have a name.

But what the heck is it called? 

4) The Dopey Humor Blog Post

You see them all the time on the internet, especially here in this blog. Silly posts essentially about nothing at all but padded out to a respectable 500 words or so such that even though they are not at all funny they present the "trappings" of funny.  A total waste of everyone's time.

They must have a name. 

But what the heck are they called?

Blog Filler.

This one we knew.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*with apologies for lack of technical ability

Medicare, If You Dare

You're our age now, Perry.  
Admit it.  Get used to it!

Just last week I had a terrible experience only slightly less horrible than being shot at dawn by a squadron of expert marksmen, each and every one of them a morning person. Were my execution to have been at a reasonable hour, say 2:00 P.M., the experience I underwent would have actually been more horrible!

I signed up for Medicare.

It happens so fast. It happens so soon.  It seems like I just signed up for Boy Scouts, even though I was never in Boy Scouts.  It seems like I was just hanging in Singles Bars, approaching women who would reject me, and playing Ms. Pac Mac, who would also reject me.  It seems like I was only 40, scaling the heights of fatherhood only to turn around and find my heights scaling skills rapidly scaling back. 

Nowadays you sign up for Medicare online, which saves the embarrassment of sitting in a room full of doddering guys wearing plaid pants and white belts and reading the Daily Racing Form.  After a long wait regarded as wholly immaterial by most of the folks waiting since they have nowhere else to go anyway, the clerk would call you up with these words:

Next overage loser waiting to die!

So I'm at least a little pleased that the route to Medicare is no longer through the bureaucratic equivalent of the Carpathian Mountains but rather by clicking on to http://www.medicare.gov.  There you find all the information about America's unique health care program for seniors, which is a good one, but whose rules are as convoluted as a Philadelphia soft pretzel.

Medicare is comprised of four parts, which are:

Medicare Part A covering hospitalization.  Days 1-60 in a hospital are mostly covered, although days 61-90 require coinsurance.  That means you better get your ass out of the hospital by day 60 unless by day 60 your ass is totally out of the hospital un-getable!

Various expenses are not covered by Part A including free HBO, cherry jello for desert, and timely medical attention. 

Medicare Part B provides doctor benefits. It is important to choose the right doctor under Medicare. Signs you may have chosen the wrong doctor include:

• Bitterly disappointed that Sarah Palin was wrong about death panels.
• Refers to you as "Gramps."
• Board Certified in Geriatrics, which means especially qualified to take care of older patients whom nobody expects to get better anyway.

Medicare Part D provides prescription benefits. Some of us need these more than others. I could single-handedly keep a small pharmaceutical company afloat through lean economic times for at least a year or two. Believe it or not, it was George W. Bush who gave us Medicare Part D. Laudable though it is, Part D features something called a donut hole, which provides that after $2960 of drug expense in a year the plan cuts off payment until some distant point in the future. 

Isn't that just like George Bush, getting us into something with no damn clear way out?

Supplemental Coverage is not officially part of Medicare.  It fills in the gaps left open by Medicare A, B, and D.  I'm pretty sure I get cherry jello.  That's all I care about now that Curb Your Enthusiasm is off the air.

Anyway, I did sign up for Medicare last week and it took no time at all.  And the coverage really is comprehensive. So do I still consider signing up for Medicare a horrible experience?

Ready.

Aim. 

Fire!

At least it's not at dawn.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Help! I'm Being Stalked By Joseph R. Blank

Online Advertising?  I wonder what that's all about.

Hey, nice suit!

It was plain as the nose on my face, which by all accounts is way more than exceedingly plain. My navy blue sport coat which I'd owned for many years had developed a moth hole in the left shoulder of such magnitude it seemed as if the moth had seized upon the sport coat first thing following sundown on Yom Kippur.

Yep, my sports jacket needed replacement, and so I looked online to the site of a well-known and respected men's clothing store in my area known as Joseph R. Blank.  And indeed, Joseph R. Blank was having a sale on sport coats, with selected jackets as low as $50 as long as you also bought a matching pair of suspenders with special design resembling emojis having sex. 

I went to Joseph R. Blank that very day and did secure a nice blue sport coat which fit me well and even complimented the nose on my face. Mission one and done.  I thought.

Later that day I went on Facebook, and there in the right hand column was an ad for Joseph R. Blank.  "What a coincidence,” I thought.  

"NECKTIE SALE AT JOSEPH R. BLANK!  Three neckties for $10 provided one is striped, one has a stain, and the third frankly doesn't suit you!" 

Amazing!  Oh, well, I wanted to check something on Wikipedia, and so I clicked out of Facebook and over to the America's favorite free encyclopedia.

"And so, Hitler marched into the Sudetenland and there he found ...."

"70% OFF SALE AT JOSEPH R. BLANK!   Suits, Sport Coats, Pants, Shirts, Any Other Article of Clothing that Might Yet be Invented!"  

What the ....?!! 

I clicked over to a site called "Who Unfollowed Me On Twitter," which shows you what crass & unfeeling tweeps have cut you loose lately.  There I discovered that, unlike the twitterers listed on the site, apparently following me for life was .... 

"JOSEPH R. BLANK! SALE ON SUITS!  Buy one men's suit for regular price, get another for only one pint of blood!"  

In the days and weeks that followed, Joseph R. Blank followed me like Mary's Little Lamb.  It was no coincidence:  I was being targeted, stalked. Who was this Joseph R. Blank?  What did he really know about me?

"Dear Overage Balding Boomer," the email began." While there's only so much that clothing can do for the likes of you, THERE'S A SALE ON SOCKS AT JOSEPH R. BLANK!" 

Now the Joseph R. Blank ads appeared anywhere and everywhere.  On YouTube, on my desktop, on my screensaver, in pornography, in the sky above, in my breakfast cereal, on the faces of people on the street, in my fitful tortured dreams!

“WAKE UP, PERRY! JOSEPH R. BLANK is having a sale on polo shirts! Buy three polo shirts and get a free polo pony!

The internet has majorly changed marketing as we know it. It used to be we could turn off television commercials and/or decline to read the ads in newspapers and magazines, but now advertising tracks us down like Colombo. The only hope is that this strategy will ultimately backfire, advertisers will get the message, and finally we'll get some relief.

I hope you're listening, Joseph R. Blank! 

Or better yet I'll tell you in person at your store this afternoon.  Those sexy emoji suspender ads are really starting to appeal to me!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(The name of the actual establishment referenced in the piece above has been slightly changed to protect the guilty.) 

And I'd like to welcome four new followers to the blog: Eve Gaal @EveGaal, Kate Konigisor @KateKonigisor, Deb Stewart @DeborahStewart, and Ilil Arbell @ILILARBEL. Thank You, Guys! The usual riches and emoluments to follow.

PC CalamityTimesThree

I finally got around to replacing my old laptop, and it was certainly more than time.

Manufactured during the Truman Administration, it came with a screen saver featuring Lassie and Timmy, kept flashing the error message "what is this internet anyway?" and froze up more frequently than my last girlfriend. Finally it gave out once and for all, emitting a horrid stench as if a skunk had curled up and died inside of it, which is I think pretty much what actually happened.

So the next day I went to my local computer store and purchased me a gleaming new HP Corei5.  It was sleek and powerful, the ultimate technological tool to render my humor so witty and razor sharp as to induce riotous laughter even in individuals as totally devoid of a sense of humor as the writers of HBO's The Brink.  

But I had not reckoned on PC Calamity Times Three. 

As anyone on the Internet knows, coffee is the beloved patron saint of all writers. Coffee heightens alertness, unleashes the creative spirit, and propels you to the most wonderful time you can ever hope to have in the bathroom without anyone else being present. 

So with my 16 ounce cup of Wawa java by my side, I was fast and furiously knocking out my latest comedic gem when an errant hand gesture smacked the coffee cup and sent its steaming contents sailing through the air onto the keyboard of my brand new computer.  When the tirade of epithets was over, I began to type once more but some of the letters stubbornly refused to appear. 

I struggled to type out a sentence that materialized as if it were a puzzle from Wheel of Fortune several turns away from being solved. Unless I could figure out how to write every document from now to the end of my existence on the planet without use the letters "t, w, d, v, and b," professional intervention would be in order.   

One.  

About a week after I plunked down $200 for a new keyboard, I found myself trying to access a website that simply would not download. I googled a possible fix for it and fortunately quickly found a site called "Handy Fixes for Sites that Don't Download for Naive Morons."

"Great," I said aloud, "I've solved this problem like a champ!"

Totally bypassing the curious nature of the site's frequent use of the expression "alot," I downloaded the proffered software and found myself with a strange new toolbar across the top of the screen, notable in its frequent use of the expression "alot." 

Among other things, the malware I'd downloaded kept urging to me to buy a shipment of iguanas from New Guinea.

Two.

The malware removed to the tune of $200, I was in a hurry one day to get to a crucial meeting about "nothing important at all" when my foot caught on a cracked and raised section of sidewalk.

Like the contents of a steaming hot cup of java smacked by an errant hand, I went sailing through the air onto my rear end and onto a nearby plot of grass graced by a nearby pile of dog doo-doo. 

I was unhurt, but my PC screen now appeared half a dozen shades darker than it was supposed to be, creating an ominous forbidding atmosphere as if any minute a tornado was about to begin swirling across my latest blog post about Dracula done as a modern epistolary novel, which no one would read anyway.

Three.

All right, I caught a break here.  A new screen only cost $125.

And that's my little tale about my PC Calamity Times Three.  Yes, I need to learn how to be more careful with such sensitive and important equipment as my new HP Corei5, but I can take comfort in the knowledge that bad things come in threes. So, as we all know, nothing more can possibly.....

OMG, what's that horrid stench!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Highway to Heck! (FF)

© Jean L. Hays

"And so the Road Warrior drove the tanker out of the compound at breakneck speed, chased furiously by the vicious marauders that had held the people in the compound captive."

"Wow!  And this enabled the people in the compound to escape with the necessary oil to rebuild civilization?”

"Right! And the Road Warrior was able to deftly maneuver many of the marauders' vehicles into fiery collisions so that the landscape was ultimately strewn with their devastated wreckage!"

"I see. And these are some of those destroyed vehicles!"

"Of course not. I'm just telling you about a movie. It didn't happen.”

"So what are these cars?"

"Oh, parallel parking practice for Perry Block.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Just a little basic self-deprecation for this week's Friday Fictioneers and I'm off. 

It's true I'm lousy at parallel parking. Once I parked so far from the curb I needed a GPS to get to the meter.  You'll need no GPS to get to the stories by the other Friday Fictioneers, however, as you can read their takes on the above picture prompt simply by clicking here.

Okay, I'm off on my Highway to Heck.  Have a good holiday!

Dracula 2015 - An Epistolary Novel

Yes, it will be my pleasure to poke you!

An epistolary novel is a novel written as a series of documents such as letters, diary entries, and newspaper clippings.  Printed in 1897, Dracula by Bram Stoker is one of most well-known epistolary novels, compiled entirely of letters, diary entries, newspaper clippings, telegrams, doctor's notes, ship's logs, and the like.

But what if Dracula were written today?

Jonathan Harker's Twitter

                  
Jonathan Harker @HarkMan
WOOT!  Transylvania will be awesome! Dude named Dracula texted me &      I'm off!  Luv u, @Mina_HotChick! ♥ ♥ ♥!!!!  

Jonathan Harker @HarkMan
On train thru Carpathian Mts.  Peasant women here look pretty except when u get near them, they all look like actor Jonah Hill in a babushka! 


 Jonathan Harker @HarkMan
 Frightened old lady in hotel heard me talk of Dracula and put crucifix  around my  neck!    WTF?  #DontTellRabbiMishkin


 Jonathan Harker @HarkMan
 On coach to Borgo Pass.  Odd; other passengers outdoing one another  pointing at me, clutching throats, & making gagging sounds!    Woohoo!


 Jonathan Harker @HarkMan
 Have arrived at crumbling old Castle Dracula. Place could use work.    Nothing that a coat of paint & 6 wrecking balls couldn't  cure! #WhataDump  

Jonathan Harker @HarkMan
Starting to think visiting Dracula may turn out to be as much fun as attending same-sex wedding w/ Justice Scalia!  :-(    :-(    :-(   

Dracula's Twitter

Dracula@Fangsalot46
I am @Fangsalot46.   I tweet you welcome, @HarkMan! #SpidertotheFly


Dracula@Fangsalot46
Woohoo, I luv Twitter!  I have over 17,000 followers. Of course, most of them follow me with torches, pitchforks, and pickaxes!  LOL!!!  :-)



Dracula@Fangsalot46
How about giving me a retweet on that one, @HarkMan?  I get more RTs than Kim Kardashian's bare ass ever did!  #AskTheNearestZombie


Dracula@Fangsalot46
WOOT! The Childen of the Night; What music they make!  Wait,  I'm sensing a boy band here ....  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Backstreet_Boys

Dracula@Fangsalot46
Make yourself at home,@HarkMan! Tomorrow there will be breakfast, and since this is Twitter, with bacon & copious amounts of coffee!    

             

Dracula@Fangsalot46
No, I never drink .... coffee.  Just sayin' .   

            
Dracula@Fangsalot46
I bid you good night, @HarkMan.  Sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite. That's my job!  LMFAO!  #WannaNeck?   

Jonathan Harker's Facebook

Jonathan Harker

Dearest Mina.  I must now communicate via Facebook because the Count is a Tweethead! What's worse, he LOLs his own jokes and insists I give him RTs! Dracula is a bizarre diseased creature who recoils at the sight of a crucifix, casts no reflection in a mirror, and roots for the Phillies!  Oh, Mina, please comfort me by posting a picture of Pedals, our adorable kitten! 

 Mina Murray's Facebook

Mina Murray

Of course, dearest Jonathan! Here is  our sweet Pedals, all dressed up like a vampire from last Halloween!

  

Jonathan Harker's Facebook

Jonathan Harker
Mina, remind me when I get back we have to talk about our relationship!

Dracula's  Facebook

 Dracula

So you are on Facebook too, my dear young sir?  Please friend me, then I will poke you.  Believe me, I will poke you!!!  (And Go, Phils!) 

Jonathan Harker's LinkedIn

 Jonathan Harker

Current Position:Solicitor (Living) 

Next Position: Solicitor (?)

Mina, the count is an ardent Facebooker too! I must now communicate through LinkedIn.  Nobody but nobody uses LinkedIn, especially people who want to get a job.

Dracula's LinkedIn

Dracula
Previous Position: Sucking the Blood of Crusaders
Current Position: Free Lance Blood Sucker (No, not an attorney)

Good Evening, Mr. Harker! Note that I have already endorsed you for European travel, real estate development, and Deliciousness! I am afraid you are out of luck now with social networks, unless you want to use JDate!

Jonathan Harker's Twitter   

               

   Jonathan Harker @HarkMan
 @Mina_HotChick! Had a tete a tete w/ the Count & all is fine. You will be a bite ... I mean, sight ... for sore eyes!  Luv u!  ♥ ♥ ♥!!!! #WannaNeck?

End.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Beach Blanket Boomer

If there's one thing I love about the summertime, it's hitting that beach! The sand, the sun, the surf, riding the waves, relaxing by water's edge, there's nothing like it.

Except lately, something seems a little different.

"Sir, this is where you buy the beach tags," said the young guy at the entrance to the beach.

"Okay," I replied, "I know you gotta maintain the beach.  How much?"

"Oh, for you, the senior rate is only 6 dollars."

"The senior rate?!!  How do you know ...um ... I qualify for the senior rate?"

"Oh, you more than qualify, sir. The senior rate starts at age 65."

"I see. I have a question."

"Yes, sir."

"What's the best location in the surf to have the undertow carry me out to sea forever?"

I purchased the tag and, loaded down with beach chair, bag of food, and suntan lotion in a protection factor the number of which approaches the temperature on the surface of the sun, I hit the beach. Gee, the ocean seemed so much further away than it used to. As I trekked forward through the hot and shifting sand, I began to feel like Lawrence of Arabia, only without the heroics. 

No doubt about it, I realized: I am now a Beach Blanket Boomer!

Oceanside at last, I set up shop. Here's where you see hot young girls in their revealing bikinis frolicking about, lying on blankets with their tops undone soaking up the sun, and splashing about in the ocean, the waves caressing their taut young bodies.

And here's where you also see hot young girls in their revealing bikinis frolicking about with muscled blond tanned surfer types, lying on blankets with their tops undone soaking up the sun next to muscled blond tanned surfer types, and splashing about in the ocean, muscled blond tanned surfer types caressing their taut young bodies.

Okay, I realize I haven't been in the running for girls like this since Barry White was on the charts, but the pain of that realization lingers on like a fever blister. But c'est dommage, I still love riding those waves, I have since I was 12.

So, frothy brine, here I come. In a moment I'll be off splashing and swimming my way out to where the big waves break and grabbing me  some invigorating rides to shore.

I dipped my foot in the ocean water, and ....

HOLY SHIT, IT'S COLD!!!  

Maybe I'll go in a little later.

Returning to my chair, I began slathering on my nuclear powered suntan lotion when I heard a voice behind me.

"Care to join us in a game of horse shoes?"

Horse shoes?!!

I turned around and drank in a big beer belly above Speedos, gray chest hairs matching a grey toupee resembling a golf divot, and nipples so big I would have been turned on were they on a woman.

"Join us," he said. "We got five guys, we could use another." 

Please don't relate to me, I thought!  Please think I'm younger than you.

"C'mon, friend, it's the perfect thing to do on the beach for guys our age. What are you gonna do --- chase women?"

I'll tell you what -  I don't think I like being a Beach Blanket Boomer.   

Maybe I'll rinse the sand off, check for gray chest hair, and hit the casino.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~