I'm Melting!

Don't want to say I'm shorter than I was, 

but I did enjoy this reunion with an old girl friend.

Contrary to popular belief, Scoliosis is not the general who stood up to Caesar as he crossed the Rubicon, but a condition I've had most of my life, more commonly known as curvature of the spine.

For the most part my scoliosis never bothered me. It wasn't painful, didn't hinder my posture, and didn’t interfere with my love life any more than any of the other messed up things about my existence on Earth have interfered with my love life. But as I’ve aged something has changed.

I'm melting!

That is, I'm getting shorter. A lot shorter.

It began eight years ago when people started telling me to stand up straight. 

"I am standing up straight!" I would protest.

"I don't know," they’d respond, "but I don't think standing up straight involves your chin getting up close and personal with your belt buckle.”

Then I began to hear something even more disturbing.

"Perry, are you getting shorter?" people would ask. "Because I’ve been noticing you're no higher than my coffee table."

Though I hoped they owned a coffee table so tall that LeBron James would bump his head on it, I suspected that this was not the case. So I finally went to see Dr. Simpkin, the orthopedist.

The office assistant took my height and weight.

"Five foot seven," she announced.

"Five foot seven!  Wait a minute. I’m supposed to be five ten!"

"Actually it's closer to five six."

Stunned, I entered Dr. Simpkin's office.

"As the scoliosis progresses and your spine curves like the Indianapolis Speedway, your posture will get worse and you will get way shorter," he said  casually.

If he was trying to ruin my weekend, there’s no question that he succeeded. 

"Let's have a look at your back,” he said.  I pulled off my shirt.

"Extreme!" he exclaimed.

  

The good doctor sent me off to Tiffany, the physical therapist. "May I check the curvature of your spine?" she asked.

I nodded. She ran her hand down my back.

"Extreme!" shouted Tiffany.

Apparently my spinal column has been designed by Zorro.

After Tiffany calmed down, she recommended physical therapy and yoga.

I have also developed a few techniques of my own. I imagine I’m walking with a book on my head, imagine I'm reading the book if it’s about posture, and practice my own patented Jack Benny walk.

None of this will straighten my backbone nor make me taller, but they may halt or at least slow the condition’s progression.

So I will do it all religiously because I do not want a back shaped like the world’s largest question mark and I don’t look forward to the day when pint-sized comedian Kevin Hart starts calling me "squirt."

I’m not going down - in size - without a fight!

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Walk Like a Comedian

I have always been a fan of the legendary film, radio, and television comedian Jack Benny.  I realize that many of you of the Generation X and Generation Y persuasion don't know jack about Jack.

I have also been a fan of having good posture, since good posture tends to indicate health, confidence, and a greater ability to get chicks.  Unfortunately, my actual posture is often utilized in mathematical textbooks nationwide as Fig. 15-8, which illustrates the geometric form known as a parabola. 

Little did I dream that my old-time comedy hero would provide the inspiration for me to finally conquer my posture problem. Jack Benny  --- known as the Old Skinflint for his comedic image of cheapness ---walked onto the stage on his television show in the 1950's in a unique manner all his own.  Hands swinging at his sides, he strode across the stage to the tune of his theme song Love in Bloom in a manner that could best be described as quasi-pseudo-grandiloquent, or something like that, sort of. 

Well, Gee!

Whatever it was, I found that effecting his walk naturally caused me to stand up straighter. Using my Jack Benny Walk, I go anywhere secure in the knowledge that America's beloved comedian is with me, ensuring my outstanding posture. 

"Hi, Perry, nice to see you," said Len Farbman as I arrived at his home for a small party last Saturday.

"Hello, Len, and Welcome to our Program for State Farm Insurance!" I replied. 

Unfortunately the Walk Like a Comedian Posture Strategy does sometimes also feature a certain blurring of identities.

Once inside I spied my friend Blitzstein.

"Oh, Fella!" I said to Blitzstein. 

"Oh, hey, Perry, what's up?"

"What's up?   No, you're supposed to say "Y-e-e-e-e-s-s-s!" in the manner of Jack Benny's longtime foil, Frank Nelson. 

"Oh, I didn't know there was a script." 

"Now cut that out!"

I left the pagan Blitzstein and glided across the room, arms swinging at my sides,  Love In Bloom resonating in my head,  posture immaculate.  And incredibly I walked right into the best looking woman at the party!

"W-e-e-e-e-l-l-l!" I said,  crossing my arms,  putting one hand up to the side of my face,  and turning my head to one side.

And then, unfortunately, I got nervous.

"Hello, I don't believe we've met," she said. "What's your name?"

"Oh, Rochester!"

"You're from Rochester?"

"No, no, no!  Oh, Don!  Don Wilson!  Ladies and gentlemen, our announcer Don Wilson!"

"Your name is Don Wilson?  You're weird!  And why are you slumped over like that?"

"Your money,  or your life?  

"What?!!"

"I'm thinking it over!"

"Well, I don't have to think anything over, loser, I'm outta here!  And stand up straight for heaven's sake!"

The rest of the evening I'm afraid my posture was like that of an apt candidate for a finishing school run by Quasimodo.  I guess there's a few bugs yet to be worked out of the Jack Benny Walk Like A Comedian  Posture Strategy.  

But I'll fix 'em. Because Mr. Benny, the Old Skinflint, and I have a lot in common. You see, folks, both of us are 39! 

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

Note: If you don't know Jack Benny, Gens X & Y,  you should.  Not only will you understand the above jokes (which may not necessarily be worth understanding), you'll meet a great American entertainer.  You can also catch the famous walk at the link above.

Farewell to the Fifties

The Evolution of Annette

I owe it all, I’m afraid, to Jack Benny.

It was in discussion with a 30-something  that I learned that the 1950’s had officially died.

We were talking about comedy, and I mentioned my hero, the great skinflint, the perennial 39 year old, the “Oh, fella?” ~ “Yes-s-s-s-s-s” American institution and legend, Mr. Jack Benny. I expected smiles and nods and gushes of recognition, if not a personal homage in the form of her crossing arms, turning her head slowly aside, and exclaiming “W-e-e-l-l-l-!-!-!”

But what I got was “Yeah, I know who he is! That British comedian who was always doing those goofy chases!”

“Umm, Cheryl,” I choked, “that was …. Benny Hill. Comparing Benny Hill to Jack Benny is sort of like comparing Paris Hilton to Paris France!”

Though Jack Benny was active in show business for much of the 20th Century, on TV his heyday was the 1950’s. In that moment, I learned that Benny’s heyday had become a nayday. As a child of the 50’s, references and allusions from that period have tripped off my tongue “faster than a speeding bullet” and “like a fiery horse at the speed of light.”

But no more. As a source of reference, comparison, or commentary, I come to bury the 50’s…. and to praise them:

Taking leave, Leave it to Beaver! Growing up 50’s, Beaver, I measured my life against yours and consistently found it wanting. You got in and out of trouble in 30 minutes, learned well your parental lessons, and made life within the confines of a picket fence look copacetic and cool. But as I leave, Beav, please do me one favor: tell Ward and June to stop dressing for dinner,  for Pete's sake,  as if they’re headed out for a job interview with Halliburton!

Au revoir, Annette! As the Mickey Mousketeer with the prematurely developing bust line, Annette Funicello, you morphed into the most seismic force for male sexual awakening since the invention of masturbation. Though a millennial hearing your name would most likely presume you an Italian desert, I’ll always think of you as the main course to a fantasy that had me glued to a show which was supposed to be about a mouse.

Hasta la vista, Howdy! Though your creators should have learned the meaning of the term “no strings attached,” Howdy Doody, you introduced us to an endearing ensemble that foreshadowed the generations-later Sesame Street. Buffalo Bob, Mayor Bluster, the Flub-a-Dub, Princess Winterfall Summerspring, Clarabell, Chief Thunderthud, Heidi Doody, and more …. Hey, thank you, guys! The Peanut Gallery is closed.

Happy Trails, Roy! Happy trails to you, Roy Rogers, until we meet again.  Happy Trails to you, which will be never, my friend!

Our paths diverge, Davy! You may have been King of the Wild Frontier, Davy Crockett, but on the Web Frontier, you’re not even a pawn. With coonskin cap aloft and “Born on a Mountaintop” playing in the breeze, it’s time for you to once again go down swinging --- this time not by the hands of Santa Anna’s men but by the Santa Anna winds of time.

Adios, Adlai! You, Adlai Stevenson, were my first political memory. Going with my father to vote for you for President in 1956, we knew you had as much chance to win as to set off a national craze of male babies named “Adlai.” You were beloved by liberals and everyone we knew, but the country liked Ike. Would I get a quick resonating response to your name in 2010? Sadly, think I’d have to wait until hell freezes over. 

Gotta roam, Lone Ranger! With a "hearty hi-ho, Silver!" and Tonto by your side, you, Lone Ranger, were the oddest of heroes. You started off with a handicap of your own making. You had no secret identity, you needed no mask, and everywhere you went the greeting was the same: "Look, it's an outlaw, kill him!" Your mask was on the side of the law, but it didn't need to be on your face at all!

Ciao, Raleigh Coupons! In the 1950’s Cigarette commercials on the air were as prevalent as cigarette smoke in the office. But amongst them all, Raleigh Cigarettes, you puffed supreme. Why? Because of the golf clubs, toasters, and manifold marvels one could obtain “Free for Raleigh Coupons!” The trick, of course, was to stay alive long enough to collect the coupons to get any of them.

Cheerio, Cherrios Kid! Along with Annette, my Cheerios Kid, you fueled a childhood fantasy. When you’d eat those “O’s,” you'd acquire a bulging bicep, powered by a colossal Cheerio! I ate your wares diligently, eagerly awaiting the muscle and the mighty “O.” Finally one night in a dream, there emblazoned upon my still spindly arm was a Cheerio indeed --- actual size and soggy from milk.

Sayonara, Superman! Many others have played the role, George Reeves, but nobody else ever inhabited it as fully as every 50’s kid once inhabited your cape. The stories were stupid, the production values atrocious, but when you flew, we did too. Greasy hair notwithstanding, you were the Man of Steel. If only Kryptonite had been all that could harm you ….

So fare thee well, Fifties!  You shall live on in memory and history, if not in my metaphor and simile.

Now, I’m off to drop in on the Sixties.

There's a 32 year old I know who thinks The Monkees --- OMG! --- are in the Philadelphia Zoo ....

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I'm a bit nostalgic yet; it's the plight of the Boomer, I think.  So for one more time, here's  A Further Farewell to the Fifties.