Black Friday? Count Me Out

Ah, the day after Thanksgiving and the self induced turkey coma continues.  The familiar disgust and bloat are far better embraced from an easy chair than they are from the mall and its multitudes of deal digging dimwits who insist on making shopping a sport.  In the age of the Internet who wants to fight traffic, parking and elbows seeking out 50% mark downs that leave the titans of bust out retail a mere 100% profit just for opening their doors.

Maybe it's all the football on Thanksgiving Day--yes, I watched all three games--that inspires so many to venture forth on BLACK Friday.  There should be a certain amount of "I'll show them" bubbling up in the darker recesses of the souls of the unfortunate few who admit to betting on the losers.  And, if your team won, it's understandable that you might think today would be a good day for blitzing the bargain table.  For those people there is no shame in looking like a pack of drag queens at a wig sale.  It's time to shop!

I just returned from a walk in the ultra cool and crisp of a morning in northern Idaho having made a feeble attempt at burning off at least a portion of yesterday's excess.  If I can work in another 100 miles before sunset (4:00PM) I should be back to even.  On my walkabout I took a peek at commerce on Sherman Avenue, the main artery of our town of Coeur d' Alene.  The shops are busy with tourists in town for the annual Christmas light show that kicks off this evening with 1,500,000 lights and fireworks.  This will be our first year to view the event and I'm told that our new home has an excellent vantage point.  The crowd is expected to top 100,000 so I'm hoping they've planned for enough port-o-lets.

So, now do I go to a nearby mall to peruse the holiday carnage or do I bag it and settle for the WWE?  What would Santa do?  It's a cinch he's not really in his workshop OR at the mall.  (Don't tell the kids.)  Like any guy with a "one day a year is enough" work ethic, I'm betting the porker from the Pole is on Amazon--he's a Prime member--checking his list and hitting CHECK OUT as he finds heaven by simply backing away from Black Friday HELL.

Some folks idea of a good time.

The New Emerging Geezer

I wish I had a sawbuck for every guy who told me he wears the same size pants he wore in high school.  The typical American male's capacity for self delusion is seemingly without bounds, or at least an inseam.  Almost without exception the guy still laying claim to a 32" waistline is now measuring it from a spot about eight inches south of his true mid section and must cinch his belt around his new  equator by lifting the Milwaukee goiter just north of this new line of demarcation.  Strangely, his inseam now measures 22 instead of 32.  How'd that happen?!

Male Baby Boomers like me are at that awkward stage.  Even if you don't succumb to the siren call of the south of the border waistline, there is still no denying the condemned building syndrome that is the plight of aging boomer men.  Overnight we've gone from "fair-haired boy" to the "bald-headed brother-in-law" and are dumbfounded at the consequences.  For most of us our hair is in full retreat on all major fronts with the unwelcome exception of our ears and nose.  Fat cells, now free range, have decided that the comfort of our midsection is irresistible and our asses have dematerialized to the point where the backside of almost any pair of Dockers now looks like and abandoned Gypsy camp.  

Young women, suddenly more friendly, no longer see we oldsters as a potential candidate for mattress polo (see "threat") and never miss an opportunity to tell us we remind them of their dad or, the ultimate insult, GRANDPA.  

Our wives find this all highly amusing and relish the knowledge that it's all their fault.  If they had left us to our own devices the bachelor diet alone would have put us in the ground years ago.  A few unsupervised trips to the grocery store are as good as sticking a gun in our kisser.  "Let's see…Cheetos, booze, huckleberry ice cream, cigars, pork rinds, yep, that's everything."  Obituaries for men would rhapsodise about us having "a good run" and passing away of a massive heart attack or cirrhosis at the ripe old age of 36.  Nope, wives had to insist on us eating fruits, vegetables, green stuff and laying off the sauce.  No wonder we're still around and twice as annoying.  It just ain't right.

 The Boomer/Neo Geezer is here to stay and all those of us born to it must embrace the newly shifted dunes of blubber in our now "comfort fit" jeans and new XL underwear.   (The saleswoman laughed when I asked if the XL pertained to fit in the crotch.  I can tell she thinks I look harmless.)  It takes yards more material but we did win the battle to continue dressing just as we did in sixth grade.  (If only I could find my old Hopalong Cassidy six shooter!)

  

"Hey, you kids get off my lawn!!" (Oops, that just slipped out. It has been happening more lately.)

  Have I mentioned that I
 have been forced to shop for new clothes recently? You know I have the same waist I had in high school.
Anybody seen my ass?  It was here a couple of years ago.

I wonder if Wally and the Beav are having the same problem.
Could be our wives.

"

Cold Enough to Freeze the What off WHAT?

Another frosty morn' on Lake Coeur d' Alene

When I was a young Army platoon leader freezing my ass off on the endless acreage of cow toilet that is Fort Riley, Kansas, I promised myself that I would never again live in a place where winter makes a home.  For more than forty years I have kept that promise, until now.  

What the hell was I thinking?!!  This morning I woke to an eight degree slap in the face from that bitch they call the Polar Vortex and I'm wondering if I can still find my Army mummy bag.  The scene outside my window here on Lake Coeur d' Alene, Idaho is stunning.  Just glimpsing the frigid water where the remaining "learning challenged" Canadian geese appear frozen in place causes my testicles to ascend.  Damn!  Will I ever be able to retrieve the paper from the front deck or, for that matter, will a trip to the mailbox at the curb do me in?  

When you're safe and warm it's hard to recall what it's like to be really cold.  "We can do winter", my wife and I both exclaimed when we began to plan our exit from California, a state so far gone to ruin it may never come back, but now we have to prove it.  Granted it is far easier to ignore the worst season of them all when you limit your exposure to extremely small doses such as mail retrieval and walking to the car.   It's far removed from sleeping on the ground in Kansas for weeks at a time while pretending to fight a war with the Godless Russian commies in Eastern Europe.  (Obviously I was born too soon as that is apparently no concern for the current administration.)

Another seasonal adjustment we're having to make here in the panhandle of Idaho is caused by the reluctance of the sun to make more than a daily cameo appearance.  It pops up, when there is no rain, around 7 AM and says "see ya" sometime around 4PM.   We both sleep like hibernating bears and eat like we were going to "the chair".  I'm fairly certain neither of us could make the team in Alaska. 

Don't get me wrong.  I'm not complaining.  Linda and I both grew up in the Midwest where "nice days" are counted on one hand and the snow blows sideways.  Also, not wearing combat boots, packing and M-16, and eating C-rations has me thinking that maybe my aversion to winter was just a bit irrational.  I'll give you a full after action report in the Spring.  In the meantime Christmas is coming and so is grandson Dan.  There is lots of food in the pantry and plenty of fireplace fires yet to enjoy.  Any way you stack it, it is leagues more enjoyable than scrounging for water and sending tax dollars to dumber than drywall politicians in Sacramento.

As North Idahoans say about their weather, "The wind up your ass is so cold you'll be farting snowflakes in July."

That's okay by me.  

Jerry Brown is nowhere in sight.

Pass the honey and the huckleberries, please.

I'm Melting!

"There must be some mistake.  I demand a recount!"

"Nope, you're 5' 9", the nurse explains.  

I'm already regretting taking my wife's advice about finding a new general practitioner in our new home town.  After many years in California, where I was at least 5' 10" tall, I now find myself in Coeur D Alene, Idaho towering over nobody at 5' 9".   The new doc, who I like because he tells me I am in good health "for a man your age", tells me that we all manage to shrink a little as we grow older and I shouldn't be concerned.  Of course he tells me this with at least twenty years less mileage on his odometer and enough hair on his head to add an inch or two.

  

Oh---that was the other thing---when I was at the DMV getting my new driver's license, the clerk listed my hair color as "flesh".  This re-location nonsense can really do a number on your ego.  

As my father often told me, "just sit down and shut up".  I should feel lucky to be on the right side of the sod at 66.  It seems as if each week brings more news of old friends who won't be having another birthday or are undergoing some battle with a malady that I still consider strictly for "old folks".  So what if I'm two inches shorter than I was at my high school graduation.  I've still never spent a day in the hospital, broken a bone or been more than moderately crazy.  My liver still makes a growling noise but you would too if you'd logged that many tanker cars of sour mash.  I think it appreciates being laid off 15 years ago.  

So, I am 66 and 5' 9".  So what?  One of life's pleasures is the acceptance of these things.  I've learned to laugh at many things and my capacity for rage has diminished considerably.  Ramparts are no longer to be stormed but they do make a fine place to rest up for the battles that remain.  I've had it with politicians and people I can't abide so I endeavor to stay clear them whenever possible.  My appreciation for true friends grows exponentially.  They are treasures and should be treated accordingly.

Elvis is dead; so is JFK, Robin Williams, James Dean and many others who were shy of my 66 years.  Who knows?  Maybe they are all in a better place or maybe, just maybe, they'd trade places with a guy with flesh colored hair, a few extra pounds and a towering 5' 9" superstructure.   I'm fairly certain that I would.

The great Merl Haggard may have said it best in song:

"One of these days,

When the air clears up

And the sun comes shinin' through

We'll all be drinkin' that free Bubble-Up

And eatin' that Rainbow stew."

In the meantime, if you need any perceptive perspective from  5'9" of altitude, I'm available for consultation…and lunch.

"I'm melting, I'm melting!"