My Toastmasters club was giving me a hard time because I wanted to begin our holiday party at 6:00 pm instead of 8:00 pm.…
We old folks need to be home so we can get to bed at a reasonable hour. The fact of the matter is I'm up almost every day at 3:30 a.m. and I'm usually at my desk by 5:00 a.m. I've always been an early riser, so I guess old habits are hard to break.
I'm the "life of the party" as long as the party is over around 8:00 p.m. But we baby boomers have other frustrations too. I'm still trying to figure out some of these easy-to-open bottle caps. Even President Richard Nixon had teeth marks on some of his medicine bottles, so this isn't just a boomer issue.
Other boomer items that seem to be consistent include the issue of grand children. None of yours are as cute as Ashley Elizabeth, my gorgeous little "hyetti" (an Arabic word which means "my heart… the breath of my life.") Really. It's true.
And no, I'm no grouchier today than I was 30 years ago. I didn't like traffic then and I don't like it now. I didn't like waiting then and I don't like waiting now. I never liked lawyers then and I still don't like them now.
I could understand the lyrics to "My Girl." I defy you to interpret the lyrics to this "wrap" music… or is it "rap music"… I never knew actually how it was supposed to be spelled.
My wife is always complaining about our dogs barking. I have a simple explanation… it's their job to bark. Still, I never liked barking dogs. I hate politicians that bother to open their mouths, for two reasons. First, they usually have bad breath, and second, nothing of value ever comes out.
I'm wrinkled, tired and grumpy nowadays, and that's when I'm feeling good and have done the gym drill. I have many weaknesses, but my legs aren't among them. I enjoy suckering some snot-nosed kid at the gym into a showdown on the leg press.
One of my fellow geezers sets them up by helping to put six 45-pound weights on the leg press. He then challenges the "new-by" to a press-off. Of course the "new-by" beats him easily. He then says, "Bet you can't beat that old guy over there," pointing at me as I pretend to have my back turned. "How much?" asks the "new-by. And he's hooked.
I proceed to put eight 45-pound weights on each side of the leg press and two on top for a total weight of 900 pounds. "New-by" is freaking out about now but I press away. When "new-by" leaves, we split the take.
One thing is for sure… when you're fat like I was most of my life you build up amazing strength in your legs. Now to be fair, there are 90-pound chicks in the gym that can lift more than I can, but nobody out-presses your boy on the leg press.
The most frustrating thing about age is you can't outgrow it. I was suffering through a shopping experience recently with my wife recently.
To be fair, I'd rather wrestle a rhino than go shopping. I can't remember which of the many sins I committed that day, but somehow I ended up going to the church bizarre with Christine as part of my penitence.
We found this really interesting antique lamp that was for sale. The closer I looked at it the more I realized that it was just like the one I had just taken to Goodwill. The sign at the door explained it all: "We buy junk but sell antiques."
On his death bed an antique dealer named six bankers as his pallbearers, explaining that as they had carried him for so long that they might as well finish the job.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Aging: Getting Old Sucks
I'm 59 years old and my hair is getting thinner. I don't have to do that comb-over thing, but, sadly, I'm well aware of what it is.
I seem to be able to grow hair everywhere on my body… except where I want it to grow. It's a lot like my front lawn. The grass growing out of the concrete driveway is thicker than the grass in my yard. Go figure. You can plant a broome-stick in the ground here in Florida and it will be a small tree in less than a year.
Thank God for the "man groomer," which I utilize no less than twice a month. It's gotten so bad that I've gone to shaving the hair in my ears as often as those on my face. This is a terrible misappropriation of hormones, which, for the record, I would rather invest in other parts of the anatomy.
I have always been vertically challenged and now find myself in the chronologically challenged arena. My goal in life was to grow into my ears, but I'll never be that tall, so I've given up. Now my goals in life have changed; I'm thinking of investing in a prune farm.
I've determined that age is too high of a price to pay for maturity, which my readers suggest will never happen in my case. Getting older means you don't have to worry so much about temptation. You don't have to avoid it; it avoids you. Most women I know refuse to admit their age; most men I know don't act theirs.
I got ugly early, so that's never been an issue in my life. No one has ever confused me with a movie star. In 1981, I was mistaken for Bert Lance in the Atlanta Airport. Lance, a close advisor to President Jimmy Carter, got into hot water over some banking deal. Turns out the reporter thought I was Mr. Lance. My wife, who was accompanying me on the trip, went ballistic when she realized that I had taken on the Bert Lance-persona and was actually answering questions about the scandal. I've never been one to shy away from an interview, even if the fool interviewing me didn't have enough sense to ask my name.
And then there was the time that I was in the Delta Crown Room and then drug czar Bill Bennett swept in with his entourage. I don't know the man's name, but I suppose I have an amazing resemblance to some Colombian drug lord. Finally they released me but ran everyone out of the Crown Room so that Mr. Bennett could be secured.
So much for my various claims to fame. Why couldn't I look like Brad Pitt?
Anyway, getting old sucks. Since I procreated, I solved all my computer problems. My kids recently gave me an IPod, which I mistook for a transistor radio. Go figure.
Let the record reflect that I still go to the gym several times a week, but I've noticed that 90-pound girls are out-lifting me. My three sons are all into weightlifting. Jason even tried the make the US Olympic team and paid for his graduate work in molecular biology with a scholarship at Northern Michigan University in Marquette, Michigan. That's where they train the Olympic athletes.
About the only time I got to do any lifting was when my kids took the weights off the bar and I would hop in and do some curls with the bar. They immediately uninvited me; guess I was slowing them down.
My wife was talking to her sister Janet on the phone recently. We were on the way out to eat to celebrate my 59th. "Yeah, he's getting old. Just passed 60!" I never corrected her because I actually forgot what age I really was.
Getting old sucks!
I seem to be able to grow hair everywhere on my body… except where I want it to grow. It's a lot like my front lawn. The grass growing out of the concrete driveway is thicker than the grass in my yard. Go figure. You can plant a broome-stick in the ground here in Florida and it will be a small tree in less than a year.
Thank God for the "man groomer," which I utilize no less than twice a month. It's gotten so bad that I've gone to shaving the hair in my ears as often as those on my face. This is a terrible misappropriation of hormones, which, for the record, I would rather invest in other parts of the anatomy.
I have always been vertically challenged and now find myself in the chronologically challenged arena. My goal in life was to grow into my ears, but I'll never be that tall, so I've given up. Now my goals in life have changed; I'm thinking of investing in a prune farm.
I've determined that age is too high of a price to pay for maturity, which my readers suggest will never happen in my case. Getting older means you don't have to worry so much about temptation. You don't have to avoid it; it avoids you. Most women I know refuse to admit their age; most men I know don't act theirs.
I got ugly early, so that's never been an issue in my life. No one has ever confused me with a movie star. In 1981, I was mistaken for Bert Lance in the Atlanta Airport. Lance, a close advisor to President Jimmy Carter, got into hot water over some banking deal. Turns out the reporter thought I was Mr. Lance. My wife, who was accompanying me on the trip, went ballistic when she realized that I had taken on the Bert Lance-persona and was actually answering questions about the scandal. I've never been one to shy away from an interview, even if the fool interviewing me didn't have enough sense to ask my name.
And then there was the time that I was in the Delta Crown Room and then drug czar Bill Bennett swept in with his entourage. I don't know the man's name, but I suppose I have an amazing resemblance to some Colombian drug lord. Finally they released me but ran everyone out of the Crown Room so that Mr. Bennett could be secured.
So much for my various claims to fame. Why couldn't I look like Brad Pitt?
Anyway, getting old sucks. Since I procreated, I solved all my computer problems. My kids recently gave me an IPod, which I mistook for a transistor radio. Go figure.
Let the record reflect that I still go to the gym several times a week, but I've noticed that 90-pound girls are out-lifting me. My three sons are all into weightlifting. Jason even tried the make the US Olympic team and paid for his graduate work in molecular biology with a scholarship at Northern Michigan University in Marquette, Michigan. That's where they train the Olympic athletes.
About the only time I got to do any lifting was when my kids took the weights off the bar and I would hop in and do some curls with the bar. They immediately uninvited me; guess I was slowing them down.
My wife was talking to her sister Janet on the phone recently. We were on the way out to eat to celebrate my 59th. "Yeah, he's getting old. Just passed 60!" I never corrected her because I actually forgot what age I really was.
Getting old sucks!
Thursday, February 21, 2008
WHO SAYS AN OBITUARY NEEDS TO BE SERIOUS?
BEHIND THE MIKE
By: Michael Aun
info@aunline.com
Visit The Web Site To Read Previous Issues Of Behind The Mike
WHO SAYS AN OBITUARY NEEDS TO BE SERIOUS?
Come on… it ain’t like it’s a rule. The very best obituaries I’ve ever read are those that make me laugh and appreciate the deceased’ sense of humor….
An Orlando resident recently went to his greater reward. The title of his obituary “Richard McCleve Traded ‘Hippie’ Life for One in Corporate America.” Turns out that Richard, who hung with the likes of Janis Joplin, was still a hippie at heart though he held a Masters Degree in Business Administration. He blended the two with a career at Disney World.
Then there was Kenneth Williams’ obit. He was a comedian and actor. He referred to his scholastic achievements as “non-existent” and further stated that he was the son of a strict Methodist and van driver.
Humor is all around us. When Pillsbury buried their “Doughboy” at the modest age of 71, someone wrote he was “placed in a lightly greased coffin… and that dozens of celebrities from Mrs. Butterworth to Captain Crunch paid their respects… Even Aunt Jemima delivered the eulogy... He was said to have two children, John Dough and Jane Dough, plus they had one in the oven… He was survived by an elderly father, Pop Tart.”
And then there was Ted’s obit. “Ted was discharged from the US Army during World War II due to service related injuries and then forced his way back into the Illinois National Guard, insisting no one tells him when to serve his country.”
Another wrote, “I know what I want on my headstone- four big arrows pointing to tiny text so they’ll have to bend in real close to read ‘get off my grave.’”
It was Woody Allen who said, “It’s not that I’m afraid to die, I just don’t want to be there when it happens.” He went on to add, “I don’t want to achieve immortality through my work. I want to achieve it through not dying.”
Sorry Charlie… there’s a 100% chance that you aren’t getting out of here alive, so why not sit down and write your own obituary. As Mark Twain said, “I get the daily paper and if I’m not there, I carry on as usual.”
And Groucho Marx pointed out: “Either he’s dead or my watch has stopped.”
One of the funniest I’ve read of late was the passing of Fred Clark on July 11, 2006. He wanted it known that he lost his battle with life as a result of an automobile accident. “He spent his final hours joking with medical personnel, whimpering, cussing and begging for narcotics,” said the obit. “His final wishes,” according to the obit, “throw the bums out and don’t elect lawyers.”
It went on to say, “During his life he excelled at mediocrity… he had a life long love affair with bacon, butter, cigars and bourbon… he was often wrong but never in doubt…. he sadly was deprived of his final wish which was to be run over by a beer truck on the way to the liquor store to buy booze for a double date with his wife, Rush Limbaugh and Ann Coulter to crash an ACLU party… in lieu of flowers, make a sizable purchase at your local ABC store and get rip roaring drunk… Ain’t gonna be no funeral, just a party to celebrate Fred’s life… Finally, Fred’s friends will be asked to gather in a phone booth to be designated in the future to have a drink and wonder, ‘Fred who?’”
So writing your own obit is a great idea. I’m even warming up to the idea of doing my own eulogy on video to say what’s on my mind after I’m no longer occupying a space on earth. But many people would rather die than to give a speech of any kind and especially one to be delivered posthumously.
The London times did a survey that said people fear public speaking more than anything else. Death was actually fourth on the list. Go figure. People would rather die than give a speech. Sometimes after I’ve delivered one, I felt like I did die.
By: Michael Aun
info@aunline.com
Visit The Web Site To Read Previous Issues Of Behind The Mike
WHO SAYS AN OBITUARY NEEDS TO BE SERIOUS?
Come on… it ain’t like it’s a rule. The very best obituaries I’ve ever read are those that make me laugh and appreciate the deceased’ sense of humor….
An Orlando resident recently went to his greater reward. The title of his obituary “Richard McCleve Traded ‘Hippie’ Life for One in Corporate America.” Turns out that Richard, who hung with the likes of Janis Joplin, was still a hippie at heart though he held a Masters Degree in Business Administration. He blended the two with a career at Disney World.
Then there was Kenneth Williams’ obit. He was a comedian and actor. He referred to his scholastic achievements as “non-existent” and further stated that he was the son of a strict Methodist and van driver.
Humor is all around us. When Pillsbury buried their “Doughboy” at the modest age of 71, someone wrote he was “placed in a lightly greased coffin… and that dozens of celebrities from Mrs. Butterworth to Captain Crunch paid their respects… Even Aunt Jemima delivered the eulogy... He was said to have two children, John Dough and Jane Dough, plus they had one in the oven… He was survived by an elderly father, Pop Tart.”
And then there was Ted’s obit. “Ted was discharged from the US Army during World War II due to service related injuries and then forced his way back into the Illinois National Guard, insisting no one tells him when to serve his country.”
Another wrote, “I know what I want on my headstone- four big arrows pointing to tiny text so they’ll have to bend in real close to read ‘get off my grave.’”
It was Woody Allen who said, “It’s not that I’m afraid to die, I just don’t want to be there when it happens.” He went on to add, “I don’t want to achieve immortality through my work. I want to achieve it through not dying.”
Sorry Charlie… there’s a 100% chance that you aren’t getting out of here alive, so why not sit down and write your own obituary. As Mark Twain said, “I get the daily paper and if I’m not there, I carry on as usual.”
And Groucho Marx pointed out: “Either he’s dead or my watch has stopped.”
One of the funniest I’ve read of late was the passing of Fred Clark on July 11, 2006. He wanted it known that he lost his battle with life as a result of an automobile accident. “He spent his final hours joking with medical personnel, whimpering, cussing and begging for narcotics,” said the obit. “His final wishes,” according to the obit, “throw the bums out and don’t elect lawyers.”
It went on to say, “During his life he excelled at mediocrity… he had a life long love affair with bacon, butter, cigars and bourbon… he was often wrong but never in doubt…. he sadly was deprived of his final wish which was to be run over by a beer truck on the way to the liquor store to buy booze for a double date with his wife, Rush Limbaugh and Ann Coulter to crash an ACLU party… in lieu of flowers, make a sizable purchase at your local ABC store and get rip roaring drunk… Ain’t gonna be no funeral, just a party to celebrate Fred’s life… Finally, Fred’s friends will be asked to gather in a phone booth to be designated in the future to have a drink and wonder, ‘Fred who?’”
So writing your own obit is a great idea. I’m even warming up to the idea of doing my own eulogy on video to say what’s on my mind after I’m no longer occupying a space on earth. But many people would rather die than to give a speech of any kind and especially one to be delivered posthumously.
The London times did a survey that said people fear public speaking more than anything else. Death was actually fourth on the list. Go figure. People would rather die than give a speech. Sometimes after I’ve delivered one, I felt like I did die.
Taking a Game Warden Hunting…
BEHIND THE MIKE
By: Michael A. Aun
info@aunline.com
Taking a Game Warden Hunting…
We just enjoyed Valentine’s Day week and it just makes sense to discuss this in some detail…
Most men don’t do the right things on Valentine’s Day. A woman’s idea of romance is not opening the door while she carries the laundry to the washer and dryer. It’s not plugging and unplugging the vacuum cleaner as she moves from room to room, or lifting your feet while she vacuums.
Moreover, probably the last thing your sweetie needs on Valentine’s Day is a box of chocolates, most of which you’ll consume, or that Victoria’s Secret get-up. She isn’t going to live up to the promise, and she isn’t going to end up looking like models that you see wearing the outfit in the book. You might want to avoid clothes with the words “push-up” and “slim down” on the label describing them.
I’d avoid getting her that new Rambo video as well. That never worked for me. Don’t take her to a Clint Eastwood movies either. And for heaven’s sake, don’t give her cash or gift certificates. You want to avoid the gifts you gave your mom too. I remember I bought my mom a broom one year, and Mama Alice was actually very appreciative, but I doubt the little woman will buy into that with as much enthusiasm.
Don’t buy those mushy cards that say stuff you’d never say to her otherwise. It just shows your stupidity and laziness. Get a blank card and have at it. No matter how stupid your copy sounds, it is, in fact, your copy and she’ll appreciate it a lot more.
My brother, Andy, who sponsors this column, is an attorney by profession. If you really want to have some fun at someone else’s expense, get a 100 Valentine’s Cards and send them out with signed “your secret admirer.” It’ll drive them crazy. This is a great marketing ploy for divorce lawyers.
You’ve heard that old statement… “If you love somebody, set her free. If she comes back, she’s yours. If she doesn’t, she never was.” The optimist says, “If you love somebody, set her free; don’t worry, she’ll come back.” The pessimist says, “If you love somebody, set her free. If she ever comes back, she’s yours. If she doesn’t, well, as expected, she never was.”
So how do you rate? If you go to get flowers and return with beer, you have to deduct some points. If you stay by her side at a party, that was expected, so you get no points. If you step away to talk to a drinking buddy, that will cost you points. If the drinking buddy is female, it’ll cost you more than points.
If you visit her parents, that will earn you points. Since I actually like my in-laws, Paul and Rita Thiel, it would be a wash in my case; no points earned.
If you agree to watch Desperate Housewives with her and pretend you’re actually enjoying it, you’ll earn points. My wife’s cousin is former Playboy Playmate, Jenna Tomasina Keough. She is one of the stars on Bravo TV’s Real Housewives from Orange County. If you can sit through that show without making a derogatory statement, you’ve earned bonus points.
If you take her out to dinner and there’s not a football game playing over the bar, you’ve earned points. When there’s a game on, no matter where you take her-- no points are earned. And you lose points when you take her to Hooters.
One year my wife Christine and her friend Rita took me to Rachel’s in Orlando for lunch. It’s a strip joint for Pete’s sake. As Eddie Murphy would say, nobody eats lunch at a strip joint. The lowest form of humanity wouldn’t eat at a strip joint. Going to a place like Rachel’s with your wife is like taking a Game Warden hunting. I have to tell you, I couldn’t get out of there quick enough. Yuck!
So be good to your sweetie today. Take her out to eat at a place she would enjoy. Buy her a blank card and do the “roses are red, violets are blue thing…” Buy her something nice that she’ll enjoy. If you’re going to give her roses, go with peach or yellow. Any idiot can buy red roses. Impress her by having the roses sent a day early.
And finally, tell her you love her. The fact is she is the best thing that ever happened to you. When my old friend and coach, J. W. Ingram first met my wife, his comment was simple and blunt: “Son, you’ve outrun your punt coverage here, haven’t you?”
After 34 years with my bride, I know full well I’m in over my head… but I’ve adjusted nicely… thank you!
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