You Get What You Pay For

Last month I found myself in need of a cheap New York hotel room.   Unfortunately, as anyone who has ever been to New York knows, the words "cheap" and "hotel" are seldom, if ever, used in the same sentence (The word "room" however, is used freely in sentences throughout the city).   The reality was I had to sleep somewhere, so after a somewhat frustrating Internet search, I settled on a hotel whose chief advantages were it's close proximity to the location I'd be working in and naturally it's price.  It should be noted that "cheap" in New York was still $180.  At that price, how bad could it be? 

I arrived in New York and after a full day of work, with some trepidation, made my way a few short blocks to my New York accommodations.  The front door to the hotel was locked but was promptly answered by a charming young woman who doubled as a both front desk clerk and porter.  After she checked me in, although I declined her offer to carry my bag to the room, she insisted on accompanying me anyway.

Now, you wouldn't expect that a hotel of this stature would be equipped with a gym and in this case you would be right.  Fortunately an excellent workout is not only available but also required, as the hotel has no elevator.  The porter and I trudged up four flights of stairs to room 46 and while I was in dire need of rest and perhaps oxygen, I toughed it out and walked into what would be my home for the next four nights.

The first thing I noticed was the crooked floor.  It evoked memories of the old Batman TV series where the villain's hideout was filmed on a slant.  With no TV villains in sight, the porter showed me the room’s numerous "amenities.”  She pointed out the mini-fridge, which was stocked with over priced bottles of water, the microwave oven, the flat screen TV, and even the clock radio, which she excitedly explained could accommodate an iPhone.  Despite the crooked floor, I agreed to take the room and with a smile, the porter thanked me and left.  I never saw her again.  In fact, for the remainder of my stay, regardless of when I passed the front desk (more of a counter really), I never saw anyone manning the post.

Alone in a room that was barely wider than the bed, I began to unpack.  There was ample room in an old dresser and a variety of mismatched hangers in the closet to hang up my shirts.  The closet also contained a safe.  Part of the safe's unique security system was the incredible amount of stuff piled in front of the actual safe.  In order to get to the safe, one would need to move the cot, the mattress, the weird little luggage rack found in hotels that no one actually uses, the ironing board, and the air conditioner.  Instead I opted not to leave any valuables in the room.

Before venturing out for dinner, I went to use the bathroom.  The toilet cover was down and there appeared to be a small piece of soap stuck to it.  I thought that was odd.  AS it turned out, it was not quite as odd as the hair in the toilet.  This was not the single hair in a salad that grosses out the average diner.  This actually appeared to be the result of a full-blown haircut.  It looked as though someone finally had had enough of their hair and simply hacked it off.  All of it.  Ordinarily I would have immediately dialed the front desk to complain.  Of course, ordinarily the room would have been equipped with a phone.   The mere thought of hiking down to the desk, and worse, hiking back up, was more than my oxygen-depleted body could bear.  Instead, I quickly flushed the toilet and tried to put the hair out of my mind.

Over the next four nights I discovered some more “amenities.”  For instance, the hotel thoughtfully made it easy to turn out the lights when leaving by providing only 1 single overhead lamp in the entire room.  And, I discovered that the room had only “too” temperatures.  That’s not a typo.  The room was either too hot or too cold.  The thermostat, more commonly known as a window, did allow for some temperature adjustment.  Letting the cold December air in managed to make the temperature tolerable and had the added advantage of allowing me to soak in the sounds of the 14^th street revelers below.  You wouldn’t think that there would be that many people out making noise at 2am on a Tuesday night and in this case, you would be wrong.

As my stay came to a close, I received a card from the maid who claimed to have cleaned my room that week.  While no additional hair had appeared in my toilet, the little piece of soap never disappeared either and I was reasonably certain that cleaning the room involved making the bed and very little else.

This is normally the part of the story where a sentence might begin like this: “The hotel was not without it’s charm,” or “On the positive side” or even, “One redeeming quality was…” But in New York, for $180, sentences simply do not begin that way.  I wonder what kind of sentence I could write for $185?

The Go Guy

Recently a company that I've worked for many times in the past opted to hire someone else for an upcoming job.  I took the news rather well, assuming of course, that swearing loudly at one’s cat can be construed as taking something well.  Although I was disappointed, the truth is that things like this happen in the freelance world and I was quite sure the earth would somehow continue to spin.

I assumed that my replacement is good at what he does and would most likely do a fine job.  I know very little about the replacement with one exception.  When the phone rings, while most of us simply answer with "Hello," the replacement apparently picks up the receiver and says, "Go."

It seemed I'd been replaced by the “go” guy.  Again, I took the news well.  Just ask my cat.  Eventually, I began to wonder if perhaps this “go” business was yet another trend that I’d somehow missed.  After all, as anyone will tell you, I’m not exactly Mr. Hip.  Translation:  I still listen to the Stones.  For all I knew, “go” was the new “hello.”

I decided some research was in order so I dialed up a number of friends to see how they answered their phones.  I learned two things.  First, either no one answers their phones anymore, or second (and much worse) unfortunately, no one wants to take my calls.  A lesser man may have been discouraged but I persisted until finally, someone answered the phone and I’m happy to report that when they did, the word “go” was not used.  Technically it could be argued that “go” would be a wildly inappropriate way for Wilson Pizza to answer their phone but I was so thrilled that someone answered at all, I simply chose to overlook this fact.

After consuming a most excellent pizza it occurred to me that I was going about this the wrong way.  I realized that before I could be critical of the “go” guy, I needed to walk a mile in his shoes.  Since I had none of his shoes and the chances of actually obtaining a pair seemed unlikely, the only thing left was to try his “go” approach myself.  I turned to my phone and waited.  Again I learned two things.  First, my phone doesn’t ring a whole lot and second, when it does ring, it is almost never a human being on the line.  While I’m convinced the automated CVS computer that calls regularly to remind me about one prescription or another doesn’t care how I answer my phone, somehow, even when I knew it was a machine on the other end, I couldn’t quite bring myself to answer with “go.”

I wondered if perhaps “go” wasn’t for me so I considered some alternatives.  “Speak” was a possibility but of the few calls I receive, none seem to be of the canine variety so “speak” was out.  “Shoot” made the list.  But it sounded too much like I’d spilled coffee while answering the phone and then said, “shoot!”  I thought about a non sequitur approach but even the CVS computer seemed confused when I answered with “mushroom omelet.”

With nowhere else to turn, I sought the advice of my teenage kids.  At least I tried to, as my kids are seemingly unable to answer their phones and instead respond only to texts.  Naturally, my texting of “go” was met with an immediate response of “???”  at which point I decided to give up (but not before texting them “mushroom omelet” just to mess with their heads).

In the end, I guess I’m just not a “go” guy and until I can come up with an alternative, I’ll have to live with the risk of less employment.  All of this explains why, if you should happen to call there is an excellent chance you’ll be greeted not with “hello” or even “go but with “What the fuck do you want?” instead.  On second thought, that’s not going to work either.  The search goes on.  I wonder if I should ask the cat?

Almost Famous

They say everyone has a twin.  In my case, it’s more like quintuplets.  While I am neither rich nor famous (not yet anyway), I often get mistaken for someone who is.  The fact is, I probably would be rich if I had a dollar for every time I’ve been told I resembled one celebrity or another. 

Most recently, the woman at Home Depot who was selling me a screen door, insisted I looked just like her favorite golfer, Phil Mickelson.  This was a new one for me.  Although I’m familiar with Mr. Mickelson, I can’t say that I’ve ever paid much attention to what he looks like.  After Googling him, I found that there is indeed a resemblance in that we are both men.  Beyond that I just don’t see it.  Also, my golfing experience has been limited to one unfortunate incident involving a squirrel that surely thought he was safely out of range of even the most errant of golf shots.  Tragically, he was not.

Phil Mickelson

Not Phil Mickelson

Actually, Michelson is only one in a long line of my supposed doppelgangers.  In the latter part of my teen years, I often wore a beat-up old cowboy hat.  Looking back, I have no idea why.  I never wanted to be a cowboy.  I had never at the time, been farther south than New Jersey, and my one experience on a horse, which fortunately involved no squirrels, lasted less than a minute.  Despite all that I wore the hat and because of that, I was often told I looked just like Arlo Guthrie.

Arlo Guthrie

Definitely Not Arlo Guthrie

                 

Just like him?  While it’s true that we both have hats on, after that it’s a stretch.  Add to that my incredible lack of musical talent (the only thing I can play is an ipod) combined with my complete inability to carry a tune and I think you’d agree that any resemblance starts and ends with the hat.

 My all time favorite “you know who you look like” story happened at of all places, the World Series in Oakland, California.  Soon after my friend Ken and I took our seats, the guys in front of us turned around and said “You’re Jerry Seinfeld aren’t you?”  Although this was before Seinfeld became a household name,  I was familiar with his work, not from television but from the radio ads he did at the time for 7-11.  So I shot back, “You mean the 7-11 comic?  I’m way funnier than he is.”  They laughed and despite my protestations to the contrary, kept insisting I was Jerry Seinfeld.  And while I cannot hit a golf ball or sing a song, I have been known from time to time, to be able to make people laugh.  It could have been the copious amounts of beer I’d consumed (or more likely the amount they’d consumed), but whatever the reason, for that one day, I was on a roll.  And they loved it.  Eventually, I left to get more beer and they turned to my friend for confirmation.  “That’s Jerry isn’t it?” they said.  Ken smiled and said, “Oh yeah, that’s him.”  And that is how I found myself signing autographs at the end of the game.  I have no doubt those autographs have been sold on Ebay several times now.

 

 

 

Jerry Seinfeld

                     

Wishes he were Jerry Seinfeld

In the end, it’s comforting to know that should fame ever find its way to my door, I already have the autograph thing down.  But I don’t think I’ll ever feel truly famous, until somewhere, some guy gets stopped on the street and hears:  “Hey, has anyone ever told you, you look a lot like Jeff Vibes?”

The Glamour of Show Business

I make my living as a Producer and Assistant Director on commercials, infomercials and movie publicity shoots.  Over the years I’ve worked in faraway places such as London, Prague and Australia.   I’ve worked with lions and tigers and bears (plus an elephant, a snake, and a herd of sheep), the occasional athlete, and a long list of celebrities.  Right now you might be thinking this sounds pretty glamorous.  I get that a lot but the reality is, it’s not.

That’s not to say there is no glamour at all in my business.  Recently a good friend of mine attended the DGA (Directors Guild of America) Awards and rubbed elbows with a bunch of A-list celebrities.  He wore a tuxedo to the event, the one from his closet.  Unfortunately, there is no such item in my closet. I am however, totally prepared for any event involving shorts and t-shirts.  Glamour it seems eludes me.  My career, if anything, has been the antithesis of glamour.  As proof I offer up the following examples.

Early in my career, when I was a PA (production assistant), I was often tasked with driving the production truck to and from the set.  This truck contains everything from walkie-talkies to the tables and chairs for lunch and was also the truck, in those days, where all of the garbage ended up.  Whoever was driving the truck was responsible for dumping that garbage.  This usually involved stealthily finding a dumpster behind a supermarket, tossing the trash bags in and driving off at top speed.  Already one can see how little glamour there is in that job.  One night, before we had a chance to drive away at top speed, we were caught.  Which is how I found myself along with another PA, inside the dumpster, where there is precious little glamour, taking the trash out.

Another low point on my personal glamour scale occurred while shooting on a ranch in Los Angeles.  The ranch was home to a variety of animals including some dogs, some cattle, and a few llamas. The llamas, specifically the incredibly loud noises they make while mating, are the key to this story.  In the middle of an interview with a well-known actress, the llamas decided to “get busy.”  We dispatched a PA to look into the situation but there was really nothing to be done.  Although unable to convince the amorous pair to stop, the PA, who will no doubt include this tale on a blog of his own someday, did manage to upload a video of the llamas to YouTube.  Meanwhile, the rest of us could only wait and listen for the action to stop.

The llama story pales though when compared to my all time least glamorous experience in the film business.  This one occurred while scouting locations with the technical crew.  After riding around in a van assessing various locations for shooting, a few of us needed a ride back to our cars.  One of the crew, let’s call him “Joe”, offered to give us a ride.

I rode in the back with the location scout and the gaffer rode up front with Joe.  The ride began amicably enough.  We talked about the upcoming shoot and told war stories as we inched our way through rush hour traffic.  Eventually the traffic became a problem for Joe as he suddenly announced his increasingly urgent need to “relieve himself.”   At the next light, Joe jumped out of the car, ran around to the passenger side, opened the door, and shoved the unsuspecting gaffer into the driver’s seat.  The light went to green and we were off.  Joe then grabbed an old Starbucks cup from the cup holder, dumped the remaining coffee out the window and used the empty cup, with all of us in the car, to, well, create the least glamorous film experience I’ve ever had.  Moments later he was dumping the new contents of the cup out the window, which of course created the least glamorous driving experience the car behind us has ever had.

I suppose there is always the possibility that I’ll someday have the opportunity to write about a glamorous experience or two.  Until then I’m grateful for the wealth of material that my rather “unglamorous” life has provided although I do admit to viewing Starbucks in a slightly different light.

A Twitter Story

The story begins with the purchase of a new Tivo.  In order for Tivo to function, one must install something called a Cable Card.  The card, which comes from the cable company (in this case Comcast) is about the size of a credit card and fits into a slot on the back of the Tivo unit.  It can be installed by a fourth grader or in the absence of a fourth grader, anyone with a modicum of intelligence will do.  I know this because my own modicum of intelligence was more than sufficient to install a card myself on a previous Tivo unit.

The trouble started when I called Comcast to inquire about the card.  When I finally got an actual person (although not a clever one) on the phone, the unclever and ultimately unhelpful customer service rep gave me still another number to call.  As this would be the third number I’d tried, I asked if he was sure it was a Comcast number.  He was.  It wasn’t.  He’d instead given me Tivo’s number. 

Although Tivo was thrilled to hear from me, the card really does come from Comcast so it seemed a different approach would be required.  The new approach involved going directly to an actual Comcast office where I was told Comcast no longer gives out the cards for installation and that a trained technician would now be required to install the card.  Naturally Comcast charges a fee for this high tech work.  I explained that I’d previously installed a card myself and that I’d charged nothing at all for the service but unsurprisingly that  fell on deaf ears.  Comcast insisted that was simply not possible.  With no other choice, I made an appointment for the “trained technician” (who presumably had passed at least fourth grade) to come out at the end of the week.

Then, in frustration, I posted the following on Twitter:

Resolution: I will find something good to say about Comcast. Anyone can lose weight. This is a far bigger challenge. #comcast #resolution

Ten minutes later, much to my surprise, I got a response via Twitter from someone claiming to work for Comcast, offering to help.  This implies one of two things.  One, this Comcast employee just happened to be skimming the Twitter wire or two, and more likely, Comcast is actually paying someone to watch over Twitter in a big brother kind of way.

In any event, my new Twitter pen pal eventually gave me an email address to write to about either a self install kit or the possibility of waiving the fee.  I wrote the email and sure enough, later that day, I received a call from someone at Comcast.  Unfortunately,  the caller was condescending at best, scoffed at the idea of self-installation and also insisted it was completely impossible.  Then he dismissed with almost no discussion, any notion of the waiving of fees.

I wasn’t surprised and wrote to my Twitter pen pal to say so.  To her credit, she seemed unhappy and insisted I email her with all of the details.  Two days later, coincidentally while the “trained technician” was installing the card, I received another call from someone else at Comcast.  Unlike the previous caller, this guy was apologetic and immediately offered to waive the fees.  What's more,  rather than insist that it was not possible  I’d ever installed my own card, he admitted that Comcast “no longer lets customers install cards themselves because too many cards were damaged.”   Of course he left out the part about Comcast now  making piles of money on the fees they are imposing on their customers. Mr. Apologetic went on to say that other Comcast employees perhaps were unaware of this because they “hadn’t been at the company long enough.”

Overall, there are several lessons to be learned here.  One is that there is apparently a considerable turnover problem at Comcast.  Another is that while Comcast may appear to be a huge, unfeeling corporation, it does fortunately employ at least one person who is not only willing to listen but seems to genuinely care about the customer.   This leads us to the most important lesson of all which is that big brother is not only watching, he’s tweeting, and in this case that was a good thing.

Twas the Night...

 “Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.”  Except in our house.  There was definitely something stirring and we had the evidence, which unfortunately presented itself in of all places, the silverware drawer.  This is curious because this drawer contains no food at all, thus the name, as opposed to the somewhat cumbersome and completely inaccurate  “silverware and food for a mouse drawer.”  There is always the unlikely possibility that our mouse was one of the more well mannered rodents and simply preferred using a knife and fork to eat whatever it is that well mannered mice eat.  Or perhaps the mouse left his “evidence” behind as a means of venting the frustration he surely felt at being unable to access the aptly named bread drawer.

Whatever the reason the mouse had arrived and it was clear that he had to go so I turned to our cat for help.  Everyone knows that cats catch mice so this seemed to be a logical course of action.  But it turns out that “everyone” actually means everyone except our cat, who would have trouble catching a mouse or anything else for that matter even if the poor creature happened to miraculously become stuck in the cat’s food dish and even then the odds favor the mouse.

With nowhere else to turn, I took matters into my own hands and the great mouse hunt was on.  I secretly replaced the silverware with a mousetrap, which of course, looks nothing like silverware, but I was hoping the mouse wouldn’t notice.  In the morning I carefully slid the newly christened mousetrap drawer open and I’m happy to report there is one less creature stirring in the house.

Then I began to wonder about the mouse.  Was he a rogue acting on his own?  Or was he part of a bigger more diabolical plot involving, dare I say, more mice?  That night I once again filled the mousetrap drawer with another trap.  As I had before, I baited the trap with peanut butter and went to sleep secure in the knowledge that any additional stirring creatures would soon be, well, not stirring.

Upon rising I once again slowly slid the drawer open but there were no creatures, stirring or otherwise inside.  Even more disappointing, there was no peanut butter!  This new four-legged adversary had managed to pick the trap clean without setting it off.  It was clear I was up against a very clever mouse.

That night I baited the trap again, this time taking great care to ensure that it would not be possible to steal the peanut butter without setting off the trap.  But I had failed to take into account just how devious a mouse I was pitted against for the trap once again had been picked clean and yet still somehow remained unsprung.  I knew that somewhere, a mouse with a belly full of peanut butter was laughing.

I also knew the trap must have been defective as I refused to accept the alternative explanations, i.e., operator error or an incredibly smart mouse.  That night, armed with both a new trap and renewed determination, I closed the drawer confident that I would at last outwit a beast whose brain was a mere fraction of the size of my own.  In the morning that confidence was rewarded and once again there was one less creature stirring.

Realizing that stronger measures were required, I pulled out all of the drawers and searched for any nook or cranny that a mouse could possibly squeeze through.  When every possible means of entry had been plugged I sat back to admire my work and suddenly realized that it really was now December 24^th.  In other words:

Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, except maybe still another mouse

The holes near the drawer had been plugged up with care

In hopes that the mouse could no longer get there.

The children were nestled all snug, wait a minute, let’s try that again.

The children weren’t nestled, they were playing XBOX.

As I set my mousetrap like a sly little fox.

Then I thought to myself, as you’re about to see

Do we really need one more twas the night parody?

Of course we don’t.  Here is what happened:  In the morning the trap was still full of peanut butter and hadn’t been touched.  It was definitely a Christmas miracle.

TIVO Kills

The advent of the DVR is another nail in the coffin for the television commercial.  This unfortunately means a lot less work for some really clever people including (although I hesitate to call myself one of the clever ones) yours truly.  Part of me (the part that enjoys making a living) thinks this is a shame as I look back on my countless hours on a commercial set with great fondness.

Readers who have no experience in the commercial industry might think that making what essentially amounts to a thirty-second film is relatively easy.  Those readers would be wrong. The effort involved in selling for instance, paper towels, is equal to if not greater than that required to not only put a man on the moon but ensure he has the right toothpaste when he gets there. 

The stakes are always incredibly high and every decision is not only agonized over but requires more approvals than the average bill making its way through Congress.  College educated adults will debate the ramifications of the color of pillows on a couch deep in the background of a set for hours while others will argue about whether or not a house chosen for a location is “aspirational” enough (yes the house aspires to be a mansion).  This may sound bizarre but I assure you the list of such things is endless.  Whether it’s the variety of tricks used to make food look appetizing or the detailed instructions about the proper way to shoot an actor putting gum into his mouth, there is simply no shortage of absurdity, all in the name of advertising, on the commercial set.

Of course the other part of me (the part that writes this blog and is also partial to pizza - though not any pizza seen in a commercial) applauds this turn of events.  That same part almost feels sorry for the advertisers who have labored for years under the assumption that I, and no doubt the rest of the public, care about the color of the pillow on the couch in the background.  I don’t.  And these days, thanks to the DVR, I’m not watching your commercial at all.  Instead I’m fast-forwarding through your pillow and couch with my thumb firmly planted on the Tivo remote.  The odds of me stopping during a commercial are similar to those of Brett Favre retiring.  There is always the possibility but in the end it just doesn’t happen.

Even if I were to sit through a spot it certainly wouldn’t influence what I buy or whom I vote for (politicians are you listening?).  I won’t buy a certain SUV because it looks great crashing through a stream nor will I purchase a truck because it can tow something like the space shuttle.  The fact is, I can’t remember the last time I needed to drive through a stream of any size and I’m quite confident the shuttle can get around without my help.

Come to think of it, there are a few more things that advertisers should know.   First, no amount of bikini-clad women will ever convince me to drink one beer or another (although I reserve the right to drink said beer if a dozen or so of these women miraculously appear at my doorstep).  Second, no amount of celebrity endorsement will sway my decision to buy a particular shampoo, cell phone, cereal, or other product.  You should also know that I’m quite happy with my car insurance already and have no intention of wasting even five minutes on the matter.  And lastly, if you ever find yourself in a meeting where a decision is made to have singing in a commercial for anything at all, you should run.  And don’t stop until you can find the fast forward button for your life.  I could go on but NASA just called and it seems I’ve got to go tow the space shuttle.

The Big Mistake

Decisions, decisions.  We make them constantly every day.  Most are small mundane things such as what should we have for dinner, or should I wear the blue shirt or the red one, and so on.  But sometimes we’re faced with larger, life altering decisions like should I take that job in another state or can we afford this house or do I want paper or plastic?   Okay maybe that last one isn’t exactly life altering.  But those that are often require a great deal of thought in addition to the counsel of family and friends.  Unfortunately it is impossible to know, except in hindsight, whether or not we’ve made the right choice.  Some decisions will prove to be the smartest move we’ve ever made and others will turn out to be enormous errors in judgment.

In looking back at my own life, there are several big decisions that have proved to be life changing.  I’ve married, had children and twice moved across the country.  But what is the smartest move I’ve ever made?  I thought it through and getting married was easily the best decision I’ve ever made.  I couldn’t ask for a better partner and would without question do it again.  But then I thought, if getting married is the smartest thing I’ve ever done, what is the dumbest thing?  What is the biggest mistake I’ve ever made?  And therein lies the problem.  I’m worried I haven’t made it yet.

It’s not that I haven’t made mistakes. Like everyone else, I’ve made plenty.  But none of my numerous errors have been so big that I spend each day filled with regret.  This in turn has led me to another big realization, namely, if I haven’t yet made the big mistake, there is a chance it could come at any moment. 

Consequently this has lead to a sort of paralysis in my decision making process.  I’m suddenly unable to order a beer without worrying if the dreaded draft or bottle choice might prove to be the big mistake.  Driving has turned into a nightmare since every fork in the road could potentially lead to the big mistake.  I now find myself wondering if medium or medium rare is the right way to go.  And choosing a movie to see has become a herculean task.

In an effort to relieve myself of this burden I’ve tried, without success, to assign big mistake status to some of my smaller faux pas.  But somehow neither the purchase of the wrong size coffee filters or the decision to eschew lima beans fits the big mistake criteria, so my search goes on.

Even if you have made the big mistake, there is unfortunately no guarantee you won’t make an even bigger one in the future.  One needs to look no further than the world of sports for examples of this occurrence.  In the third round of the 2000 NFL draft, the San Francisco 49ers selected a quarterback named Gino Carmazzi who became neither a household name nor a quarterback.  Meanwhile, 134 picks later, the New England Patriots drafted future Hall of Famer Tom Brady.  This was obviously a big mistake by the 49ers.  Then in 2005 they did it again.  With the number one pick in the draft they chose Alex Smith, whom five years later has yet to prove himself.  Twenty-three picks after that the Green Bay Packers selected Aaron Rodgers.  While Smith was recently benched in favor of the third string quarterback, Rodgers has led his team into play-off contention. 

I could go on about the big mistake phenomenon.  For instance, while I cannot yet recognize my own big mistake, I seem to have no trouble identifying the big mistakes made by others.   But I am unable to elaborate on this as the thought that this column might itself be the big one has found its way into my mind and if I don’t publish it now I might never do it.  Of course not publishing it could also be the big mistake.  You can see the dilemmas I find myself in.  At least when the choice is draft or bottled beer, I still end up with beer.

The Man in the Mirror

Earlier this year I managed to reach fifty years of age.  Those of you who haven’t yet reached the half-century mark will no doubt be surprised to learn that the AARP begins sending you literature immediately upon your fiftieth birthday.  And I mean immediately.  Moments after you’ve blown out that fiftieth candle (which in itself is exhausting and may require a nap after the first twenty-five), your mailbox will somehow fill up with a ton of information from the AARP that simply cannot be for you.  The unfortunate truth is that one-minute you’re fifty and moments later you’re using those dreaded words “senior discount.” 

This all hit home for me recently when I glanced in a mirror and was horrified to see a gray haired man wearing glasses looking back.  I assumed this had to be a window to a parallel universe as it most certainly couldn’t be me behind those glasses but as we all know, this is not the case.  I suppose at my age I should be happy to have hair of any color, it’s just that the gray is another not so subtle reminder of my ever-advancing years.

The reading glasses are relatively new for me.  Aging and denial have always gone hand in hand and I certainly spent a good amount of time ignoring the problem before finally succumbing to a pair “cheaters”.  Previously I convinced myself that all that was required for me to read the newspaper was good lighting and lots of it.  I briefly considered replacing all the 60-watt bulbs in the house with 300-watt versions but the fear of disobeying the little sticker in the light fixtures as well as the corresponding fear of burning down the house eventually prompted me to seek a better and ultimately safer solution.  In short, I got some reading glasses.

There are plenty of other reminders that I’m not as young as I used to be.  Last summer, in an effort to shed some pounds and perhaps regain some of my lost youth, I did some running at the high school track.  It should be noted that here the word “running” is used when perhaps “shuffling” would be a more appropriate choice.  As I neared the last one hundred yards of my mile run, my youngest son urged me to sprint to the finish line.  “Are you kidding?” I said between gulps of air, “I am sprinting!”

And now a new family milestone has created another reason for me to feel old.  The state of Connecticut has issued a drivers license to my oldest son.  When he showed me his shiny new license (with a picture he already hates), I couldn’t help but think back to when I got my own license.  Times were different back then.  The test was much easier.  I recall only about four minutes of driving and no parking to speak of.  I should point out that contrary to popular belief (popular at least in my house), I did not take the test in a Fred Flintstone car.  The reason I didn’t hate my picture was quite simply because in those ancient days licenses had no pictures and were instead mere pieces of cardboard.  All of this reinforces just how long ago it happened which in turn reminds me of just how old I am.  What’s worse, the very thought of the number one son driving on his own will no doubt result in a phenomenal amount of additional gray hair.

Many people opt for face-lifts or tummy tucks or other procedures designed to ward off the appearance of aging.  I’ll pass on all of that.  I prefer to wait for the invention of a time machine.  Until then, I just realized there are other mirrors in the house.   I’m sure the younger me must be in a parallel universe in one of them.