Thursday, October 23, 2014

Over-couture



I have to admit that I am not the snappiest turtle or dresser that you will ever meet. Of course I care about my appearance but the truth is I don’t really care if other primates don’t prove receptive to my presentation. I typically try to wear a light fleece jacket for most public hangings (of artwork) but when the lint builds up into a genuine fur coat or if my nose and toes turn bluer than normal from the cold it’s time for the OVERCOAT.

Though our rumpled exteriors are similar I do not own a traditional ‘oh so cool’ ‘Colombo-style’ khaki coat since I live more in a depression than in a trench. Anyway my wife already fears what I will do pants-less when bored in ordinary outerwear with free-flowing flaps, so she swaddles and keeps me occupied with pockets full of linty mints, stripped zippers and hidden snaps. Typically now when the weather turns foul like my breath, I’m routinely poured into and cinched up tight inside a bulky hooded ripstop cocoon to keep most of winter out and hopefully my cold shoulders or other pointy parts in.

Like that baseball crime-fighter Batman, I like to keep my gear handy and strapped to me at all times for emergencies. So these jumbo jackets come in handy for a fat-cat’s hat n’ glove storage and on occasion when my bicycle’s airbags fail. However those puffy parkas in concert with my hulking hide also make it nearly impossible to locate a set of keys, coins, or a ball point pen without a side-trip to the airport to be scanned by a metal detector.


Can’t anyone boast of a toasty overcoat that I can actually find things in that’s smaller than a bread-box, or at least is sewn with a transparent marsupial pouch to see the bun crumbs breed in my pocket bottoms? Finally modern couture that’s kind to my tiny insect mind – jackets that not only keep me and the thorax warm but also entertains too; with sea monkey stores on one side and an ant farm on the other. Anyway those salty shrimpy snackitizers will come in handy if ever forced to bivouac in a giant forest with my fellow formicidae, under the stars and a bounce-house sized winter, stuffed n’ tufted toga, to keep the Queen and me warm.


Thursday, October 16, 2014

Transformer



Whenever the belt around my neck starts to get loose, I make it a practice to wander into a people-feed store and see what’s on the menu. Unlike most geezers in training, I don’t mind shopping for chow since what better way to get exercise while I stock up on nutritional staples that the wife typically avoids like cookies, candy, and waxy wheels of cheese. Anyway my doughy bone-bag bulk always benefits from a stroll through the zoo and a chance to observe slow-roll meandering oldsters in their natural habitat. 

With this year’s change of seasons though, suddenly society’s younger guns all seem to be treating me TOO a bit differently now. A furtive glare here or an innocent side-step there; yes I notice the subtle impatience and frequent over-aggressive cart incursions as I expertly ponder fiber values between the lowly pinto or more costly black bean. I check myself for oozing wounds, leprosy, or some other stinky societal woe that would deserve such disgust, but upon reflection (off my head) I appear inert and unchanged - just as I’ve always been. 

Oh sure I now prefer the smell of Mentholatum over Old Spice, but what’s it prove - that I enjoy soothing hot water bottles and old time mystery radio shows over reality TV. (coincidentally YES!) So what if I cinch my pants around my chest and my ashen translucent skin no longer is brawny and tawny like days gone by. What do you care if Velcro is the kibble of choice to feed my plush suede Hush Puppies and those threadbare baggy shirts I wear are NOT to be cool but actually to stay warm.

Though no blockbuster movie will ever be made about it, clerks seem to routinely ring-me up with senior discounts and need not see I.D. as proof of my long-toothed Silverback status. Clearly I am something of a real Transformer now – bending, creaking and soon to be leaking new useful, flexible and stickier form of productivity. Yes, long life has been seemingly compressed into seconds as I’ll soon fall completely between the cracks, and cross that invisible line of re-birth from ready steady stud to swayback saddled n’ addled,  quartered-up colt ready for a warm Gorilla GLUE bottle. 


Thursday, October 9, 2014

Click Clock



Unlike many graying creatures of the night my head must have mixed in 2 parts bat with the fat under my hat because as I get colder and older I seem to be hearing some sounds BETTER! No the television is still a mush of mumbles and breathless whispers but that is likely due more to my Pringle can amplified budget TV and the sorry state of  modern entertainment programming. Surprisingly now, high pitched clicks are becoming louder and yes, I drool even more uncontrollably at the sound of coins clacking together - which makes for some uncomfortable stares in Taco Bell’s all-tile echorest-room.

I’m not sure what’s changed but it seems now that all of the analog clocks in my house are screaming for their civil rights and ‘just want to be heard’.  Is this some kind of plot from the fancy new clock corporations to drive geezers to the brink and switch to their dinky blinky digital displays? If that’s the case, I’m determined to stand firm with my big noisy clocks, one finger in my ear and the other in a crass digital display of its own.

At Halloween I seem to hear perfectly fine, but oddly any other time of the year I have become almost completely deaf when anything else pounds on the drawbridge door asking for handouts. My wife handles my selective hearing by prefacing her requests with time-tested tricks to garner rapid attention. Drawing me in with comforting utterances beginning with ‘Ding Dong’ or ‘Pop Tart’ will get my most positive reaction, but if the wife’s pressed for time and wants me to fold-up and run like wet ink on a newspaper, she just happily snaps a 3-ring binder.

Other than the spouse, the good news is that most external distractions can be simply buried in the yard along with the bones of other telltale hearts and crafts of noisier times gone bye. But sadly when it comes to my OWN creaky joints and snapping flaps, they seem permanently attached to me so what do I do when skulking the stairs on an otherwise silent night. Clearly all I need to do is don’t whine and unwind those clickity clackity clocks and practice STOPPING time!