that's getting old

I remember as a kid marveling at just how my parents (may they rest in peace) were able to deal with new things. They had survived and somehow even thrived, from the Roaring ’20s through the Depression as children, through a bunch of wars, suburbanization, automated household appliances, manned space flight, night baseball, a moon landing, rock ‘n’ roll and more.

Today, friends, I find myself marveling at how un-able I have become to deal with new things. Granted, things seem to be changing a whole lot faster now than they did during my folks’ lifetime. And that’s due to all the advances in technology that have quickly made our mobile phones our everything — our cameras, calendars, social connections, entertainment, work tools and more. We’ve lived to see cars that can control our speed, our distances from the cars around us, and nudge us back into our lanes when we drift. We’ve seen rovers land on Mars, Pluto demoted from being a planet and pictures of the inside of black hole millions of light years away.

I get all that — aside, as most of you know, from getting a handle on the phone.

So why, then, does the mere act of trying to watch television cause so much pain?

Think about that. When us getting old folks first started watching TV, it was likely on a 13-inch, black-and-white television built into a console that also had a turntable and speakers built in. And that’s if you had money. In my house growing up, the set was on a rolling cart, with a shelf below to hold the TV Guide. And, there were these channels — 2, 4, 5, 7, 9, 11 and 13 (not counting VHF, or UHF, I can’t remember which is which, and which you could only get late at night with tin foil on the rabbit ears.) You knew that “Hogan’s Heroes” aired on Channel 2 at 8:30 on Friday nights. And that “The Rockford Files” followed it at 9 p.m.

Nothing too complicated about that.

Now, when we gather with friends, often the first question is, “What are you watching?” There is indeed a tremendous amount of high-quality programming being made. Finding it, though, is the rub,

“You should watch ‘Yellowstone,’ ” one urges. “It’s about this Montana rancher who has to fight to defend his land. It’s got Kevin Costner. You’d love it!”

“Sounds good,” I reply. “What’s it on?”

“Netflix, I think. No, wait, maybe it’s hulu.” (I actually found it on AppleTV, but S1E1 was 92 minutes long and cost $3.99 to watch, so … no.)

“What channel is hulu?” I ask.

“You know.. it’s an app. It’s on your phone.”

“So I have to watch it on my phone?”

“Well, you could, but you could also cast it to your TV, or maybe your TV has the app built in.”

“Cast it to my TV.. What kind of bait should I use?” Groans.

My kids, though, are expert TV viewers. So good, in fact, that we now have the AppleTV, as well as Netflix, Disney+ (with ESPN+ and hulu), Paramount+, MSG Go and HBO Max — at last count. So, I’m paying for cable TV, the deluxe movie package, the full sports package, and at least six streaming services — half of which I can’t find. I’ll ask the kids, “What are you watching?” and they’ll say something like “The Office.” And I’ll say, “Oh, is that in reruns?” And they’ll say, “It’s on demand. We can watch it whenever we want.” “Yeah, but what channel is it on?” “We told you,” they say. “It’s on demand.”

I wanted to demand that they tell me what channel it’s on but thought better of it. It started to feel like a not-funny Abbott and Costello routine. To me, “on demand” takes away the anticipation that builds up waiting a week for the next episode. (On the upside, you don’t have to wait a week for the next episode.)

I’ve given it a shot. I recently took a free month’s trial of AppleTV to watch “Ted Lasso” (highly recommend), and watched two full seasons in four days — allowing me to cancel the trial without incurring any cost. Pretty slick, eh?

Anyway, I’m sticking to the old folks’ standbys — Jeopardy! and Wheel of Fortune. But even that makes me crazy. To win the big “Wheel” prize, you have to choose between a person, a thing or a phrase. Spoiler alert: the answers are actually none of those things.

On vacation recently, while lounging at the beach, a hotel server came by with this question: “Cold towel with mint?”

Cold towel with mint. “Does it come in other flavors?” I asked. More groans, proving once again that only Dads are amused by Dad jokes.

But we thought about it for moment and realized, that could be the big cash-money phrase on “Wheel.” (One of the truly maddening things about ‘Wheel’ is when the answer is so obvious but the person still gets it wrong.”I’d like to solve… Cold.. towel.. with… lint.” ARRRGH! Didn’t you see the L was already used, you *!@# moron!??? Get off my set!)

The next day at breakfast, we saw a black bird nibbling on a piece of fish someone had left on their plate from the breakfast buffet. “Look!” one of my daughters said. “Crow eating lox. That could also be a phrase.”

“It could,” I agreed. “But I think it’s actually a lipstick color.”

Brain dump complete.

I had the recent pleasure of having breakfast with a bunch of “gotten old” men – in this case, the men’s club at my synagogue.

The event was the first of the Jewish New Year, which we kick off each time with our “LEO” breakfast. (As I was telling this to a buddy of mine before the big event, he asked if “Leo” was the guy who sponsored the breakfast. No. It’s the LEO breakfast because … Lox, Eggs and Onions.

After the usual complaints that the coffee was too strong AND too weak (and it hadn’t even been brewed yet), or that Table One got more bagels than everyone else, there’s usually some kind of program. This year’s topic was “Great Jews in Rock n’ Roll.” (A pamphlet only slightly larger than “Great Jews in Sports History.”)

We heard about the great songwriters Lieber and Stoller, Carole (Klein) King, Simon and Garfunkel, David Lee Roth… and the “Jewish Elvis,” Neil Diamond. (While Elvis could swivel his hips, my money’s on Neil Diamond breaking a hip.)

Neil Diamond was born and raised in Brooklyn. Simon and Garfunkel grew up in Queens. So, too, did many of the men at the breakfast. Though none actually knew them, each had a story.

“My sister Estelle’s cousin Sheila dated the kid who sat next to Diamond in homeroom,” one proudly proclaimed.

“He lived on Bedford Avenue. Just down the block from that great bakery,” another chimed in, and the floodgates of memories began.

“The Jewish fraternity that Paul Simon was in at Queens College won “sing” every year!” 

“I went to P.S. 124 with a guy who once bought a Neil Diamond record.”

“I know a guy who’s friends with a Neil Diamond impersonator in Las Vegas! He even sings “Sweet Caroline!’

“Did you know that Mrs. Robinson was supposed to be Mrs. Rosenbaum, but the record company thought it was too Jewish?”

To quote that non-Jewish rocker Ric Ocasek (though ‘The Cars’ co-founder Elliot Easton — nee Steinberg — grew up in Massapequa and was friends with an old girlfriend of a friend of mine, or so I’m told) … let the good times roll!

Can’t wait to find out what next month’s program is!

What a summer! So much to write about.. lots of golf (my friend Steve — now known as “Ace” — notched his first hole in one, in case you live under a rock and haven’t heard him tell the story. There were lots of beautiful beach days, caught Billy Crystal on Broadway with Carrie for our anniversary (34 years … kill me now!) And, the topper, signing up to begin receiving Social Security checks, while there still IS Social Security. I’ll circle back on these soon.

But today, friends, I choose to write about my calendar. Actually, it’s becoming the calendar of my mother (may she rest in peace).

When she and my father retired and moved to Florida, we would bring our then-little girls for visits. I couldn’t help but notice how full my mother’s calendar was, hanging as it did on the inside of the pantry cabinet door in her kitchen. (Ours is taped to the inside of the cabinet door where we keep our drinking glasses. Where’s yours?)

“Hey Ma, you look pretty busy down here. Retirement must be fun!”

“Are you kidding? Look closer.. they’re all doctor’s appointments. It’s disgusting”

(Quick side story. My mother-in-law, who will never be able to read this due to the fact that it only exists on the computer she can’t operate, says that everything today is disgusting. “Four dollars for slice of pizza? Disgusting! Cats and dogs living together… Disgusting!” So, there’s a new drinking game in the family. Every time she says “disgusting,” we have to do a shot of alcohol. She calls every day, so we’ve been pretty wasted all summer!)

Anyway, looking at MY calendar for October, I noticed I have four doctor’s appointments. That, folks, is the very essence of getting old. GP, cardiologist, pulmonologist, dermatologist. You get the gist.

And I’m proud to announce today that I led a revolution in the doctor’s office, where I went to get my annual physical. I arrived at my scheduled appointment of 11:45, and walked into a waiting room full of people. One woman was crying. I asked what her ailment was, and she replied, “I’m fine. I’m just here for a checkup.” “So why are you crying,” I asked.

“I’ve been here since 9:30,” she said between sobs.

So, apparently without any warning, the doctor who runs the group must have changed his oath from “First do no harm” to “First, make ’em wait.” Which, not so coincidentally, aligns with his other motto, “First get the money.”

I started asking everyone what their appointment times were. 10. 10:10. 10:20. You get it. Every 10 minutes. Most of them were there to see the same doctor I was waiting for, and had been waiting an unusually long time.

Another woman went up the receptionist a few times to remind the girl that she’s a diabetic, and was fasting because she needed blood work and was starting not to feel well. She was told she was next and to please sit back down.

Another 15 minutes passed. She went to the receptionist again, and was reassured that she was next. They were just cleaning up the room.

Another 15 minutes passed. I couldn’t take it anymore. I suggested that we all storm the door leading to the exam rooms and just overrun the office, so they HAD to see us. I felt like Bluto Blutarsky leading the Deltas.. “Hey, did we quit after the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor?” I was on a roll. Surprisingly, most of the other patients had WAY more patience than I did. No one followed as I ran for the door.

After another 45 minurtes, I suggested that we all just leave. Hit ’em in the pocketbook! (My real intention here was that THEY all leave so that I would be next. But don’t tell them that.)

So I decided to leave. I went to the receptionist and asked to have my co-pay refunded.

I was told I would get a credit.

Disgusting!

My mother always used to say, “If you can’t say anything nice about COVID, don’t say anything at all” — which was quite prescient on her part!! But that little pearl, that nugget of wisdom, explains my 8-month absence from this blog. Now, I could get all retrospective here, talking about the pandemic experience, but it seems like whatever I would say could never capture what so many have gone through. I’ll leave that to others to try to express. Let me just say that I’m now double-dosed, and glad to be rejoining the world.

For me and my family, thank the Lord above, we’ve come through unscathed and have tried to make the best of a really bad situation. We did get to bond more closely than ever — our house just isn’t all that big. But as I’ve come to learn, there’s a fine line between bonding and just being annoyingly close.

Apparently, I’m a hover-er.

Since there really weren’t many people around my house to interact with, I started to just hang out wherever Carrie was. You can guess how thrilled she was about that!

“Why are you just standing here? Go do something,” Carrie would say.

“There’s nothing TO do,” I’d reply.

“Then just get away from me,” she’d say. “You’re hovering.”

“I’m NOT hovering,” I would say. “I’m just hanging with you, because there’s nothing else to do.”

“No, you’re hovering. Go hover somewhere else.”

So I’d laugh to myself, and think “What a maroon!” You can’t hover someplace else. You have to hover OVER something, and since Carrie most of the time was the only other thing in the house that moved, it was simply more interesting to hover over her. Watching her make lunch, watching her make dinner, watching her load the dishwasher. I was fascinated. She, on the other hand, felt something else. Finally, she said something like — actually EXACTLY like — “You have nothing to do? How about showering? Brushing your teeth? Getting dressed? General grooming?? ANYTHING!!???!?!”

WIngs clipped, my hovering days were over. Just like that.

I also learned that I’m a lot like my aforementioned mother (may she rest in peace) when it comes to playing games, which we did a lot during the lockdown. I learned that like her, I have no tolerance for slow play. Our go-to during the pandemic has been “Yahtzee.” It’s a stupid dice game over which you have no control. (Full disclosure: we must have played 100 games of Yahtzee, and I did not win ONE!)

You get three rolls of five dice to make poker hands. After each roll, you have to decide if you are going to go for a straight, or multiples of a kind, or a full house, etc. You could decide to keep some dice and roll some , keep them all, or roll them all again. Oh, if I could have back the literal hours of my life lost waiting for those decisions to be made. I would feel the burn slowly rising, much like Ralph Kramden, then erupt with a big “GET OUT!!” For some reason, after a time, we just stopped playing. And I can’t decide if I somehow had something to do with that.

Anyway, that’s all behind us now. It’s spring, flowers are blooming, people are vaccinated and coming outside (most with masks). Now that I think about masks, during the pandemic, I’d wear masks all day, then go to bed, and put on a mask of a different kind — from the dreaded sleep machine. My face has more lines on it than the tables at Studio 54! (Throwback joke #71)

Speaking of getting high, smoking pot was made legal here in New York during the pandemic. We went to a restaurant last week with some friends, and were seated outside, but in an area apart from the other outdoor seating. So without delay, I suggested we smoke a bowl. “C’mon, it’s legal!” I said. (Of course, in the law’s fine print, it DID say something about not being able to smoke weed in the same places you can’t smoke cigarettes — like restaurants.) But we were outdoors, and not really “in” a restaurant, so if we ran into legal trouble, I firmly believe we had a case.

We smoked, and I left my bag of weed right on the table), and when the waiter came to bring the bill, he saw it but said nothing. As if it happened all the time.And If I have anything to say about it, it WILL happen all the time.

Just call me Mr. Happy!

Here’s a recent true story:
During the recent storm-induced blackout, my children stayed with their air-conditioned aunt and uncle for a coupl’a days. My brother-in-law, the good soul that he is, rose early one morning to get breakfast for everyone, and asked the kids to text him what they wanted. My oldest likes her eggs full of things like spinach and tomatoes, and HOT SAUCE! My sister-in-law saw her request, and texted her husband that she’d like the same thing as well.
Now my brother-in-law knows my sister-in-law has a negative reaction to hot sauce — her head itches! — so he thought it must have been a mistake, and he didn’t get it for her.
Upon my sister-in-law telling me this story, I immediately thought to myself: ‘An itchy head? That’s IT? That’s what this big deal was all about? I thought you were going to say something about anaphylactic shock, but no.. an itchy head? REALLY?’
When I collected myself, I asked what I believed was a question that would tie the bow on this story. ‘So did he bring you something else home?’
She admitted that he did, and I said, ‘Well, he’s got to get some credit for that, right?’
‘But it’s not what I wanted,’ she said.
That all got me to thinkin’… when you get old, and have been married a long time, does life turn into a zero-sum game? You’re either all right or horribly wrong.. no middle ground.
I thought about what would happen if I were in my brother-in-law’s shoes. And then I thought, ‘Shit, I’ve been in that spot a thousand times.’
I’m in the grocery store, and Carrie, my beautiful wife, has asked me to pick up regular, unflavored Triscuits crackers. I look in the aisle. Rosemary, basil, garlic and onion, salsa, avocado.. Damn! Triscuits has almost as many variations as Cheerios and Oreos!
Shopping screeches to a halt as I stand paralyzed, hoping beyond hope that I missed the one box of regular, unflavored Triscuits that’s hiding somewhere, perhaps mistakenly placed behind a Wheat Thins box! No luck.
What to do? If I bring home the wrong crackers, I won’t get a “That’s OK, Doovie (that’s what she calls me when I get the right crackers!) The store just ran out.’ Instead, I’m sure I’ll get a ‘This is NOT what I asked for, David. I’m returning it.’
Hence, the title.. no margin for old men. But I’d grade that shopping experience as like getting a 50 on a test.. the answer was wrong, but I showed my work and should get some credit for that, right?
All I can say is, thank God for cellphones! Now, when stuck on the horns of a shopping dilemma, I can just use my lifeline to get the correct answer, which likely would be,’OK, just get the Rosemary.’
Cellphones.. the key to a happy marriage! Now, if I could just find mine….

You’d think not really going anywhere for the past four months would have given me nothing but time to chronicle life in this novel coronavirus pandemic. But time is a funny thing. When you have too much of it, it stops. (Sounds like something Yogi Berra might say. But he’s been tagged out for a long time, so … no.)

Now, throw working from home on top of that, and any kind of structure you used to have is gone. Some days I’m up and answering emails at 4:30 AM. I wrote to my brother yesterday at 2:25 in the morning! And then after supper — supper! Who calls it that? It’s DINNER! After DINNER, when there’s not much to do but play another game of Yahtzee, or watch ‘Jumanji 2’ (which is actually ‘Jumanji 3’) for the 14th time this month, I’ll just go into the home office and start doing more work. Work that should have been done in the daytime.

In short, my circadian rhythm has lost the beat. And because of that, a not-so-funny thing has happened.

I don’t sleep anymore.

Here’s where my wife, Carrie, would jump in and say, ‘What are you talking about? All you DO is sleep!!. So let me explain.

It’s not that I don’t sleep. What I don’t do is is say goodnight, and go to sleep until 7 the next morning. Instead, I tend to fall asleep watching TV, from like 10 to 1 AM, then go to bed and play that absolutely bewitching game of connecting the like-colored dots in various hexes for a couple of hours. (Bewitching? Hexes? I’ll bet he thinks he’s clever!) If I’m lucky, I’ll fall asleep until about 4:30. I’ll toss around til about 6 AM, fall asleep for another hour, and watch the morning news and weather til about 8:30, at which time I might fall back to sleep for another hour.

So, where’s the rhythm in that, you ask? Well, my sleep pattern is like ‘Seinfeld’ Elaine’s dancing. All arms and legs akimbo! (50-point bonus word score!)

I’ve tried everything short of prescription drugs (see what I did there?) to get a good night’s sleep, all to no avail.

But you know me.. always looking at the bright side. It IS fun when people text me at odd hours to ‘leave me a message’ and I respond right away. I’ll usually get back an awkward ‘LOL!.. What are YOU doing up’ — awkward, because .. what are THEY doing up?

And there is a weird peace to being the only one awake in the middle of the night. Come to think of it, our dog Bailey doesn’t sleep at all either — or he sleeps with his eyes open, which is just super-creepy. And, I fear Carrie’s rhythm is also losing its beat. At 3 AM, I’ll be watching a video of a pig giving a horse a ‘happy ending’ (Eww.. did he really just write that? What kind of YouTube channels is HE watching? PERV!!!) and suddenly I’ll hear Carrie: ‘Can’t you turn the sound OFF?’ Poor dear, she can’t sleep either!

Some folks are scared of being up and alone in the middle of the night. I embrace it. It’s the only real quiet time I have all day, and it actually calms me, soothes me. Hmmm.. sounds like a great time to sleep!! If only ….

Writers write, right?
Many of my old and current colleagues are popping up on my Facebook feed, regaling us with stories of their youth, or launching into new children’s books or novels. That’s what they do. And, why not? What else is there to do?
I, too, thought this time of sheltering in would give me tons of material to tell you all about. But boy, was I wrong! As I’m sure you’ve been told, we’re all stuck in “Groundhog Day.” We wake up, and not a thing has changed from yesterday, or the day before… or the month before!
I think I’ve left the house five times since March 15. Three of those were on walks, and I noticed, sadly, that not everyone is following the mask and distancing rules. So even leisurely strolls have become stressful strolls. ‘Why isn’t that guy wearing a mask?’ ‘Look at those people walking so closely together. What’s WRONG with them?’ I’ve literally had to tell people to ‘Back the fuck up!’ (Which, as I suspected, gave me great joy!) I’ve also driven to my office twice. To water my plant. And that’s it.
My sister-in-law Pamela is a big shot. She gets to go wherever she wants, because she’s been through the virus and was told the likelihood of her getting re-infected is low, so she thinks she’s so cool, going to the grocery store, getting gas… and going to the grocery store, and getting gas.
(A brief side note: I can only compare the search for food in today’s world to that of cave people. I know little about them beyond what you can learn from the GEICO commercials, but somehow I knew they would have to leave the cave to hunt and gather food. And I’m sure they had the same level of fear that we have about going out in search of sustenance. Would they return safely home, or would they die? The big difference is that back then, if the animal they were trying to kill beat them to it, they’d be dead on the spot. I guess to make it more similar to today, the animal would wound them, allowing them to make it back to the cave — sans food — and then the whole family would wonder if those wounds ultimately would kill him. Another HUGE difference to today? At least the rest of them could be fairly certain his wounds wouldn’t kill THEM!)

Yesterday, I installed one of those video doorbells that’s supposed to let you know when someone’s stealing the Amazon packages off your stoop. We got it in December and yesterday it killed 15 minutes for me! (What’s that old canard about ‘Time waits for no man?’)
I hadn’t gotten around to it before primarily because I really don’t enjoy doing things around the house. There… I said it.
And now that it’s installed, I’ve been notified of activity about every 30 seconds. A car drives by. A squirrel climbs a tree. A bike rider passes. It’s so damn annoying that I turned off all alerts. And learned that in that mode, it does nothing. Hey, just like me!!
My friends — the ones that actually have self-motivation and a desire to improve their station in life — are like, “This is great. I have all this time to get through my “honey do” list.” One guy hung hi-hat lighting in a basement. Another ripped up his garden and got all new plants. They feel accomplished. Me? I’m proud that I have the longest to-do list of the bunch. I have more to do than anyone! And I always will!! BWAH-Ha-Ha-Ha!!
Today, my errands list includes — no, consists ENTIRELY of, getting out of my pajamas, taking a shower and shaving. That could eat up maybe 40 minutes. Then, I’ll take some time to figure out what to eat.
Perhaps later, if I’m REALLY feeling it, I’ll go to the town dump to get rid of my recyclable items, as the town has stopped home pickup of plastic, glass and cardboard. I told my sister-in-law I might venture out for that. She wished me a long line. So nice of her!
Uh-oh, the video doorbell just alerted me to activity outside. LOOK! There’s a dog taking a dump on my lawn, and the asshole owner isn’t picking it up! ALL RIGHT!! Errand Number Two!!

Day 1 of “working from home” due to COVID-19.

I have a dentist appointment at 9:30 AM, wake up around 7:30, answer emails until 7:33, and do the Sunday NYT crossword until 9:10. In between, I hear from my art director that she can’t get onto Slack. I throw on clothes (Shit, was the computer camera ON??) — no shower — and go.

Home about 10:30. Time to check in with the team and see what’s happening. Get the art director back onto Slack. Make myself breakfast. 11:30: start editing a couple of stories and send them along for page layout. Work until about 1:30. Go upstairs to make coffee. Hallie’s awake (did I mention she’s home from college because it was shut down due to COVID-19?) I ask her if she’s upset that the Delaware Blue Hens’ basketball season ended the way it did, and was quickly reminded that she has no interest in that. It did, though, lead into a half-hour of listening to college fight songs. (My alma mater, the University of Maryland, has TWO! Technically, one’s a fight song, presumably played DURING games, and the other is a ‘Victory’ song, presumably to be played AFTER victories, yet the band plays ‘Maryland Victory’ WAY more times during the game than the fight song despite rarely winning. Makes no sense. But in this coronavirus world, little makes sense.)

Back to work for another hour. Lunchtime. Go upstairs to have a sandwich, Hallie talks Carrie and I into watching an episode of “Schitt’s Creek” — a VERY  funny show. One episode turns into five, throughout which I keep exclaiming, “I can’t … I’m WORKING!”

After lunch, back at it, transcribing recorded interviews into text. Play. Pause. “What did he say?” Rewind. Play, Pause. In two hours, I’ve transcribed 11 minutes of recording. I’d rather be back at the dentist than having to do this task. Six minutes to go until the end of the recording, I drop everything to start writing this.

Five o’clock. End of Day 1.

They’d better find a cure, and fast! The other options are me gaining what my daughter Lindsey called “the COVID 15,” which is like the “Freshman 15” of weight gain, but worse, because it’s associated with coronavirus. At least we don’t have peanut butter-stuffed pretzel nuggets… YET! And, of course, the final option … me being the victim of a bludgeoning death for having committed the crime of … always being home!