I am getting to that age where I am too old to play the boy next door and too young to play Uncle Fester. I don't mind the laugh lines around my eyes or the slowness in the morning when I am doing my sit-ups. Really, the only problem I have is when people call me "Daddy" during sex. This infuriates me to no end. It happened again last night. I thought to myself, I don't have to take this! So I got on my walker and slowly, carefully left the room. Granted, it took a little more than 3 minutes and I farted twice but, I think I made my point.
As an American roughly the same age as Barack Obama, I will not be ridiculed or reduced to a stereotype. I want to age appropriately. It's a tragedy when a child doesn t get to experience childhood; likewise, it is a shame when an adult doesn't get to experience adulthood.
There does come a time the slacker, middle-aged men take off his greasy long pants and flip flops and act like grown ups. Lately, I have been shopping at a new store, "Forever 48." They specialize in fat-assed jeans (no offense, Jessica Simpson) suitable for the most gifted and prosperous of dentists. Their tool belts come complete with a refillable honey bear. I am ready to be wear elastic pants and tasseled loafers.
Now that 50 is the new 40 and Death is the new 90, I have decided that I don't want to wrestle nature. I want to make love to her. But if she calls me "daddy," I will bitch slap her slowly and carefully, so as to not break the brittle bones in my hand.
I am concerned for the future because I plan to spend a lot of time there, and I want to look good.
I asked an ambiguously aged woman about aging. Her face was as demure and pretty as Mickey Rourke's (well, almost), and she proclaimed, illustrating with her finger, "Above the nose is Botox, everything below is Restylane."
Ummm. I always thought anything above my nose was cocaine and anything below should be carrot cake. Guess times have changed.
In Beverly Hills, around 3pm on Bedford Drive, a strange rite occurs. All the men and women who have had facial surgery leave the their surgeons and walk up and down the street bandaged like mummies in Prada, waiting for their loved ones to pick them up. This ambulatory scene is only made worse by the defiant way they carry themselves, as if to say, " look what I am doing for you." Well, don't do it for me. There is nothing worse than a grandma with a muffin top.
Aging is a knock on the door. If you don't invite brother-sister age into the house, they will masquerade as a Sears deliveryman and secretly replace all your new appliances with old ones. Age is tricky and begins at the neck.
My best pal is Pat Loud, the matriarch in the classic PBS series "An American Family." Pat is a vibrant, non-altered 82-year-old. The other night, she called me and asked, "Honey do you want to go see a 91-year-old female drummer on an oxygen tank?" Well, what could I have said but YES, faster than Michael Phelps reaches for a bong. We drove up to Sunset to a place called El Cid where I saw Jerri slam the drums like she was in a post-prohibition juke joint.
Here is Jerri's amazing video, produced by Allee Willis. Allee told me, "The tempo of the recording is timed to the little bursts of oxygen that come out. I think it might be the first time that oxygen has been used as percussion." I think that could be true.
Pay attention Hillary Duff, Dakota Fanning, and Sharon Stone: If you play your cards right, this could be you.
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