Still Lanky After All These Years (8-30-07)

Well, hello readers and readettes. Your second worst nightmare has happened. No, Obama isn’t president. Laris is back. Cigar Smoke is back. Run-on sentences are back. Don’t spill your coffee. I don’t do wipe-ups.

So what have I been doing for nine years? (Can you believe it’s been nine fugaso years!) Yeah, I wrote my last column in August of 1998. And, as I recall, I think I told you I was leaving to write a novel and maybe do a compilation book of my old columns and generally take the time to write what I really wanted to write and finally put out some quality work. Well, I lied to you.

I haven’t written a damn word. Except for e-mails and notes to Marge (yes, I’m still married to the little woman) telling her what I want her to buy me at Ralph’s. The notes have been pretty good, though. Like sometimes I’ll ask for milk, cereal, mixed nuts, and 100-calorie popcorn packets. And Marge will comment on how nicely I’ve written the grocery request. Marge’s standards are not terribly high. She married me.

So, again, what have I been doing for nine years? Of course, I studied Italian to learn what the double hey hey fugaso meant. But other than that, I have not done much. I’ve basically spent my time getting older, fatter, and more medically challenged. I am now 66 years old. That is not a typo. That’s a pisso. But I’m a young 66. Which, I’ve been told means I’m old and immature. Hell, my kids, Mike and Casey, are 38 and 33. But, they’re a young 38 and 33. My dog, Hadley the long-headed Airedale, is even 70 in dog years. When we go for our sniff and stops now, I have to help him lift his left leg so he can pee on my shoe. He’s such a cute dog.

And I’ve gotten a little heavier. Not Al Gore heavy. But I can see it from here. My doctors wanted to do one of those stomach-stapling operations on me, but you guessed it. They didn’t have enough staples. So when I get on the scale each morning, this little voice that’s built into the scale says, “One at a time, please.” OK, that’s an old joke. Remember, not only will I lie to you, but I will use old jokes if I think I can get away with it. Like I just thought of this one the other day (or I just stole it the other day) “Do you know what the perfect woman is? She’s one part Navaho and three parts Regular Ho.” Ha, I guess you forgot just how funny I can be, huh? Nine years can’t take the humor out of me. Ten years? Maybe.

And yes, I’m going to be like every other semi-old person you know, and tell you about my medical problems. Like The Mick once said, “If I had known I would live this long, I would have taken better care of myself.” I’ve got a pretty good list going now. I’ve got hypertension, high cholesterol, high blood pressure, low self-esteem, tachycardia, sleep apnea, awake fatnea, plantar fascitiis, enlarged prostate, non-enlarged penis, a bad back, poor eyesight, man-boobs, arthritis, depression, and they recently told me I had diabetes. They said they could tell it was diabetes when my blood test came back with a high hot fudge count. Other than that, I feel damn good. What the hey, I’m basically living on house money now anyway. If I get another 20 years, great. If I don’t, I just hope there is a Baskin Robbins wherever I end up. Uh oh, I think it’s gonna melt. .



I’m not going to bore you with all the details of these ailments. Not now. In future columns I will bore you with these. Like the time last year I got pulled off the cruise ship in New Zealand with a heart problem, and had to spend a week in a Christchurch hospital. Now, that will be a boring column. Excruciatingly boring. Like a global warming seminar. You read my column, you pay the price. Nothing is free. Except, of course, The Weekly.

Other than trying to stay alive, I’ve done some semi-cool things with my time. I bought nine timeshares and am still married. I’ve become a Scrabble-playing freak going to tournaments in Phoenix, Dayton, and Homer, Alaska. Yup, wait until you hear how I was fast-bagged by that old biddy in Arizona. (I shouldn’t have kicked her cane out from under her.)

Marge and I now do two or three crossword puzzles a day, and we’re pretty damn good. And I don’t think it would be indelicate of me if I said that when I figure out a particularly difficult clue, it kind of gets Marge in the mood, if you catch my six letter word for hot-throbbing, senior-citizen, Medicare-card-burning, hanky with some arthritic panky.

And, of course, I’m still traveling a lot. I go up to Canada every winter to see some minor league hockey games. Snow and ice build character…and frostbite. I take a summer baseball trip every summer. (I’ve found that’s better than taking it in the winter. More games and it’s not as cold) And I go to boxing matches in Indian casinos where I tried to play Texas No Limit Hold ‘Em but I didn’t do as well as I had hoped. I lost so much money I would have shot myself, but alas, I had put my gun in the last pot. Sucker had an ace high flush to my facial flush.

Well, glad to be back, everybody. And remember, even after nine years, the most important thing you need to know about me, is that I’m what? I’m still lanky.