Purple toupee will show the way when summer brings you down

Friend 1: Your hair is getting really gray. I haven't seen you for almost a month, and I can definitely tell the difference.

Me: I know. It's been doing that for a long time. I think it's just accelerating now.

Friend 1: Must be stress. Have you considered dying it? You should dye it.

Me: I'm not going to dye it. I've pretty much resigned myself to the fact that I'm going to have a full head of white hair within the next five years. I just hope that girls are serious when they say they dig the look of a distinguished gentleman.

Friend 2: You can't start dying your hair. You're only 34. What are you going to do, dye it for the next forty years?

Me: I know, right? Doing that would be the equivalent of a guy who is going bald resorting to the comb-over to try and hide it. Only losers try the comb-over for forty years. I'm not dying my hair.

And the heart beats in its cage

Friend: You still at the office?

Me: Yeah. I probably will be until around 7 tonight. Unless I decide to go to the gym. I probably should do the latter. Work off this flab that seems to want to accumulate on various parts of my body.

Friend: The old man is starting to catch up huh?

Me: Catch up? I think he's taken over. Completely.

Friend: Welcome to the old man club my brotha!!!

Me: I don't want to be in the old man club. That means I'll have to start hanging out in locker rooms and talking to people while I'm naked*. Isn't that what all old men do?







*This idea fresh in my mind after reading 2 Dollar Productions the other day.

You can't go back and see it the way you saw it then, nobody can

You'd think that I would've had enough of the great outdoors with my mountain biking trip last weekend, but one of my friends is moving to Alaska on Friday and she wanted to hike to top of a nearby mountain. How can I say no to that?

Here are some of the pictures I took while on the trail.

Some fall colors:




On the forest floor:


Some gnarly roots:


Meadow on the ridgeline:


Dead wood:


Steep cliffs:


If there's one thing people have always been good at, it's leaving their garbage lying around:


The summit that we wouldn't make it to:


Because of this:


It wasn't so much the rain, but the thunder we were hearing that made us turn back. We didn't want to be the stupid hikers that got struck by lightning. It was probably for the best as I was so sore I could hardly get out of bed this morning. It was apparently too much for an old man like me to do in one day (we hiked ~15 miles with a 4000 foot increase in elevation). Still, it was totally worth it. Next time, I'll make it to the summit.

Don't rock bottom just listen just slow down

It might be time to give up when you try to do a little light jogging on the treadmill to help rehab your back, and you end up pulling a muscle in your calf.

I'm just sayin'.

Does anyone have Dr. Kevorkian's number?

Gray matter, gray matter, whoa oh oh oh

Lately a lot of people have been commenting on how gray my hair is going.

I prefer to think of it as gaining natural highlights.

Is this explosion gonna' set me reelin'?

Since I hurt my back, everyone's been treating me like a porcelain doll. This is probably due to my incessant whining and complaining about it, but still, I'm not that fragile.

The other day I was sitting in a chair with a hinged back. You know, the kind that lets you lean back even though all four legs are on the floor. I wanted to stretch my back out, so I leaned back as far as I could. It freaked one of my friends out because she was worried I was going to hurt myself.

Her: Don't do that.
Me: Don't do what? This?

Then I leaned back again.

Her: Oh. I didn't realize you were sitting in a chair like that. I thought you were leaning back on two legs.
Me: Oh, you mean like this?

Then I really did lean back on the chair.

Her: Don't DO that!
Me: What are you, my mother?
Her (assuming a karate stance): I will make you bleed mother fucker.

Yup. Just like Mom used to say.

If only I don't bend and break

I hurt my back over the Thanksgiving holiday. A few years ago I had back surgery to remove a portion of a herniated disc that was compressing my sciatic nerve, and it feels like I've re-aggravated the same part of the nerve. At first I was hoping it was something that would go away, but after a week with no improvements I went to see a doctor about it. The doctor said that he didn't think I'd herniated the disc again, but that I'd pulled a muscle, the inflammation of which was probably just pinching the nerve. He prescribed some steroids, an anti-inflammatory agent, a muscle relaxer and told me to take those and heat it for twenty minutes twice a day and to come back and see him in a week.

I took the pills as prescribed, but there were no real improvements over the past week. I had a follow up appointment scheduled with him on Thursday, but it got bad enough that I went back today. He was off, so I got a different doctor. She had a different opinion. She thinks that I've re-injured the same part of my back that I had surgery on before, and she sent me to get an MRI this afternoon. Luckily, I was able to get right in for an appointment.

While I was in the waiting room at the radiologist an elderly couple walked in. They were probably in their sixties, and the man was definitely having some trouble walking. As he limped through the office and into the bathroom I felt sorry for him. However, my empathy was short lived, narcissitic as I am, and I thought "I hope that's not me in thirty years."

Then the thought occurred to me: "Wait, that's me now."

Life sucks.

Sense of security, like pockets jingling, midlife crisis

Me: I had my mid-life crisis early. It happened when I was 24 years old. Does that mean I get to have another one?

Guy: No. That just means you're going to die early.

Me: There's nothing I can do about it?

Guy: Nothing.

Me: Well, I have a friend who started going through what she called a quarter-life crisis at 23.

Guy: Then she'll live to be 92.

Me: So, if I'd called mine a quarter-life crisis, I'd live to be 96?

Guy: Yes. But you didn't. You said mid-life.

Me: I can't go back and retroactively change it to a quarter life crisis?

Guy: Nope. You're screwed. Dead at 48.

Me: That sucks.

And so it is, just like you said it would be, life goes easy on me most of the time

Last night I played shuffleboard for the first time in my life. It wasn't the version where we stood on the deck of a cruise ship as there's an overall lack of cruise ships here in town, but a smaller version that can fit along the edge of a wall in a pub. I don't know if I can say I've truly lived until last night. Ok, that might be taking it a bit far, but it was fun.

This is the first time I've hung out with the people I was playing with since the big horseshoe tournament a few weeks ago. I told one of them that we should get together and play horseshoes again too. She said that she knew of a park that had horseshoe pits, so we could have a picnic and play soon. I told her that it sounded like a good idea and to make it happen. I know, I know. Horseshoes? Shuffleboard? You're probably wondering when the incontinence is going to set in.

It just did.

Alzheimer's too.

Now what was I talking about again? Oh yes, Bocce Ball. I was introduced to the game by a friend of mine while I was working on my master's degree. He was working on his Ph D then, and like all good graduate students, we spent an inordinate amount of time doing things completely unrelated to our work, like seeing who could play Sherlock and hold the record for solving a puzzle in the least amount of time (that would be me). But I digress. When a nice spring day would roll around it was pretty much mandatory that we go outside and strike up a game of Bocce Ball. It's been years since I've played that game too, but someone was talking about it the other day.

Him: You know another fun game you should try is Bocce.

Me: I love that game! I need to get a set of balls so I can play again.

Him: I don't think you can buy them, you pretty much have to be born with them.

Me: Well, I used to have some, but my ex-wife kept them when we split up.

Him: Wait. Did you just say that your ex-wife took your balls?

Me: Indeed I did.

I think he and I were talking about two completely different things.

Tied the knot that broke my fall

I tweaked my back playing basketball the other day and it's been sore ever since. Back pain is nothing new to me, in fact I experience it a little too regularly. If I was a smart man, I'd start doing exercises to strengthen my core. Then again, I never claimed to be a smart man.

(You should know that it was on a play where I blocked another guy's shot - if for no other reason than it makes me sound more cool than I really am and helps me feel better about my life)

While we were playing, one of the guys on the other team made a tough shot. I told him that it was the kind of shot that would have had the crowd chanting his name if we weren't playing in an empty gym.

As soon as I said that I realized something. One of the things I'd like to have happen before I die is to hear a crowd chanting my name. Once I said that to the guys I was playing with, my friend added, "and hopefully it's not at a public hanging."

Hopefully not, but that would technically fulfill the requirement and I could hang in peace.

You know I'd even learn to cut my throat if I thought I could fit in

About a week ago, a friend's brother came to town for the weekend. They spent the first few nights doing some of the more typical "Vegas" things such as cruising around in a limo to see the sights, seeing one of the shows on the strip, etc. By Saturday night they just wanted to take it easy, especially since his brother's flight was early Sunday morning, so they decided on having a little get together at my friend's house that night.

Now, for a completely different subject that ties in later in this paragraph, I have a pair of shorts that I like to wear on days when I'm not planning on seeing anyone. I've had them for a while, and there's an atrocious rip under one of the back pockets, so my ass basically hangs out, but I can't bring myself to throw them away. I had them on that morning because I was supposed to meet my friend and his brother at the pool earlier in the day and figured it wouldn't matter because I would just be changing into my bathing suit then. I thought I would just shower and change between the pool and his house so I could show up looking somewhat presentable. At least that was the plan.

The complicating factor for the day was that I nearly forgot about a meeting I was supposed to go to at noon. I didn't remember about the meeting until after I'd left the house to grab a few things from the office. I went straight to the meeting from the office, even though I was wearing my assless shorts (hey, at least they're not leather chaps). The meeting ran long, so by the time I'd finished there and called my friend, he and his brother were leaving the pool. He told me that the gathering at his house was still on and that I should show up around 7. I told him I would.

Of course, then I decided to do a favor for another friend, then she and I started talking about stuff and next thing I knew it was past time for me to have been at my friend's house. I still hadn't showered or changed clothes, the first of which I was able to take care of at my friend's house before we left (I even used some of her spray on deodorant), but the assless shorts were still on. I decided that it didn't really matter, so we just went to the party. Sure I didn't get there until 2 1/2 hours after I said I would, but that's just how I roll. I'm a lot like Paris Hilton in that respect.

While at the party I made some comment about the huge hole in the back of my shorts. My friend's brother replied, "You know what else is wrong with those shorts? They're denim." Another guy added, "Yeah. That's so 1990's."

I want to make it clear that I only have a few pairs of denim shorts, but not all of them are old and ratty. In fact, I believe I bought a few as recently as last summer. I really didn't know that they were officially "out of style" until that night last week.

Now I know I'm fucking old.

1000 years old, sure you think that's old, 1000 years old, but what do you know?

The other day I was driving somewhere with a girl. It was the first time she'd seen me since my last haircut.

Her: Did you get highlights?
Me: No.
Her: What's that color I see then? [she points to my temple]
Me: That would be my gray hair.
Her: Wow, you're getting old.
Me: Thanks. I wasn't aware of that.

That's one prerequisite to becoming a dirty old man though, so at least I have that to look forward to.

So what if it is genetic?

Female Friend: I'm going to be cutting back on the amount of sugar I eat.

Me (sarcastically): Why, because you're so fat?

Female Friend: Because it's just not healthy.

Me: I should cut back, but I'm not that worried about it, at least not until I end up with Adult Onset (Type II) Diabetes. I guess that's likely considering the amount of sugar I eat.

Male Friend: I don't know. I think they're saying that's all bullshit. It's not just about how much sugar you eat, it's more about having a bad diet in general. It messes with your blood chemistry.

Me: I heard once that it's about a certain ratio. You know, once you pass a certain girth for your height you become susceptible.

Female Friend: Really?

Me: I think so. I knew a guy who got scared because he knew someone else who got it, and that's what that guy's doctor said, so the guy I knew went on a diet and lost a bunch of weight.

Male Friend: It's all about the spare tire. I'm getting a good start on mine.

Me: Yeah, me too.

Female Friend: Not me. All I've got is the fuckin' female pooch. God damn uterus or some shit.

Spoken like a true lady.

I've never had to knock on wood, but I know someone who has, it makes me wonder if I should

A few days ago I did something to my foot. I have no idea what I did to it, but it started hurting one afternoon and got to the point where I could hardly walk. The next day showed no improvement and so I decided to go to the doctor and have it looked at. The doctor was very helpful. She came in the room and asked me what I had done:

Me: "I don't know, it just started hurting yesterday and now I can hardly walk."
Her: "Take your shoes off and walk around for me."
Me: "Ok."

Then I started limping around the room.

Her: "It looks like you can't walk very well on it. Can you stand on your tip-toes?"
Me: "No."
Her: "Can you try?"
Me: "Ok."

Then I made a feeble attempt to stand on my toes, and failed.

Her: "It doesn't look like you can do that either. Well, I can't really tell you what's wrong. It may be a fracture of one of your metatarsels, but usually that's on the top of the foot. I'll have to send you out for X-rays to make sure you haven't broken anything. Get that done and we'll go from there. Until then I'll give you an anti-inflammatory to take."

I'm glad we had to go through the motions so that I could prove to her that I really couldn't walk very well, or stand on my toes. Certainly there was a chance I didn't know what I was talking about when I told her that I couldn't do those things.

It's times like these that I'm confident that I'm at least as capable as at least 90% of the doctors out there. I could have told you that you wouldn't be able to tell anything just by looking at it, but I can't just prescribe myself an X-ray now can I? I can read a flow chart of symptoms as well an anybody, but instead I get to pay $40 to find out something I already know: there's something wrong with my foot, but we can't tell what it is.

I got X-rays the next day, but still haven't seen the results. My foot feels a little better, so I'm optimistic that it's not a fracture. A friend of mine thinks it's plantar fasciatus, but I'm hoping it's just a deep bruise instead.

One thing is certain though: I hate getting old.

Coachella

A few nights ago I went and saw a movie about the Coachella music festival. It was a one time showing, but I had to go because I've wanted to go to Coachella the past few years and never had the time or money. It certainly wasn't the same as going to the festival itself, for one thing, the music wasn't loud enough.

While looking around at the crowd I realized a few things. I was easily one of the oldest people in the theater (even among my group of friends). For a while I thought I might be the oldest, but then a few 50 year olds walked in and saved me from that. Maybe it's time to give up the dream and grow up a little (on second thought, nah).

A couple came in late and sat down next to me. I thought it was funny because they made sure it was the guy who sat next to me. I'm not quite sure what to think about that, but it probably means that I look like the kind of guy who would have hit on her throughout the movie. Who knows, maybe I would have.

30 going on 60

I've often said that mentally I am much younger than my actual age, but physically much older. This is because I still think like a teenager, but have the body of an old man. This was verified this weekend when I threw out my back because I was coughing too hard. I haven't been able to walk very well for two days. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to see my doctor about getting a pacemaker installed, and to find out where we're at on scheduling that hip replacement.