Golden Years

90, breathing hard on, God willing, 91.

Waking up at 5:30 from an oldster's fitful so called sleep, feeling like shit but thinking of Dean Martin's unforgettable line, ‘knowing that it was as bad as I was going to feel all day'.

My number one thing to do, after getting dressed for my day in the trenches of trying to feel optimistic is to check the obits of the NYT and SF Chronicle on line, to see if I'm still alive. 'So far so good' as the guy who jumped off of a 50 story building said as he passed the 30th floor on the way down.

Being inspired with the knowledge that I'm still alive, and touching my toes for a stretch plus doing a wall crawl for posture, gets me going into the kitchen to make a healthy, but really boring, fucking breakfast.

Fresh fruit smoothie, raisin toast, at least 3 cups of coffee plus the inevitable oldster pills. My thyroid, diuretic and sinus pills plus vitamin supplements round out the breakfast.

By then the newspapers have arrived and links that my friends might care about start going out. My friends probably cringe when my name shows up and think that 'here is that old son of a bitch again'. Every once, in a long while, a 'thank you shows' up on my screen.

Then the diuretic pill kicks in and awhizzing I must go. When you're 90 'holding it in' is not an option. 'Holding it in' means an underwear change. Drip, drip, drip or go to the head are my choices.

And if my schlong could get as stiff as the rest of me, sex would, gratefully, come back into my life. And pigs will fly.

It isn't erectile dysfunction that attacks my schlong. It's old age dysfunction. As Willie Nelson so famously said, "I'm sorry that my dick died before the rest of me". Golden years? The inventor of that line must have been 25 years old. Golden Years at 90? Yeah, my lower case bronx, jewish, fat ass.

My Golden Years started in my callow youth and ended in my late 70's. Those in between years including the ones in the service were, in retrospect, my Golden Years . I was a profligate spender my entire life.

Spent on my family, my friends and certainly myself. I was always certain that I could replace the considerable amount of money that I spent every day. And replace it I did into my late 70's. I loved every minute of giving it away and spending it.

The first sign of the end of my Golden Years came when my dick started to die. I went from hookers galore, loose and easy, to a once in awhile triumph of being able to do it. Hookers, as I have often said, were wonderful. For a few hundred dollars, I got to fall in love for a half an hour a time. I didn't have to make any conversation and the burden of proof was never on me. And when it was over she was gone. No cuddling!!

My decline during my Golden Years became really apparent when pictures of naked, beautiful young women with big boobs (aka tits) were boring. Then when people started asking me if I was retired, I knew that my Golden Years had, for the most part, ended. Living those Golden Years believing that moderation is fatal and plenty fucking boring as well was wonderful. Very little done in excess is very little done.

Trying to do good for doing's sake, not to generate a reward has, to this day, been a turn on for me. Touching people's lives has always been an important goal...

Putting myself under the gun (as in spending more than I made) provided the impetus (aka adrenaline rushes) that I needed to keep me in money making motion. Being fucking stress addicted is in my DNA.

So here I am, almost 70 years after taking one on Okinawa, as happy as a pig in shit with at least 70 Golden Years and a Purple Heart. The last five years haven't been too swift, but with 75 Golden Years out of 9o total years my life has been more than just okay. Happy as the proverbial pig in shit or a clam in mud.

I often wonder what happens to a 40 year old ex-hooker. Probably marries an old man with very little, if any, interest in sex.