It is now Tuesday, December 27th. I have just emerged from the funk I’ve been in for the past four days. Naida and I just watched Dick Cavett’s program on PBS, where he discussed his friendship with Groucho Marx. It wasn’t a life-changing work of art, but it was cute, funny, and endearing enough to lift me out of the depression I had fallen into last week.
“Getting older is no problem. You just have to live long enough.”
- Groucho Marx
Speaking of getting older, Billy Crystal once said:
“In your sixties, you have a major surgery, the music is still loud but it doesn’t matter because you can’t hear it anyway. In your seventies, you and your spouse retire to Fort Lauderdale, you start eating dinner at two, lunch around ten, breakfast the night before. And you spend most of your time wandering around malls looking for the ultimate in soft yogurt…”
And in your eighties, you spend your evenings sitting on the sofa watching Antiques Roadshow.
So, what can I recall from the past four or five days? Well, Saturday was Christmas Eve. During the day, I mostly researched the nation’s federal budget deficit. I had written a relatively popular blog post (among the 10 or so people who read my blog) about which political party was most responsible for the debt based on their control of the presidency. I thought it would be interesting to examine the percentage growth by administration per year and explore the impact of recurring events such as wars, tax reductions, economic crises, and so on, on the deficit.
In the evening, we went to Naida’s daughter Jennifer’s house for Christmas Eve. It was enjoyable. We had a delicious dinner prepared by Jennifer’s French husband, who is a bit of a gourmet. The baked ham was the best I’ve ever tasted, and he also made his own bread, which surpassed anything one could find in a store. We sang Christmas carols and exchanged presents.
On Christmas Day, we did little more than open presents and sit around the house. My grandsons, Anthony and Aaron, bought us a large-screen TV to replace our smaller one. Now we won’t have to get up and move closer to the screen to read the dialogue. The written contemporaneous dialogue box is necessary for us since, even with our hearing aids turned up to the maximum, we often struggle to understand what is being said. This is especially true when the speaker is using British English. As Winston Churchill reputedly said, Britain and the United States are “two nations divided by a common language.”
That evening, Maryann and George arrived after spending a few days with their children and their spouses in the Bay Area. They spent the night with us before leaving in the morning to drive to Carnelian Bay in Lake Tahoe for a few days of snow time with Maryann’s daughter, Katie, and her husband.
After they left on Monday morning, I spent most of the day working on some legal problems for Terry.
Now it’s Wednesday, and I spoke to Hayden this morning. He was really excited about building a larger aquarium than he had ever done before. He also mentioned that he had used the miniature Leatherman multi-tool I had given him for Christmas. He was pleased with it, and he said it was perfect for the small projects he enjoys working on.
Later, I spoke with my cousin Lou Bronico over the phone. He currently resides in Eastchester, NY. Lou, who is two or three years older than me, is my favorite cousin and has always been a spry and good-natured character. Although we have been communicating through email, it has been over fifty years since we last spoke in person. During that time, Lou would periodically send me jokes that he found funny, and some of them actually were. As a pharmacist, perhaps he sampled his own wares now and then, which could account for his perennial good nature. One of the jokes he sent me goes like this:
“Old-Age Problems… Three Elderly Golfers: Three elderly golfers were walking down the fairway. The 60-year-old said, ‘Sixty is the worst age to be. You always feel like you have to pee, and most of the time, nothing happens.’ The 70-year-old replied, ‘Ah, that’s nothing. When you’re 70, you don’t have a bowel movement anymore. You take laxatives, eat bran, sit on the toilet all day, and nothing happens.’ The 80-year-old chimed in, ‘Actually, eighty is the worst age of all.’ The 60-year-old asked, ‘Do you have trouble peeing too?’ The 80-year-old responded, ‘No, I pee every morning at 6:00 am. I pee like a racehorse; no problem at all.’ The 60-year-old asked, ‘Do you have trouble having a bowel movement?’ The 80-year-old replied, ‘No, I have one every morning at 6:30 am.’ Perplexed, the 60-year-old said, ‘Let’s get this straight. You pee every morning at 6:00 am and crap every morning at 6:30 am. So, what’s so tough about being 80?’ The 80-year-old said, ‘I don’t wake up until seven.'”
I often wonder about the person who sends me jokes like that, especially someone like Lou, whose father was one of the engineers involved in developing the Hubble Space Telescope.
One of my earliest memories is when I was still in diapers, playing with Lou and his brother Alex. On that day, I accidentally let out a loud fart. (There may even be a photograph of that legendary event somewhere.) Lou immediately announced to everyone, including my parents and the other adults and children present, that I had farted. I was incredibly embarrassed, and from that day on, I conditioned myself to only release silent farts in public. This commitment remained a significant part of my life until my seventies when I realized that I no longer cared if anyone considered me a smelly old bastard, and I resumed farting as nature intended.
Now Lou and I are planning a trip to Italy together next autumn, assuming we are still alive. I’ll save the fart jokes for when we return.
Afterwards, I went upstairs to prepare for the day. However, as usual, I decided to take a few moments to lie in bed and browse through my phone. Time slipped away, and it was already after 5 PM when I finally returned downstairs for dinner. I spent most of the evening reading the third book in the Bastards of Pizzofalcone series. I promised myself that tomorrow would be a better and more productive day.
Now it’s Sunday, New Year’s Day of 2023. Four days have passed since my last entry. Usually, when there is such a gap, it means a complete blackout in my memory. However, let’s see what fragments I can recall.
I remember nothing about Thursday. On Friday, Naida’s son dropped by and stayed the night before continuing his journey to wherever he was heading next. He had spent one night after Christmas at a nearby Motel 6 but had to leave due to bed bugs. He showed us some welts from their bites. He asked for advice, and I suggested writing negative reviews of the motel on various internet rating sites and filing a complaint with the local health department. I even had the ridiculous idea of searching for attorneys who specialized in bed bug cases. To my surprise, I found a firm right here in Sacramento called Bowman and Associates that proudly claimed expertise in Employment Law, Personal Injury, Family Law, Landlord Tenant, Estate Planning, and Bed Bugs. I attended law school many years ago, and I don’t recall a course in Bed Bug Law. I wonder if something has changed in the education of lawyers over the years. It turns out there are several “bed bug lawyers” in California, with one in Southern California even declaring himself “The World’s #1 Bed Bug Lawyer.” It seems my not-so-lamented profession has become even more insectoid.
Later, my sister Maryann and her husband George dropped by on their way from Tahoe to Richmond to pick up her dog’s feeding bowl, which they had left behind when they spent the night with us a few days ago.
On New Year’s Eve morning, I worked on my memo to the Gogster. At 7 PM, we attended the Nepenthe New Year’s Eve party. Due to heavy rain, we decided to drive there. Most of the attendees were the regulars from the Saturday Morning Coffee, and like Naida and me, they were well beyond their “use by” date. I chatted with a few people, wandered around, and sampled various plates of nibbles placed on the tables (some were quite good). Eventually, we sat down to watch a game they had prepared. Each participant had a sheet of paper resembling a bongo card, with questions in each square. The questions revolved around experiences like living in Campus Commons for over 25 years or having traveled to over 10 countries. The objective was to go around the room, speaking to everyone and finding individuals who had those specific experiences. Naida, of course, finished first. After the game, she continued her usual rounds, smiling and talking to everyone. One woman would occasionally approach her, hug and kiss her, and rub her back, but then she would look at me and scowl. I suppose it’s geriatric homoeroticism of some kind. Later, Naida played the piano, and we all sang along.
Just before 9 PM, we all gathered in front of a large movie screen to watch the TV program from Times Square in New York. It was the perfect solution for us old folks on the West Coast. The ball drops in Times Square, and then we can celebrate and head back home for a good night’s sleep. However, this year was different. For some reason, the networks decided to delay showing the ball drop on the West Coast until midnight. We were all shocked and disappointed. The minutes ticked by in silence, and around seven minutes after nine, someone said, “Well, we might as well… Happy New Year, everyone!” So, we began shouting, kissing, and singing for a while before saying our goodbyes and heading home for a restful night’s sleep. And that’s how Naida and I welcomed the new year of 2023.
On New Year’s Day, I watched the 49ers game, which was a close and exciting match that they won. That’s all I remember about that day. On Tuesday, I recall sleeping for most of the day and receiving the nice coat I had bought for Naida as a Christmas gift. That night, or rather early the following morning, I had a troubling dream.
I am a vivid dreamer, often aware that I’m dreaming and capable of waking myself up if the dream becomes too distressing. In many of my dreams, I find myself facing a group of people, and I have to decide whether to fight or run. I always choose to fight and begin punching and kicking. Sometimes, I even act out the fight physically. There have been occasions when my punches have landed on Naida, but she has learned to recognize the signs—my body shaking and writhing—and wakes me up before I start throwing punches, or she simply moves out of reach. She finds it amusing now.
However, last night’s dream was different. I was much younger in the dream and had gone to the seashore with my friend Dick and our respective girlfriends. We each had separate rooms, and Dick had driven us there in his car. He asked me to make sure I had some money saved so that if he had spent all of his, we could still afford to go back home. The day before we were set to leave, the resort had a peculiar shark performance. Many sharks swam near the shore, and we were able to enter the water and play with them as if they were dolphins. Afterward, when I returned to my room, I found a shark inexplicably present. Strangely, it seemed to be dying from being out of the water for so long. I picked it up and ran out of the motel, across the sand, and back into the water. The shark was heavy, and I could only carry it to the water’s edge before dropping it, with its head in the water and its tail on the sand. It didn’t seem to be reviving. At that moment, my other consciousness—the one that knows I’m dreaming—began laughing, recognizing the erotic symbolism in those images. I thought to myself that I was too old for such things. Suddenly, I was drawn back into the dream as I witnessed the shark I tried to save being viciously attacked and devoured by other sharks. I was horrified and felt utterly helpless.
Later, Dick came by, and we walked onto a bridge that spanned the beach and the water. We eventually sat down on the bridge, and Dick informed me that he had spent all his money and depended on me to have at least $10 left so we could drive home. I quickly checked my pockets but found no money. Dick was distressed. Then someone else joined us, a person I didn’t recognize. Feeling guilty, I checked my pockets again, and this time, I found some money. As I continued searching, I discovered more and more cash until I had to tie it all together with a rubber band into a large bundle. Dick was happy. He said, “Let’s go back,” and he jumped up. In doing so, he unknowingly kicked the bundle of cash off the bridge and into the water. We exclaimed, “Oh my God!” together as we watched the bundle fall. It drifted deeper into the water. Suddenly, Dick jumped off the bridge. We observed him falling, and it took a long time for him to splash down. Meanwhile, the money continued to drift deeper until we couldn’t see it or Dick anymore. We waited and waited, realizing that he had drowned. I began screaming and screaming, but it wasn’t a high-pitched scream as I had expected; instead, it was a low, thunderous growl, each scream lasting one breath. It grew louder and louder until I realized I must be shouting aloud and would wake Naida, so I forced myself to wake up and looked over at her. She was still asleep, snoring softly. The slats on the windows allowed a bit of morning light to filter through. I checked my phone, and it was 7:30 AM. I rolled onto my back and lay there for over an hour, feeling exhausted, terrified, and stunned.
Eventually, I managed to get up and go downstairs to prepare breakfast. Naida and the dog joined me. We sat on the sofa, ate our breakfast, and Naida turned on the TV. We watched the movie “Sophie’s Choice.” I found it rather depressing, but Naida didn’t see it that way. She believed Sophie and her lover had realized their lives were filled with pain, horror, and sadness, and they chose to die together, finding solace in each other’s arms.
On the other hand, I’ve never been a fan of death, regardless of the circumstances. I can understand pain, both giving and receiving, but not death.
Speaking of sharks and for no other reason that to remove it from my overcrowded list of memorable quotations here is one from a series of novels that I believe I enjoyed but remember nothing about.
“A fanciful and unrealistic approach to the laws of probability makes people try their luck in situations that have nothing to do with luck – be it personal relationships or making a quick buck. For this reason, I didn’t gamble in any way, shape or form. To me it was like swimming in a pool half filled with sharks: though the sharks only took up half the pool, it was still their pool:”
Tuomainen, Antti. The Rabbit Factor (Rabbit Factor Trilogy) (pp. 77-78). Orenda Books.
The day continued, and it was already afternoon. I thought it was time to go back upstairs, get dressed, and face the day, despite its cold, gray, and dismal nature. Later, we lay on the bed for a while. I drifted off while Naida shared stories about the authorship business.
The remainder of Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday are a blur in my memory. I vaguely recall spending most of one of those days on the phone with United Health Care, attempting to find a Primary Care Physician. I also watched several Speaker of the House of Representatives votes, witnessing the Crazy Caucus of the Republican Party extracting concessions from McCarthy and then not voting for him. It seems they have inadvertently pushed moderate Republicans into finding common ground with Democrats. The days outside were dark, rainy, and dismal, so we mostly stayed indoors.
On Thursday, while watching the 9th and 10th Speakership votes and experiencing extreme boredom, I drifted into various states of consciousness, ranging from slack-jawed drooling to barely sentient. At one point, I reflected on the most impressive political leaders I’ve met and spoken with, including Bobby Kennedy, Bill Clinton, Nancy Pelosi, Ann Richards, and Willy Brown. Jerry Brown, whom I consider to be California’s greatest governor, wasn’t as impressive in person or during a dinner conversation, although those encounters were still interesting and amusing. I liked Jimmy Carter, but I found his wife more intriguing. Arnold Schwarzenegger was a self-centered show-off, and Ronald Reagan was a pleasant party guest, but there wasn’t much beyond that.
That night, I had a dream about a movie starring Lana Turner and Jean-Paul Belmondo. I can’t recall many details now on this Friday evening as I write, but it involved them traveling back in time from the present day to the 1940s and 50s and having short, interesting adventures. I enjoyed the dream so much that when I woke up, I immediately wrote down the names Turner and Belmondo so I wouldn’t forget them. I promised myself that I would go downstairs and include the dream in this post. However, I got sidetracked, and now the memory of the dream has vanished. It’s a shame because I’ve always believed that our dreams are as much a part of our life experience as our recollections of waking moments. After all, reality is merely our brain’s interpretation of the energy signals stimulating our nerves.
Today is Friday, and I had my weekly lunch with Hayden, which, as always, was enjoyable. We discussed his future, shared laughter, and ate pizza at Nugget Supermarket. I left him some information about Antioch College, prepared by Barrie, who I believe sits on their board.
Tomorrow morning, we overslept and missed the Saturday Morning Coffee gathering. Naida spent some time playing the piano while I wrote here. However, I haven’t been feeling well today, experiencing a pulsing sensation in my head as if my blood is rushing into my brain. My congenital hypochondria led me to consult the internet to determine the likelihood of still being alive by the end of the day. The search suggested I may be suffering from chronic intracranial hypertension, with symptoms such as a constant throbbing headache that worsens in the morning or when coughing or straining, temporary loss of vision, feeling and being sick, feeling sleepy, feeling irritable, among others. Naturally, after reading this, I convinced myself that I must be suffering from this condition.
Further research indicated possible causes, including hypoparathyroidism (which I have and receive treatment for) and iron deficiency (which I also have but haven’t been consistent in treating with supplements). The article recommended consulting a doctor for tests, but with the complexities of medical insurance at the beginning of the year, finding a new Primary Care Physician quickly is challenging. So, for now, I’ve taken my medication and have enjoyed a shower for its psychological and aesthetic benefits. I even took a nap, which took up more than two hours. Unfortunately, I don’t feel any better than before. I suppose I should move on to other tasks now.
Papa Joe's Tales, Fables and Parables 