The fog is gone; no ice or rocks or overturned cars to interrupt your drive. Of note, however, is the fact that today you may spot a deceased deer on the shoulder (out of the lanes, not a current hazard, just a minor curiosity), just a little downhill from the Upper Waterman Canyon Road entrance, a reminder that in spite of this being the Southern California metropolis, we do still have vehicle- to- animal encounters to consider. Deer are plentiful, even here, but those things haven’t got a lick of sense when it comes to avoiding death by car.
If and when you do see deer in the road, your best bet is (usually) to brake as hard as is safe (as opposed to trying to swerve or slalom around them)… deer tend to panic when headlights are approaching, like a deer in the— well, you know. They run back and forth and haphazardly play the ol’ Keystone Cops/ Laurel and Hardy/ Abbott and Costello thing, even bumping into each other and tripping over nothing. They don’t have the sense to simply get out of the way… I’ve even known them to actually run into the car that has stopped for them… really.
So, I recently had a birthday, one of the “milestones.” I don’t want to give away too many details regarding that number, as some young whippersnapper identity thief may use it against me… let’s just say my age now rhymes with, “nifty,” a word that no youngster has ever used. “Nifty” goes along with polyester pants (pulled up over the navel), quadfocals, and driving like a grandpa. Wait, BEING a grandpa.
I don’t really FEEL all that old, though. My dad (God rest his soul, even if he is still alive, healthy, and doing great!) always said that there were two signs of old age: One is forgetfulness… I just don’t recall what the other thing was. But, I’m not forgetful… my mind doesn’t wander off, or even
LA County is embroiled in debate (Ha! “embroiled in debate:” The media should just make that a new, single- word verb— “embroiledindebate” —, since when discussing debates of any kind, they ALWAYS use that phrase!) regarding the implementation of a needle exchange program. I’m thinking we need one here… we get our senior center to maybe, trade needles with some knitting club in Yucaipa or something. Bam. We’re suddenly cutting edge! Suck it, whippersnappers! And get off of my lawn!
This age does bring to reflect upon all of the idiot things I’ve done in my youth. Well, by “all” I mean, perhaps the 10% or so that I can actually remember. Of course, if I ever make it to, say, 80, I’ll probably wreck my walker pounding my head against it, thinking about how foolish I was at a half- century.
I entertain the notion, too, that age, being a relative thing, may even cloud my perception of cool (or hip, or gnarly, or sick, or whatever means cool). My mid- life crisis vehicle, the (bitchin’) yellow Camaro, might appear as sporty as a Metroplitan Nash in comparison to some of the new iron being produced by Detroit, Maranello, and Coventry. Why, I still remember. Wait, where was I going with that? Oh, yes, I still remember being in third grade… I had a friend named Roger, who was practically grown- up, but still in school. He even almost had a mustache- thing on his face, which proved that as a way- old FIFTH- grader, he was basically an adult. Anyhow, my point is that age IS relative… What seems young and hip and stylish to old fogeys may seem like ancient, crusty history to young people (“young people” being defined as pre- 50ish).
I get it, though… each of us is getting older. Very few people are not a day older than they were yesterday (not counting the dead ones). There are some exceptions, of course: Benjamin Button, Ralph Macchio, and that guy from Motley Crue (kids: That was a rock band from the golden age of music), who looks younger now that he did BEFORE he “took heroin through a firehose” (his words… really). But, there’s no way I could ever get hold of a fire hose… only rock stars and firemen get those.
But, I figure as long as I can still hitch up my drawers every morning (with no hitch in my giddy-up), it beats the alternative. I figure I’ve got a few more years left, as long as I don’t do anything really stupid like darting into traffic as that deer most likely did. That’s mostly just because, well, I don’t really dart much anymore… I just do lot of something that rhymes with dart, whenever the somebody pulls my finger. It’s still hilarious, too. Maybe if I double the dosage of Geritol? Smoke it twice? Take it from a firehose?