Mister Comedy

So I’ve finally gotten old enough to get away with being cranky. See I’ve always been cranky, but now that I’m almost fifty, I realize I’m gonna start getting cut slack for being a cranky old guy. I can now be the guy in line muttering angry shit about–anything. I can pull it off now, because I look the part. You have to age into crankiness–it’s like smoking a pipe–a twenty-five year old with a pipe just looks pretentious and–well, wrong.

And why do feel so oddly empowered? Why do I suddenly look the part? Because now I walk with a freakin’ cane! Now I’m not thrilled that my marathon-running days are over (before they could even start–tragic), but there’s a plus side. The other day I hobbled onto a train and proceeded to tell the teenager (who was, I might add, terribly unkempt) to get his feet off the seat in front of him. And he did! So testing my newfound license to scold, I strongly suggested that the kids in the back should quiet down, and they did!

But for the best example of the power of the cane–I was crossing the street last week, and noticed a couple of young guys in one of their…hot-rod jalopies. They didn’t see me, and clearly had no intention of stopping before the crosswalk. So I let them pull all the way into the crosswalk, walked to the driver’s side window, planted my cane and yelled ‘this is a crosswalk, punk!” They looked very frightened. They backed up, waited for me to cross, and then drove away (at the speed limit, I might add).  Now in that moment, they were probably cursing me, but I guarantee that they will remember the insane old dude the next time they come to a rolling stop. And that’s the beauty part, people. I call it freelance social engineering.

This is all very cool, and almost offsets the fact that my body is breaking down at an alarming rate. Yesterday I got out of the chair at my desk and thought ‘I’ve been sitting too long.’ YOU CAN’T SIT TOO LONG! Sitting isn’t an activity! I’ve actually said ‘Oy–my hip’–trust me, when you use Yiddish AND talk aout your hip, you’re officially old. Once when I called my friend Eugene, the first ten minutes of the conversation consisted of asking each other about each other’s various ailments.

I wear reading glasses, have digestive problems, walk with a limp ,and about three years ago I woke up one morning unable to lift my right arm. I suppose that’s something I should look into. Problem is, I don’t do the doctor thing. It’s not the actual doctor, it’s the time before the appointment. Combine an overactive imagination with the fact that I haven’t exactly treated my body like a temple (maybe a rec room? a VFW hall?) and I always think the worst. Throw in access to WebMD, and now I’m sure. But unlike most hypochondriacs, I don’t want to be proven right face to face. “Well, yes Mr. Dane, you do have a rare Sub-Saharan blood virus, and quite a nasty brain tumor as well.” “Well, glad I came by, doc. I’m very relieved.”

Side note about my cane–I actually wanted a walking stick–less, i don’t know, orthopedic looking. I’d seen some very stylish walking sticks, but then realized that I’d never seen a walking-stick store. Or walking-sticks in a store. I couldn’t imagine that everyone sporting a stick hand carved them out of branches on their back porches, so I did some searching on the web. Funny enough, the only sites I found for my walking-stick needs were pimp-related. Pimphats.com . Pimpcostumes.com . I found it interesting that, apparently, the demographic group propping up the walking-stick industry would be none other than our hard-working pimps. Turns out there’s a vast selection of stick options, including one that can (no lie) be filled with a pint of your favorite booze. Now that’s being at peace with being an alcoholic-when you don’t even bother to hide the bottle, choosing instead to guzzle directly from your pimp stick.

Anyway, I should end this now. My leg’s hurting, I need to take my Benefiber, and I’m kinda tired. Besides, my stories are on now.