“You’re 57, right?” my friend inquired.
“Hell no,” I replied. “Try 59. March 27, 1954.”
He didn’t believe me. Neither did I.
But it’s true — I turned 59 on Wednesday, the night of the Worm Moon, the first full moon of spring.
We didn’t make a big deal of it. Herself and I had already enjoyed our group birthday dinner out with friends. And anyway, 59 is kind of a bullshit birthday, don’t you think? I mean, it’s good to be on the right side of the lawn and all, but The Big One is a year off, and for that bad boy I want something special: a freshly cloned body to house my exquisitely twisted brain. Say, something in the mid-20s chronologically, as that’s about when I began to start showing the hard mileage.
That’s not to say I disliked my 30s, what I can remember of them. And hitting the “big” three-oh didn’t bug me at all. I got off work at The Pueblo Chieftain, had a quiet beer or two at the Irish Pub, and went home. I’ve gotten crazier than that on the job.
Forty I did not like for some unknown reason. There was a party. I was the pooper. That shit put a stop to the parties, I can tell you.
Fifty? Meh. The AARP gets you by the plums with a downhill pull and that’s that.
But 60? That’s gonna be the shiznit. You lot better start saving your pennies for my birthday body, as I expect the cloning procedure to be expensive, even with Obamacare. I’d like to have some hair in places other than my nostrils, ears and shoulders, maybe do without the vision correction, and be hung a little better, and ain’t none of that shit covered, not even for Democrats.
Mad Blog Media 
You’re ONLY 59? 60 will be even bigger than 50 for this very fat very old dog.
It ain’t the years, Usuk, it’s the mileage. I’m held together with bondo, bubblegum and baling wire.
Happy Birthday, Patrick! May your every wish come true! Before your next birthday!
Thanks, Libby. I wished real hard on Wednesday but on Thursday the GOP still had the House and a park ranger hadn’t punched Louie Gohmert. Poop.
Sixty two is the real deal. Then you qualify for the National Park geezer pass. Sweet! I even got a discount on the Duffinator from the Humane Society shelter. Sign my ass up for the ” Pets for The Elderly” program.
Speaking of the Duffinator, Patrick, have we ever seen a picture of the beast?
Here’s Duffy. Part poodle, west highland terrier, and who knows what else. Groomer think maybe some maltese too. After he crunched a mouse by the shed, we called him the Duffinator for a short time. Give a cat a run for their money when it comes to mousing.
That’s a good-lookin’ boy there. I betcha his middle name is Trouble.
Now this is a bummer, and it DID make me feel old since I am the same age as Neil.
Yeah, Herself and I stumbled over that one during coffee this morning. Your basic Daily Bummer. TOTN isn’t one of the programs Radio Colorado College broadcasts over the air (it is available on HD), but I’ve enjoyed listening to it on the road.
I’ll let you know how it feels to fall over that cliff, Patrick, since I have a three month head start. 59 passed somewhat uneventfully.
Like you, I could use that body transplant. One reason I don’t take pics of myself any more is that it costs too much to replace broken camera lenses and besides, I like the fiction of thinking I look younger than I do.
Happy 59th old buddy!
“…59 passed somewhat uneventfully…” except for being peeled off the floor of my lab building by EMTs after an unexpected case of whatever it was that had me feeling like I had just power chugged a bottle of Jack Daniels. But that was two weeks before my birthday. Sheesh…you hit 50 and the warranty runs out.
Yeah, and the spare parts get harder to find, too. Hence the clone. I’m going for a total rebuild, dammit.
Here ya go, O’G. For both of us.
Ol’ Joanie ain’t no spring chicken neither, is she? Knocking on 70, she is. An old college pal used to deride hippie chicks as “sitting in trees, making dresses out of neckties and listening to Joanie Mitchell,” but as a former Canadian (1959-62) I always liked her music.
Canada? Where did you live in Canada? That’s a part of the O’Grady history I don’t recall.
I grew up in and around Buffalo, N.Y. Back in those daze before Homeland Security Paranoia took hold, we routinely were back and forth across the border as though it wasn’t there. Yanks running up to buy Labatts and Molsons in Toronto and the Canucks wandering our way when gas was cheaper here than there.
Nowdays we actually act like Canada is some foreign country. Sad.
The old man drew duty in Ottawa for a few years, K. It was pretty cool. We got to visit Montreal and Toronto, enjoyed some real snow (unlike the sort we get around here lately) and got us some of that there furrin’ edjimacation.
They taught French starting in kindergarten, as I recall, and they determined grade level a bit differently than did the Yanks. When the old man got transferred to Randolph AFB outside San Antone, I was supposed to be in third grade but was so goddamn Canuckified and edjimacated compared to the Texicans that they jumped me straight into fourth grade.
Good God, was Texas a shock after Canada. I’ve never entirely recovered.
59’s not nothing wait till you hit the 70’s, I’ll be turning 75 next month, did I just say 75, God! what happen to the years
Seventy-five, Bro’? Good on ya. I figure that if I make it that far (the O’Grady males are legendary for their early exits) I’ll make the Crypt Keeper look like the Pillsbury Doughboy.
Congrats on staying above ground another year, Patrick! Mine was last week. I’m 3 years younger than you. 50 was very traumatic for me, but then I accepted that I’m officially Old. The last 6 B-days haven’t bothered me. The next one I’m looking forward to is 62, because then I can collect my meager Social Security benefits (if they don’t take them away) and retire for good. I might have to sell my house and start sleeping in my car to make ends meet, but I’ll be retired!
And a belated happy B-day to you, Debby. We’re gonna have to keep at least one eye on the sonsabitches in DeeCee if we intend to have a retirement that doesn’t involve selling plasma to buy a nutritious can of cat food to warm up under the hot-water tap in the flophouse sink.
Congrats! Just think of it as 39 with 20 years experience. 8)
The oldest active rider in our bike club is 91, currently pedals a recumbent trike due to balance issues. The record holder was 92 when he gave up (no recumbent trikes around then). He lasted another 10 years.
You know, we’re all going to need another generation or two of Fat Guy/Mad Dog jerseys to last us through our geezerhood. Just saying.
Patrick will probably have to change the sponsors on the next run of Old Guys jerseys. Maybe we can get Geritol, Viagra, Lipitor, AARP, ReverseMortgage.com, and Buick or Lincoln to sponsor the team.
I am going to need a new “Old Guys Who Get Fat in Winter Racing Team” jersey sooner or later. The one I have now is only worn on special occasions. How about Stryker artificail knees as a sponsor? Patrick could get some free parts for warranty work on the old bod.
You’re not gonna believe this, but I know the Strykers, kinda, sorta. Went to college with them, and one of my old roomies stays in touch. I bet we could bro’-deal us a shitload of knees, is what.
Patrick, I’ll be 64 in a month and a half. I like the Joni bit, but how about Emmy Lou Harris – she’s holding up pretty well too.
I’m still working and will be for at least two more years. When you’ve got a kid in school, there’s always something. By the way, nearly all of my bikes are older than my kid.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e-6WENNWY8c
Funny you should mention Emmylou Harris, Dale. I got to meet her ’bout a thousand years ago at a Nitty Gritty Dirt Band anniversary gig in Denver (I had friends in low places). Also met Jerry Jeff Walker (who was disgustingly sober) and John Prine (who will be playing Bibleburg in May).
Terry Gross just interviewed Emmylou and Rodney Crowell yesterday. As with most of the “Fresh Air” interviews, it’s worth a listen.
BWaahaaaa! You old farts, I laugh at you from my youthful 57 years!
Okay, wait, something just happened here, Today I drove up to the market at Matakana & felt really old, even the surfer dudes there had grey in their beards, but were several years under me.
POG, unless there’s a gentleman patting soil down on your face, it’s a good day.