Live! From Paradise! #191
January 1st, 2009I’ve officially been inducted into the hallowed halls of “Hey, Your Least-Favorite Beatles Song Now Is All About You. Whatcha gonna do, boy? Huh?”
Said least-favorite song being, of course, “When I’m Sixty-Four,” from one of my most-favorite albums, “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.”
I never liked the song because it was about — eww — old people.
And now I “r” one.
I realize that irony is in, but does the universe really have nothing better to do than get all ironic about me?
So there I was, just a few short weeks ago, face to face with my entrance into the “Do you still need me?” generation. And what did I do?
I celebrated!
Gwen the Beautiful and I spent a night out on the town in the closest city with a good restaurant, a motel room with a hot tub and the least stressful driving time of anyplace we otherwise might’ve gone.
Mountain Home, Arkansas.
Where we end up several times a week anyway because Mountain Home is the home of The Baxter Bulletin, the first newspaper to make room for this space (and even pay me a couple of dollars for it!), XL7-TV, the first TV station to give me my own talk show to write, produce, and — gulp — star in (now long gone), and the men, women and children of Mountain Home, the first human beings to accept me for who and what I am after only a minimum of arm-twisting.
We had dinner at my favorite steak house, where I had beef for the first time in six months. Not that I’ve been deliberately not eating beef. It’s just that Gwen’s been on this diet where the big evening meal often turns out to be “dahl,” a healthy, nutritious lentil dish made bearable by being served with heaps of yogurt, instead of New York steak.
Then we went back to our Hot Tub Room, where we turned on the jets and poured ourselves some champagne …
And I realized that even at the age of 64 I still don’t get the whole hot tub thing. Sitting in steaming hot, whirling and gurgling water is romantic? Or even relaxing?
How?
Back when I lived the life of live-in housekeepers and back-yard swimming pools Gwen was able to talk me into dunking myself into our hot tub exactly once. It was an experience from which I barely escaped with my steaming skin.
I steamed and barely staggered out on my birthday night in Mountain Home, too. And found myself wonderfully comforted by the mental refrain, “It didn’t work for you when you were young, either. It didn’t work for you when you were young.”
When I was young?
Caramba!
Still, a quick inventory shows that I’m not doing as badly as some.
Physically, I’m pretty much the same as I ever was. The only signs of advancing years are that I miss some high-frequency sounds (usually when Gwen’s talking to me), and I and others around me would be a lot safer if I wore my glasses more than I do.
Mentally, I’m still pretty rational and remember most of what I used to remember. (I think. How would I know?) I also find myself continually planning for the future. Filled with ambitions for projects that could take 20 years to come to fruition. When this happens, I catch myself with a “Wait! Why am I bothering?” and immediately remember, “This is who I am. I plan. I hope. I dream.”
I’ll always plan, hope, dream.
Or so I’m planning, hoping and dreaming.
Spiritually, I’m both more centered and more adrift than ever before. I hear the universe less than I used to, but my loved ones in the world around me come in loud and clear.
Gwen and the kids consider it well worth the trade. And I agree.
As my 65th year gets into gear, I find myself keenly aware of how grateful I am for everything that’s come my way. The good. The indifferent. Even the bad. It’s all been an amazing adventure. Everything that happens around and to me fills me with a sense of awe and inspires me to stronger and, I hope, higher plans, hopes and dreams.
And so, universe, on this the first day of a New Year, I salute you, and send you, and everyone within you, my heartfelt thanks.
Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer and creative director of Cloud Creek Institute for the Arts. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Originally published January 1, 2009