Do not operate heavy equipment while reading this post

Being a writer takes purpose, a thick skin, and not least, concentration. To produce pages, I need to tune out the world and stay in the moment, focused on the story and absolutely nothing else. It makes me appreciate my grandmother’s favorite saying: “One thing at a time, and that done well, is a very good rule, as many can tell.”

I can’t imagine what she’d think of today’s vortex of tweets, texts, multitasking, and general chaos. She’d survive by drawing on the inner strength that carried her through the Depression and other very tough times. She certainly would not give a darn (her word) for self-care snake oil like this video on how to optimize your life.

After watching the thing several times, I’m still not sure if it’s a serious manifesto or a modest proposal but I’ll assume it’s real. Claiming the average person wastes 21.8 hours a week, it gushes, “This six minute video could add years to your life,” and offers various cures. Example: “If you order your coffee while you’re still at the gym, you can pick it up on your way to work practically without having to stop.” What if the place is busy or the barista accidentally gives you—shudder—decaf? You might lose five or ten whole minutes that you could’ve spent on something vital, like learning Ukrainian.

“Read a book while you cook, but not the whole book. There are services now that actually just give you the short version of the book. Same info, way less time.” Try reading a dictionary, pal. “Shorter” ≠ “Same.” It’s “A Tale of Two Cities,” not “A Tale of Two Townships.”

Finally, there’s this, which reads like the writer is on diet pills: “At the gym, check your emails on the bike while drinking a meal replacement shake with an added shot of MCT oil to stabilize the glucose in your bloodstream and prevent you from getting hungry until dinner or maybe ever again. You’re saving time and feeling great. And when you save time and feel great, you’re going to have more time and energy to plan out how to save more time and feel even better.”

This isn’t just snake oil, it’s a pyramid scheme. You multitask and keep one step ahead and plan how to multitask better and keep two steps ahead and plan more efficiently and get three steps ahead and cram more activity into each day and and optimize every last second. The treadmill never stops, let alone takes you to the top of the pyramid.

I’m not saying we should be slackers. All my life, I’ve tried to do each job a little better every day. I worked at being healthier too, because my family has a history of heart attack and stroke. But when I’m off the clock, whether at 5:00 or 9:00 or 3:00 the next morning, I’m done, son. My idea of optimizing is sitting on the porch with friends, listening to music, and drinking beer. What good is adding years to your lifespan if you’ve forgotten how to spend them?

It’s a safe bet that when your optimized life nears its end, you won’t pine for videos and MCT. You will slowly turn your head toward the window and notice the colors of the new grass and the morning sky. You’ll hear a whole gang of birds, each with its own cheerful call, and watch some kids zipping by on bikes, laughing and hooting for no particular reason. You’ll decide this would be a fine time to sit under that big tree with a real full-length book and….

“Slow down, you move too fast
You got to make the morning last
Just kicking down the cobblestones
Looking for fun and feeling groovy” – Simon and Garfunkel

Retreat from reality

Just when I’d gotten used to constantly reciting my birth date and reminding myself of my fast-advancing age, I get smacked by another warning that my game is in the late innings. And by “smacked,” friends, I mean SMACKED, like going to that fish market where they throw the fish around and catching an Alaskan halibut right in the kisser.

It seems that not only is 60 not the new 40 after all, but 35 is the new 65. That’s the drift of this article about a luxury retreat designed to help Silicon Valley types cope with fears of early geezerdom. This feeling is driven by the breakneck pace of new software and a culture that demands “a limber, associative mind and an appetite for risk — both of which lessen with age.” As a result, people in their 30s and 40s are flocking to the retreat, at $5,000 for a week.

Oh dear. Get ready for a shock: these golden children of the revolution aren’t the first ones to have this problem. People whose jobs require a limber body, like construction workers, truckers, and restaurant servers can find their livelihoods at risk long before they’re “old” enough for Medicare. Besides, women have always faced discrimination based on their looks and age, and not just in Hollywood, politics, and TV newsrooms.

One of these angst-ridden folks at the retreat said, “I watch YouTube stars and all these things, and intellectually I get it, but emotionally I just can’t connect.” So what? Twenty-five years ago I couldn’t connect with Nirvana and Pearl Jam either. The grunge bands weren’t bad or untalented. Their music just didn’t speak to me like Patti Smith, Talking Heads, U2, and before that the Beatles, the Temptations, and lots of others did. I’d gotten older. It happens. It beats the hell out of the only available option.

Maybe this is a clash between their California ethos and my Midwestern one, but to me, you don’t need a shaman to just be yourself: warts, wrinkles, reading glasses and all. And please don’t zap your face with Botox or run to the Hair Club. That’ll just make you look and feel even more decrepit, broken-down, seedy, tottering, weather-beaten, worn out, haggard, creaky, and unsound. (As I’ve said before, a thesaurus is a very useful thing.)

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to put fresh batteries in my hearing aids and update my playlist with some Lunch Duchess. I don’t know much about their music yet but they have one of the all-time great names for a rock and roll band.

An open letter to Heather

A belated Happy New Year! And how are you? It’s been a while since I heard from you, so I thought it would be a good time to talk about our relationship. This is just a friendly discussion, though if you want to be precise, you could call it an intervention. I do hope we won’t have to take things to the next level, which might include the phrase “restraining order.” But let’s get right to brass tacks, shall we?

As I said, I haven’t heard your cheery voice on my phone for some time. I so hope I haven’t somehow wounded your feelings. I know you have a very challenging — no, a demanding job. I’d go stark raving loopy if I had to dial all those numbers and sound so warm and perfectly perky. And use the exact same words and inflections on every call!

Which brings me to the crux of this little talk. As you must realize, though you’ve “reached out” to me more times than I can count, I’ve never given your proposals any positive response whatsoever. Yet you don’t seem to listen, and what’s more, you continue to contact me. My call log is chock-full of your number!

I’ve tried to get in touch with someone in your organization, just to spare you a lot of wasted  time. Despite a good bit of Googling, I can’t seem to pin down the exact “Account Services” you work for. And since we know each other well, I don’t feel it necessary to apologize for our last conversation. That exchange, if my aging mind accurately retains it, started with you saying again: “Hi, this is Heather from Account Services.”

To which yours truly responded at slightly elevated volume: “JESUS BLEEPING CHRIST ARE YOU BLEEPING KIDDING ME??????!!!!! BLEEP BLEEP BLEEP BLEEP BLEEP BLEEP!!!!!” I was grateful for a little old-fashioned technology that morning (seven a.m., wasn’t it?) because I felt compelled to emphasize my feelings by smashing the receiver of my desk phone against the base a few times. I found bits of plastic around my bedroom for months afterward. So much more satisfying than tapping “end call” on a cellphone!

To sum up: You have developed an entirely unwarranted obsession with me. The word “stalker” is unfortunately appropriate. So for your sake and mine, I’ve decided to end our relationship. You are hereafter “blocked” on all my communication devices.

I know it hurts, but one must nip these unhealthy tendencies in the bud! I fear that if I don’t take this step, one of these days I’ll find you climbing the trellis outside my window or sitting in the back seat of my car. We wouldn’t want to be like the actors in some low-budget film noir, would we now? And you don’t want to end up like your namesakes in “Heathers.”

The Instagram life part 2

A few weeks ago I wrote about the perils of living your life on Instagram and becoming a piece of content for others to look at. That idea may have seemed far-fetched, esoteric, or just out of step with the times. After all, even us geezers have online selves, right?

Well, at least one person agrees with me, though I’m pretty sure she didn’t read my post. Her name is Clara Dollar, she’s a senior at New York University, and she writes in the Sunday New York Times about “My So-Called (Instagram) Life.”

“Once you master what is essentially an onstage performance of yourself, it can be hard to break character,” she says. True dat.* Her obsession with staying on brand – “funny, carefree, unromantic, a realist” – kills a relationship and buries her genuine identity. “There was a time when I allowed myself to be more than what I could fit onto a 2-by-4-inch screen. When I wasn’t so self-conscious about how I was seen. When I embraced my contradictions and desires with less fear of embarrassment or rejection.”

When I was in college in the 1970s, we couldn’t live on little screens because they didn’t exist. More importantly, we’d just come out of the 60s, when mindless conformity was exposed as a fraud. Challenging authority, openness, and authenticity were virtues.

The “brand” I’d acquired in high school was a burden: quiet, reserved, a little awkward, certainly not cool. But the only way for me to look different was to be different: embrace change, be open to new things, and put my true self out there.

Of course I feared embarrassment and rejection. Who doesn’t? Being yourself is the only way to make good friends, the kind who see beyond each other’s contradictions and foibles. Many  people I knew then are Facebook friends now, with a connection that’s grounded in real life and memories, not a bogus image.

I don’t claim to be devoid of ego. I always try to put my best foot forward (especially because, as anyone who’s ever danced with me will tell you, I’ve got two of the left variety).

But my virtual self is no more calculated or contrived than my real one, which I hope is not much. For example, I won’t try to persuade you I have gorgeous blue eyes that remind you of Paul Newman. Of course, you can always look at my photo and draw your own conclusions.

*A New Orleans expression for “That is the truth.”

Recognize this!

Didn’t I warn you? A few posts ago, I got to griping about how intrusive and annoying technology has become, and predicted cars would join the parade and start acting like people.

Well, I hate to say I told you so (no, I don’t), but according to a recent article, our SUVs and vans and sedans will soon be able to read our facial expressions! The recognition software has been around for a while, but the geniuses who gave us lemons like the Edsel and the Corvair are taking it to a new level.

(Warning: This computer has detected signs of an imminent attack of geezerhood on the writer’s face. This incident may include a long-winded, probably unfunny rant about the modern world. Read at your own risk.)

The article says once the system recognizes you, it’ll adjust your seat for maximum comfort, choose a driving mode, and suggest a destination based on past behavior.  Sounds good, but what if man and wife get in the car together and somebody’s “behavior” yields a destination like a strip joint or a Motel 6? Or if my bad back requires me to sit in a certain position, and before I can stop it, the seat adjustment squashes my spine? This thing has LAWSUIT written all over it.

This is the scary part: “Watching a driver’s face can also give a car important clues about the person’s state of mind.” If the thing spots road rage on my visage, it could “potentially quell annoying bells and chimes in the car and play some mellow jazz to soothe you.”

If “mellow jazz” means “Fine and Mellow” by Billie Holiday, it might work. If it means Kenny G, look out, ‘cause I’m ragin’ like a Cajun and am liable to switch off the system with an ax.  More to the point, if the folks who invented this mess ever had a relationship with another human being, they would NOT try to build human features into a car. Do you really want to ride around with something watching your face every second and obsessing about your feelings? Especially if the system can vocalize, like Siri.

Car: A penny for your thoughts.
Me: I’m not thinking anything.
Car: We never talk anymore. Don’t you care about me? Can’t you at least tell me what I’m doing wrong? And watch out for that red light!

This lunacy reminds me of “My Mother the Car,” a famously bad TV sitcom from the 1960s in which the main character’s late mother is reborn as a talking antique car, which takes over the poor schmuck’s life. I don’t need Big Mama reading my mug while I drive.

(Warning update: Your writer’s face suggests he’s run out of things to say. The danger has passed, at least until he gets another one of his so-called ideas. He ought to know by now that he has no talent and WAIT DON’T PUSH THAT POWER BUTTON!!!!!!)

Scammer grammar hammer

I’ve found my calling. Since I retired a couple of years back, I’ve been floundering in the shallows of unfulfillment, trying to find purpose in geezerhood. And the market for over-60 male porn stars is a lot smaller than I hoped.

But now I’ve found a gig I can do brilliantly. It’ll never dry up and will leave me rollin’ in simoleons. The job? Teaching English to scammers! These hardworking capitalists have been around since the days of dial-up, but sadly, their grasp of the lingo is still a tad sketchy. Here, verbatim, is the email that plotzed into my inbox this very morning:

Subject: Due our security concern We need verified your payment activity

Dear (email address),
We need to lock your apple account for the following reason(s):

05 April 2017: We want to check your account surely not log-in with other device.
06 April 2017: Your account has been make a payment $116 using apple pay with a Payment Code: APP-X42-C22-P0.
10 April 2017: Due our security concern we need to block your account access until this issued has been resolved , we will waiting for 1 week or your account has been disabled permanently.

1. LOGIN TO YOUR ACCOUNT
2. Confirm Your identity and our system will replace with your new information.
3. Your will be redirected and your account ready to use

It’s pretty clear why this message won’t work. First rule: send it to somebody who actually HAS an “apple” account. Besides, “We want to check your account surely not log-in with other device” is a dead giveaway. Haven’t they ever seen “Airplane?” Don’t call me Shirley! Here’s the same message with a few edits from your faithful protector of Good English:

Subject: Who the hell are you?

Dear gluten-brain:

We sure hope it wasn’t you who rented “Naughty Nymphos of North Korea” and “Pammy Does Pyongyang” the other day. We’re freezing your account colder than a Siberian squirrel’s nuts until you can verify yourself. Send us a photo of yourself (FULLY CLOTHED) and answer this security question: What’s the maiden name of your mother’s Uncle Sorghum’s fourth ex-wife? (You can also send a voice recording of yourself singing, “I Went Back with My Fourth Wife for the Third Time and Gave Her a Second Chance to Make a First-Class Fool Out of Me.”)

And from now on, be more careful about what you say online. You might get elected governor of Alabama.

Hello, it’s me. Seriously.

Hi, this is Dave. It’s really me.

No kidding. Honestly, I’m Dave. I’m the real deal, the true article, born smack in the middle of the Boom and raised in Kalamazoo, Michigan (where the city motto is, “Nobody Knows What the Heck It Means Anymore, But Yeah, There’s Still a Kalamazoo”).

I’m Dave, the guy with the deflating bed, aka Uncle Grumpy the grammar grouch, chronicler of old-age indignities, frog attacks, and sex advice for other geezers. Yes, that Dave! Check my photos and fingerprints if you’re not convinced.

Why am I trying to convince you that I’m myself? The other day, I got an emailed receipt and survey from a hotel where I never stayed. A few frantic phone calls revealed that somebody checked in using my name and my old Atlanta address, which were exposed in the big hack of federal employee data a couple of years ago. In other words, my identity has been stolen.

We’re not on the hook for any money, and so far haven’t uncovered any other scams. But it’s disturbing to know there’s a fake me out there. I also have to wonder what kind of putz would heist a normal, boring identity like mine. Why couldn’t he steal from somebody interesting, like Ted Cruz?

Until now, I hadn’t been affected by the breach and was hoping, apparently naively, to remain unscathed. But I can’t sit around worrying either.

If you’re a victim of identity theft or are afraid you might be, the federal government’s resource page is a good place to start. Meanwhile, if you run into somebody claiming to be David Swan, here’s how to tell the Dave from the doppelganger.

1. If he has hair, it ain’t me, babe.
2. He should know all kinds of obscure 60s and 70s music references (like the one in item #1). Ask him to name the duo that inflicted “In The Year 2525” on us, or the title of Norman Greenbaum’s follow-up to “Spirit In The Sky.” (Hint: It involves food.*)
3. Sing the praises of Ohio State and/or Michigan State football. If you don’t hear “Go Blue!” within about 15 seconds, call the gendarmes!
4. If he uses “barbecue” as a verb, he’s counterfeit. This is something I learned from my Southern transplantation. You might also ask him about his favorite meat and three.
5. Get him to reminisce about being a cabdriver or an all-night DJ on an elevator-music radio station.
6. If you’re riding in his car and he has no sense of direction, is the total antithesis of GPS and generally couldn’t find a giraffe in a broom closet, that’s me!

*The tune was “Canned Ham.” This has nothing to do with Canned Heat, a great blues band of the same era. See what I mean about those music references?

Alternative Dave

“A top aide to President Trump said the new White House is using new metrics to assess the size of Trump’s inauguration:’ alternative facts‘” – USA TODAY, January 22, 2017.

In the spirit of bipartisanship and cooperation with our new president, I humbly offer these alternative facts about myself:

I possess a full head of striking blonde hair with nary a trace of grey. I also have the physique of a young god and a set of dazzling blue eyes that are often compared to those of the late Paul Newman.

I am a Pro Bowl tight end for the Super Bowl-bound Atlanta Falcons.

My short story “The Fourteenth Pelican,” shattered sales records and led Carl Hiaasen to quit writing fiction about Florida. “This guy’s too good. I’m done,” said he.

I’m the first man in history to climb Mount Everest naked. (Got to use that physique for something!)

I graduated from college in two years flat with an unprecedented quadruple major: nuclear physics, philosophy, sports writing, and music performance, with the focus on being the world’s first punk-rock oboist. I still have Johnny Rotten’s phone number.

No matter what you heard about Bob somebody winning the Nobel Prize for literature, I am the actual winner! I delivered my acceptance speech by streaming video from the driver’s seat of my BMW M3 GT2 while competing in the 24 hours of Le Mans, which of course I won, while setting a new course record of 21 hours.

I don’t like to brag. I’m a humble, reticent Midwesterner, reflecting my roots on the great prairie of Kalamazoo, Michigan, where I lived with my parents and eleven brothers and sisters.

As a boy, I could plow 100 acres in a single afternoon. With just my fingernails!

I usually know when to stop writing.

Out to pasture with Uncle Grumpy

Buggy whips. Gas lamps. TVs with rabbit ears. Cars without seatbelts. Rotary phones. Dial-up modems. Pauly Shore. Copy editors.

Everything listed above is obsolete, old hat, antediluvian, bygone, timeworn, and generally kaput. Why do I mention “copy editors,” a group of fine hardworking Americans that includes my own self, your obedient language guardian Uncle Grumpy? Because if anybody with one sentient brain cell could still edit copy, grammatical horrors like these wouldn’t be sprouting like Kardashians:

“When emergency responders got to the seen, the man was deceased.”

“The victim was badly burned from the waste down.”

“Coastal elites really have a vice grip on the House Democratic Caucus.”

I know some of you are thinking that last one is correct, but it should be VISE grip. A vise is a tool, which rhymes with fool, which is what I must be for getting so steamed about this.

And when I say STEAMED, I mean I look like I’ve got tiny teakettles boiling in both ears. Because words and language were the heart of my working life – on radio and TV, in print, and online – it kills me to wade through this kind of sloppiness and ignorance. I constantly see things, written by adults who are getting paid to write them, that would’ve earned me a big fat red F in English from first grade on.

I try not to take it personally. I know the legions of scribes on the web really aren’t plotting against my sanity: “Hey, I’m gonna write ‘The clouds has moved offshore’ so I can send Uncle Grumpy around the bend!” (Not to be confused with up the creek, up the river, over the river and through the woods, up the pole, or over the hill, though that applies to me too.)

I sometimes wish the ‘net gods had never invented spellcheck, which allows “My longtime spouse” to become “My longtime souse.” The real problem is that our attention spans are so decimated by nonstop surfing that even the most hideous goofs just don’t register. Any day, some major news outlet will write a headline about President-Elect Tramp and no one will bat an eye.

Bun amuck

From Groupon

Women, is your man hard to shop for? And maybe a little short in the style department? Did you swipe right on a sizzling metrosexual dude who turned out to look like Dilbert instead? Want the perfect gift for your guy in this holiday* season?

Well, here it is: The clip-on man bun. Take a second to absorb those four words: Clip. On. Man. Bun. Now ponder the implications of living in a time where that phrase actually makes sense.

I gave up trying to understand fashion, especially men’s fashion, a long time ago, but this takes the absurdity to a new level. First of all, since when did buns even look stylish on women, except maybe ballerinas? Second, what’s the point in looking like a wannabe samurai? You might as well wear a Darth Vader mask and carry a plastic light-saber.

I guess if you’re determined to join the bun brigade, the clip-on makes more sense than natural hair, especially since this trend is liable to flame out any minute. Prediction: the next hot hairstyle for manly men will be the crested duck, or better yet, the crested coot.

*Don’t even think about giving me any of the grief that people are giving Starbucks about their red cups. Violators will have their devices hijacked and locked into an endless loop of, “I Yust Go Nuts at Christmas.”