Monday, May 02, 2011
The half-dead weekend man.
After age thirty, I'd often pause on the even decades of life to, sort- of, mourn the passage of my youth.
Ah, thirty. Borderline between youth and maturity...But harder and harder now to get over the monstrous all- nighters, working all day and having a twelve pack that evening just to get over it all. But by 31, you can't do the entire twelve bottles; there is a liverishness now to your liver from the gin of the last debauch, and, as you try to play the role of lover at night, there seems to be a problem with your shift-lever mechanism. Maybe it's the cigarettes....Coughing frutily--or in the language if those days, turning fruit?
Wha' hoppen? My youth is passing.
At forty, I once again mourned the passing of my youth.
Mid-life crisis. A Dr. Smith character now, out of Lost In Space. "Oh, dear. What will become of me?"
Younger partner tired of my neuroticism, even less impressed by my eroticism. "Here's a vacuum cleaner, Ponce de Leon. You can rhuminate and fantacize while actually doing something useful. You were once my friend and lover. Now it' s more like friend and loafer."
I had to laugh. Well, at least the ole sense of humour is not gone, either in her or in me.
But no sense of humour when I was caught at something naughty. Oh, Ponce de Leon! Do not go fishing in borbidden streams! Do not attract moonbeams in a strange bed!
Kicked out, I was suddenly Fritz the Cat, meeting all sorts of denizens down there near the sewers.
I complained to a new drinking buddy, that I had been caught at cheating.
"You think that's something? I was caught in the showers with George Hyslop, the President of Toronto's Community Homophile "Association."
I'd answered, "Well, at least he's not suing for divorce."
At fifty, among the pipes and old hissing radiators of rooming houses, I once again mourned the passing of my youth.
Listening to Bob Seeger:
"Twenty years, where'd they go
Twenty years, I don't know
I sit and wonder sometimes
where they'd gone
At sixty, residing in my old Dodge hatchback, I one again mourned the passing of my youth.
A gorgeous brunette passed where I was parked, near the Walmart. She saw my look of abject need.
"You poor thing. You look like you need to get laid...Can't help you right now, 'cause I just did. ...But I'll come around tomorrow..."
I turned that night from mourner to optimist.
And the next day from loafer to lover.
Even with half an erection
I had all these years, forgotten the bounty of the woman, the cycle of life.
Strange realization, as I sit today, at seventy,up to no good at all, when the phone rings. "I think you need to get laid....Will that be a prooblem for you?"
I am Nat King Cole.
Ponce de Leon, finally arrived in the country of flowers.