The Deep Six: How To Tell If You’re “Young” Old or “Old” Old

Introduction by J-Dub

Today, my blog brother from another mother SportsChump and I celebrate another of those solar orbits we use to count years. Even though we were born on the exact same day, the mileage is wearing different on us.

The Chump is aging like fine brandy; he’s still living the life of a “young” old man. He stays “hip” working as a bartender, and when he’s not lying about his golf scores, he’s gulping BlueChew so he can keep up with his younger girlfriend.

Meanwhile, I’m what getting prison-raped by Father Time looks like. I literally have more doctors than toes. And those toes are easy to count…I just have to pick up the jar they’re in.

 It’s an obvious sign of age when they start lopping off parts of you like Jed Clampett’s whittlin’ stick. But as yet another public service, SportsChump and I are here to guide you through some less apparent, but equally important milestones on that path toward the autumn years.

If Ol’ Jed had just whittled feet..

 “Young” Old by SportsChump

I won’t lie.  When I tell people I’m about to turn 58, it kind of weirds me out a little bit.  Not that I’m afraid of the number or anything.  It just sounds odd.  I’m not one to lie about my age or fudge the numbers in any particular direction.  I’ve never understood that.

Not to brag or boast (although that is kind of why Dubs asked me here) but most people I run into are taken aback when I rattle off that number.  Maybe that’s because, as their bartender, I keep them half-cocked, making it hard to see my crow’s feet through their beer-goggles.

I still move relatively slyly (for 58) and faster than those I work with (not 58).  I don’t feel 58, despite the aching neck, creaking knees and perennially wonky back.  My full-court basketball days are pretty much over, as is my quick first step but the hustle remains.  I can still be found draining jumpers at the local Y, the plaque on the wall that features my likeness now yellowing around the corners.

I haven’t swung a tennis racket in years for fear of my rotator cuff snapping like Tyrese Haliburton’s Achilles.  I’ve resorted to swimming, light workouts (what is this you speak of, asks J-Dub?) and the more than occasional stretch.

I still have bad habits (cigar smoking, whiskey tasting) but hey, Richards, Jagger, McCartney, Joel, John, Perry, Schon, Roth, Plant, Page, Sting, Lee, Lifeson, all rock-and-roll legends are still around after abusing their bodies to no end.  These men are my heroes, icons.  If music and a good time kept them young, then who’s to say that’s not the ultimate recipe for success.  And laughter?  Shit.  Mel Brooks just turned 100!

So, Dubsy wants the keys to my fountain of youth?  Here we go, free of charge…

Point 1

Begin the day with a friendly voice, a companion unobtrusive.

Which leads us to music, as Dubs will get into later #RushNerds.  He’ll point out that here’s where we are most alike.  Like so many aging males in America, I’m currently counting down the days to the Rush’ Sans Peart reunion tour.  I’ll be amongst a slew of old farts in the crowd who spent far too much time wondering which of their old school Rush t-shirts they should wear to the show.  CONCERT HALL!!!

But the key to the music of our generation is that it kept, and still keeps, us young (he says while air guitaring).  Despite its often-melancholic themes, these songs were creatively draped both in metaphor and uniquely distinctive tones.  One former co-worker, wise beyond their years, asked me if I was a teenager in the 80s.  After slowly doing the math and snorting a line of crushed up glucosamine, I replied yes to which they countered “That’s so cool!”

There’s no denying that growing up on 70s, 80s and (some) 90s music (and movies, gunga la gunga) shaped both my life and my lifestyle.  There’s also no denying that flipping these tunes into my Walkman, er… playing them on my Spotify or Sirius XM brings me back to a younger time, each with a memory, that keeps me going.  No matter the age, the song remains the same.

Point 2

They call me the workin’ man.  I guess that’s what I am.

One of these days, I’ll hang up the proverbial tins.  Retirement remains a billboard still far ahead in the distance, but when that day comes, I’ll miss the gig.  Or maybe I’ll be one of those 75-year-old bartenders still doing shots with the younger generation and reminding them how awesome Rage was. 

I grew up with the legend of both my mother and father never missing a day of work.   Both busted their butts to provide.  Whether they knew it or not, they went full Lou Gehrig, leading by example.  To this day, I rarely miss a shift.  I’m fortunate to have chosen a profession I enjoy.  It took a while to recognize that.  While bartending does have its pitfalls, the social interaction remains immeasurably rewarding.  Philosophers and ploughmen each must know their part, to sow a new morality closer to the heart.  When I serve as a connector, forging friendships between two people that have never met, well, that’s like jotting down the perfect song lyric. 

Point 3

When the world is running down you make the best of what’s still around.

Speaking of Gehrig, I do feel like the luckiest man on the face of the earth.  Not to be a stick in the mud but the man had one foot in the grave at the time he said that, so how much could he have really meant it?  But I digress. 

Gehrig’s point is that he was grateful for what life had gifted him and fuck if he didn’t earn it, playing an iron-horsedly 2,130 straight games.  I couldn’t agree more about the outlook.  The fact that his quote resonates 100 years later proves its value.  Not a moment goes by that I don’t look around me and feel grateful for the things I have, the people I’ve known, the places I’ve been and the experiences I’ve been granted.  Even you, Dubs, for without our banter and putting our big beautiful bald coneheads together, our own little pocket of the internet wouldn’t be the same, albeit littered with spam and the occasional witticism.  We just need Frank Stallone singing doo-wop with his neighborhood buddies over a fire-filled garbage can to complete the imagery.  One day, a future species will uncover our blog posts in a time capsule and wonder what the fuck these two old dudes were talking about.

Point 4

Tires spitting gravel, I commit my weekly crime.

That said, one must have a little fun.  While, at 58, all my movements remain deliberate, that doesn’t mean I don’t still like to mix in a little debauchery.  I partake in the occasional whiskey, cigar, golf round and casino visit. I still gamble daily on professional sports and stay out until all hours of the morning.  In the eternal quest to find oneself and like what one sees, I’m far from a toe the line guy.  (Sorry for the toe joke.)  I’m the only bartender at my golf club, the kind of member that whitey turns their nose up at until they want to know what kind of whiskey makes for a good housewarming gift.  Be cool or be cast out.

Point 5

I get high (I mean, by) with a little help from my friends.

Unlike Navin Johnson, I wasn’t born a poor Black child, but I was born an only child.  As one who moved around A LOT as a kid, I was forced to make friendships I still value to this day.  The good thing about not having any brothers or sisters is that a) you never had to share your shit and b) you never had to deal with their shit.  But friends, those you got the opportunity to choose.  Life is just better when you choose the right ones.  If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice.  Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy my alone time as much as the next person.  Maybe even more so.  But I’ve always been a camaraderie guy.  From the high school dugout to wishing people a good shift and congratulating them on one at close.  There’s a reason why Tom Hanks needed Wilson.

Point 6

All you need is love.

I feel like that classic SNL skit where I play the rock and roll icon (Paul McCartney) and you play the fat guy interviewing him (Chris Farley).  Farley once asked Sir Paul if the love you take is equal to the love you make.

Well, duh. 

While it obviously helps to have a whole lot go right with your life, which I have, it also helps to have a good, loving, caring partner by your side. 

And I do.  She knows damn well who she is and what she means to me.

As you have been fortunate enough to find Mrs. Dub’s, who’s beaten me in every annual NFL pick ‘em pool since I started joining them, I’m equally as fortunate to have found a loving partner who also beats me in every annual pick ‘em pool I enter.  And does a better Godfather impression to boot.

“Old” Old by J-Dub

#RushNerds. Add sports fandom and a sense of humor dryer than the stingiest Martini even the Chump himself could concoct and you have the common denominator defining both of us. You could put that on both our headstones when the time comes.

Even though we were born on the same day, we probably won’t die on the same day…although we did have that close call in that brothel in Thailand back in the day. Despite that, you hit the nail on the head about the important thing we share. We both found the partners who revel in beating us in our various sports challenges (keep your eyes peeled, gang… football season is right around the corner).

They’re also going to be the ones who bury us.

Be that as it may, the real point here is how different 58 can really be. Chump has already shown us the admirable futility in hanging on to youth. But every yin has its yang; I’m here to enlighten as to the undeniable signs it’s time to stop raging against the dying of the light.

1) People Talk About You Right In Front Of You

Guilty as charged…I completely stole this line from Rodney Dangerfield. But he stole half his career, so I’m just “stealing it forward.” Ownership aside, there’s powerful truth in this; honesty you won’t realize until you witness a conversation like this (just insert your name in place of “J-Dub.”)

Scene: J-Dub and family are at a youth sporting event.

Mrs. J-Dub: Well, what are going to do about J-Dub?

Mrs. J-Dub’s Sister: What do you mean?

Mrs. J-Dub: He can’t be out in the sun this much. Half the meds he’s on make him more susceptible to heat stroke.

Mrs. J-Dub’s Sister: Then why did you bring him?

Mrs. J-Dub: Between the hospital and being cooped up at home, he’s getting isolated and weird…well, I should say weirder…

Keep in mind I’m literally three feet away from this conversation. I’m not an invalid, and I’m not that senile yet. But as the old guy at a youth soccer game, I’m little more than cargo in the sister’s “soccer mom” van; right next to the cooler full of kids’ drinks and a bag of balls.

2) You Get Unexpected Offers To Help

A dead-bang, sure-fire sign of old age comes when you don’t think you look like you need help, but those around you seem to disagree. Worse yet, it keeps happening. My neighbors when I’m checking my mail, people at my office who think I can’t get in or out of an elevator by myself, or pretty much anywhere I’m just trying to live what’s left of my goddamn life. There’s no place worse for this than supermarkets.

3) You Become Invisible To Young Women

This is the one problem SportsChump doesn’t have. Being a bartender means they come to him as he’s holding their Slippery Nipples or whatever drinks barely-legal college chicks slurp down to give them the needed beer goggles needed not to see his crow’s feet.

Forget about the magic tricks, camouflage, or that stuff they paint on stealth bombers, there’s no better cloaking device to hot young chicks than a quad cane…unless she’s the girl in the supermarket asking if you need help. In that course, you (of course) let her bend over to get that can of whatever off the bottom shelf.

4) Your New-Found Invisibility Doesn’t Bother You

Time to face reality, all our fellow 58 year-olds. Regardless of which side of our “old” coin you’re on, when it comes to amorous pursuit of significantly younger women, because you’re like the dog chasing a car… what are you going do if you catch it?

That’s why I have a rule about those significantly younger women: we old guys regardless of stripe need to treat them like a high-end sports car. Joe Walsh’s Maserati may have done 185, but he should have been required to sell it when he hit 60…because those women and those cars have three things in common. While they may be wonderful to look at, and they bring back a plethora of amazing memories (my penchant for wrecking sports cars is one of those things which fits in between the USMC and diabetes…as you’ll see in a moment), we gray-beards have no business being inside them.

5) A Collection Of Mobility Assist Devices

Chump may be in better shape these days, but I’ve led a more adventurous life.  The trade-off is a collection of various injuries and maladies starting with the Marine Corps and ending with diabetes and a whole lot of other stuff in the 40 years in between means I now lose toes like seven-year-olds lose teeth.

When you have more leg and foot issues than James Caan in Misery, you have a relationship with a good podiatrist. Between the surgeries and follow-up appointments, I see mine so often Mrs. J Dub refers to her as my “girlfriend.”  Having such an involved relationship with a foot surgeon means amassing an amazing collection of mobility devices. I have then in a quantity like you would have accessories such as watches, rings, or shoes.

That’s not even the best part. Since my mobility ebbs and flows like the tides, once a piece of equipment is no longer needed, I can’t just get rid of it. It also seems a shame to just let it sit in a closet knowing someone could use it.

But since I may need it again at any given moment, the trick is to find ways to add utility during the down time. That’s how I have a walker that doubles as a laundry station. I have loose plans to turn it into a bar, and once completed I’m going to send the schematics to Chump so he can build one of his very own when the time comes.

6) The Music Of Your Youth Is Now A PBS Pledge Drive Special

This is where the differences end. “Young” or “Old” old, both the Chump and I are exactly the same age. That means we’re old enough to remember when PBS used to beg money off our grandparents with Lawrence Welk retrospectives. Then we watched them panhandle by trotting out the future corpses of Peter, Paul, and Mary for yet another rendition of Puff The Magic Dragon.

That’s why I almost shit my pants when I saw this. The Chump and I are both dedicated Rush-o-philes, so when PBS started using this as a way to sell me a two-dollar tote bag for $150, the conclusion was inescapable.

We’re old. There’s really no question about that. But will you still need us…will you still feed us…when we’re 64?

Conclusion by SportsChump

And in the end, Dubs, to transition from Beatles to Huey Lewis, I’m happy to be stuck with you.  In our own little pocket of the internet, I feel we’ve put out some damn good content.  We’ve made friends, engaged in some healthy conversation and made people think.  That’s more than I can say for most of the content out there.  So, thank you for that.

While we ain’t getting rich and most of America has stopped reading altogether, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Aging, whether gracefully or not, is far better than the alternative.  And with sixty staring us squarely in the face, I say bring it the FUCK ON!!