THE BATTLE WE ALL LOSE

I worry about things sometimes that are beyond my control, but fun to worry about. For instance, I worry about music. I confess I have a little trouble understanding contemporary music, perhaps because I suffer from a debilitating hearing loss, which forces me to turn the volume up very, very loud, the singers seem to be screaming rather than carrying a tune. But, simply because I don't like them today doesn't mean I won't like them tomorrow. It took me years to appreciate the Beatles as I do today. I started liking the Beatles when John Lennon became a househusband. I always wanted one of those.

However, my generation has a great many sentimental songs, soft, romantic lyrics so soulful they bring tears to the eyes. And I wonder what will happen to the young lovers of tomorrow. I can just see it now. They will be dancing cheek-to-cheek, arms around each other, gazing adoringly into each other's eyes and the music will begin.

"Kill the police! Hate my mother, she ain't nothin' but a ho, gimme your bod, I is yo man"....

"Oh, listen, darling!" one of my lovers will say to the other. "They're playing our song!"

The two of them will gaze soulfully into each other's eyes and smile nostalgically as the beat goes on.

It's things like this that really worry me. Perhaps they shouldn't, but a student of the world and everyone in it like myself just has to explore these things. Take Pamela Anderson's breasts, if you please. Pamela Anderson has huge breasts, obviously fake, that make her look as though she may topple like Saddam's statue at any moment. I have often wondered if breasts like this float? Would life preservers be necessary with breasts as big as basketballs?

Now these appendages are fine for a twenty year old girl, or a forty year old woman. But what will happen when Pamela is eighty or ninety? While the rest of her body sags, Pamela's breasts will remain as firm as two cement balustrades, thrusting outward in all of their EEE cup glory. I can see her in her custom Granny gown, still insisting upon decolletege, still posing with those mammoth peaks poking forth like twin Mt. Everests.

Americans are tremendously youth-oriented. No American EVER wants to grow old, while refusing at the same time to consider the alternative. In their minds, it is best to battle against age with every powder, perfume and toxin available to combat the effects of the passing years. Fat is hated as much as age. If you can't diet it off, you get it sucked out or get your stomach stapled. And there's collagen for the lips, Botox for the wrinkles and flesh firming cosmetics to slather on your thighs. No part of your body is forgotten in the quest for eternal youth, as each gray hair is studiously plucked and discarded.

Then, too, there is exercise. Our country is filled with joggers, young people determined to stay slim and youthful, sweating and speeding down various pathways in a colorful array of Spandex. And, it isn't enough to just have a trim body. One has to have a tan, even if residing in the Arctic. If you don't bask in a Tanning Booth, you can buy sunshine in a bottle and smear it on.

We used to bleach linen. Today, they bleach teeth. Teeth have to be dazzling, with a smile that is like a bolt of white lightening. We have become a nation of Osmonds with our snowwhite grins.

But, inevitably, age always wins. Eventually, the bones creak, the flesh withers, the organs sag.
And, when this happens, you are immediately delegated to the rank of sub-citizen or perhaps even sub-human. You are subjected to a sort of protective courtesy mixed with heartfelt pity. You are a Senior Citizen, eligible for Medicare, the AARP, and Anonymity. You are OLD! No longer can you wage war against it. No Botox can fill the wrinkles, no cream can firm the thighs. All is lost.

Now, envision this decrepit soul shuffling along, her wrinkled body covered with tattoos. Her flesh resembles a county map picturing the local back roads as it is, and the tattoos add an interesting pattern to the design. She looks like a sketch of the internal organs tacked on a doctor's office wall, or a person suffering from stem-to-stern varicose veins. Nor does the eyebrow ring, tongue ring, or nipple ring add to her charm.

There's no doubt about it. Our younger generation are simply going to have to pack away some of the hardware as aging approaches. A few stylish fads might survive the Golden Years, but very few. For instance, one might be able to hang on to Goth styles. Grandma in black, with a black cape, a black cane, and jet black hair might be interesting. Far better than purple, with a red hat.

The truth is, men age a little more slowly than women, just as boys mature a little more slowly than girls. They are always playing catch-up, the men, but they do eventually get there. But while women thicken in the hips and lose their waistline, men have a tendency to get beer guts even if they are teetotallers. Few really old men are buff and a glowing tan on an elderly gent just looks like he ate too many carrots.

Put it this way. Calvin Klein has never hired an old model. And no Grandpa has ever been selected as the Sexiest Man in the World. But someday, even Eminem or Usher or Diddy or Bowwow will feel the effects of age. They can keep on performing....after all, the Rolling Stones are still out there, creaking bones and all....but they'll simply have to clean up the lyrics.

Because if Grandpa starts using language like that, they'll diagnose him with dementia and he'll be slapped in a nursing home as fast as possible where they will spoon feed him Puddin' Soft and prescribe Prozac to calm his tremors.