Layabozi

Blues of the 60s

Assuming my calculations are correct, I have about forty-eight hours left to be in my fifties, and despite the fact that my lieu de naissance and Nevada are a time zone apart, the fact that Nevada indulges in Daylight Savings Time while Arizona doesn’t, means that the fateful time (around 5:00 PM, the beginning of the cocktail hour on Monday) will arrive both where I’m from and where I’m at at the same time.  If I were still in Asia, the thing would have hit a half a day earlier.  Perhaps I’m better off here.
I will, then, soon be – let us say it loudly and without stammering – sixty.  Too old to successfully pick up chicks in bars, but too young to actually get any cash from social security.  A pathetic sort of age.  I move now from the “older” category to just plain “old”.
I have six decades of experience to pass on, but have discovered that those under sixty aren’t interested in listening – because I’m sixty – while those who ARE sixty aren’t interested in listening because they have their own six decades of experience to shove down everyone’s throat.
It is de rigueur for those sixty-and-above to perform some task harkening back to activities from their days of yore and proclaim “I’ve still got it!”  I won’t be doing that, principally because there is ample evidence to indicate that not only do I not STILL have it, but further that I really NEVER had it to begin with.
I am – at least – spared the agony of those who were once young, beautiful and talented, who discover that beauty and talent aren’t enough without the young to hang it all together on.
That said, I offer the following observations for those of you who will – in due course – follow me into this chronological demographic:
Sitting down is a great invention.
Banisters are our friends.  (Barristers, for the most part, are not.)
Cash works much better than flirting when trying to get out of a traffic ticket.
Going to see 60s rock group concerts does not make you feel young again.  (Going to see 50s doo-wop groups somehow does.)
Clothes DO NOT make the man – especially plaid.
Nobody cares what you did in high school.  (Come to think of it, just omit “in high school”.)
Getting out of bed in the morning is NOT an Olympic sport.  It’s much harder.
Now is NOT the time to take up skateboarding.
So you didn’t ever go skydiving.  MOST people never went skydiving.
And as for death:  Go ahead and pay the WHOLE month’s rent in advance.  Be optimistic.

Today I got this mail from Wade Leahy, a piano player, singer and blues man.  Hopefully also a new contributor to layabozi. Wade has been coming and going from Shanghai stages, right now he is living on Arizona, U.S.A. I liked so much his e-mail that I have to share it with you.

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Mache is a hippie witch that was born under Beltane's full moon. She enjoys talking to ghosts and interdimensional beings, and cooking for her friends and beasts. She has Chilean wine in her veins instead of blood,and at the moment she belongs to China.

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