It’s a perfect time to concern ourselves with scores. Let’s get in practice for college football and the MLB playoffs.
Having blown past my 50s, I found hitting a golf ball wasn’t so easy. In no time at all, I scampered back to the senior tees. Still, I could hear my drive when it landed.
Then came the 60s, more gray hair and whiffs on the course. I bid “adieu” to golf. Camaraderie with family and friends won out. I chose wisely. Six hours on a Saturday was wasted time to me.
Now nearly halfway through my 60s, the clouds are parting. Cue up Johnny Nash singing “I Can See Clearly Now.”
With friends checking out and leaving me behind, I have come to the stark realization: I gotta make younger friends.
Here’s some advice for you youngsters: Under no circumstances should you make sport of us old folks.
It will come back to haunt you. It may seem like it’ll be a long time for payback. But it won’t. Your antics will come back to haunt you.
It’s the old “Do as I say, not as I did,” argument. A TV remote is a perfect way to convince a relative that their hearing aid should be smashed to smithereens.
A little increased volume, followed by nearly mute sound, will do the deed.
Granny Long had one of those old-time hearing aids that hung around her neck. It was in perpetual need of batteries and a few buzzes and whistles got us the desired reaction: She’d take the box from around her neck and start smacking the daylights out of it.
Despite being careful, we inevitably got caught. Mom was none to happy that we were having a blast with her grandma’s Beltone.
My brothers and I were convicted without a trial. Our sentence was four hours in the flowerbeds. Pulling weeds and throwing dirt clods helped my brothers make our stretch in Joyce’s work farm pass quickly.
I almost got more time tacked on when I hollered: “This is against the Geneva Convention.” Mom looked at me with abject pity, having no idea what I was blathering about.
I am getting my comeuppance lately. Whereas it might have been a knee-slapper of sorts to talk softly as a way to have someone thump their hearing device, I fear I’m about to join the ranks of those who have a device to help hear what’s coming out of the TV soundbar.
I’m in need of a little help hear, I mean here. Any recommendations? Do I want the in-ear or over-the-ear type. I’m hoping a good Q-tip excavation might be the answer.
My fear is some smart-aleck youngsters will be outside the store and start laughing at the old man with a two-for-one coupon who needs to see and hear the nonsense being put out by those wacky Democrats.
The kids’ surliness is perfectly excusable in my eyes. I will chock it up to them being rebellious at having to do homework a mere four weeks after the Fourth of July.
There are some plusses associated with this diminished hearing. Booming bass and nonsensical lyrics highlighting the delights of “busting a cap” in someone wouldn’t be missed when my car shakes from the thundering bass in the cars around me.
If I’m not able to hear Little Richie Dre Post Malone again it would be a welcomed absence.
By the way, any of you young readers, fear not. I know there really is a Post Malone. Chris and Greg are chomping at the bit to go his concert in October. They’re positioning seats as an early Christmas gift.
They haven’t asked me to accompany them.
I’ve heard Post’s stuff when Greg plays them for me. God as my judge, I can’t for the life of me understand the point or the prose. I’d rather eat paint than attend a Post Malone show. Ditto for any other concert of that genre.
Nope. Unless there’s a verse, chorus and bridge, count me out.
I’ve already concocted my response when they request tickets.
Mike Tasos’ column is published every other Sunday. He wonders: “Why doesn’t everyone love country music?” Comments can be sent to email@example.com. He is also on Facebook.