Friday Shootout - St. Patricks Day

BOTH LATE AND PLAGERISTIC
I pop unexpectedly into the Bagman and Butler studio. Neither of them are impressed and both of them nursing resentments because I’ve been ignoring them.

BAGMAN: “What the frammatz do you want?” (Except he didn’t use the word “frammatz” (which is not actually a word anyhow)).

“It’s Friday!”

BUTLER: “I didn’t think that meant anything to you anymore and, besides, it will be Saturday in a few more hours.”

(Editor's Note: Actually it is already Sunday -- time flies)

“I know. I know,” I say knowingly. “But I don’t have time to argue. But I think we can get in a small post although it may be cheating since I didn’t actually take the photographs.”

BUTLER: “That really is cheating! If there are any Friday Shootout rules worth enforcing -- using your own photographs is one of them. You should NOT post these! Just go back to your room and keep moping about your retirement identity conflicts.”

"But it’s almost not cheating because, while I didn’t take the pictures, I’m in them. The staff at Charleston Center threw a Retirement Party for me and five other people who were also retiring and it had a St. Patrick’s Day theme!

BAGMAN: “You sure it wasn’t really a St. Patrick’s Day party and your ego just convinced yourself it was all about you?”

“And five other people,” I protest. “See!”

BUTLER: “I only count four other people.”

“The sixth one was late. Don’t be so picky.”

BAGMAN: “If I didn't know better, I'd think you'd been drinking.”

“But, at least, I've got a St. Patty's hat on. Is this any better?”

BAGMAN: “Now you just look like a really sad, fat, old geezer.”

“How about this one?” I say testily.

BAGMAN: “Your eyes are closed!  Couldn’t stay awake for your own party, huh?"

BUTLER:  "The Congratulations are not holding up very well."

BAGMAN:  "And he's wiping his nose in his sleep!"

I give up and leave the room to avoid further abuse.   From now on, I will have more empathy with my wife when she sees an unflattering picture of herself that I have taken and tells me to delete it immediately.

 

Beam me up, Scotty

I remember an old episode of Star Trek -- the old series before Captain Kirk got all red-faced and perspirey and started selling Priceline.Com. In this episode, something went wrong in the transporter room and Kirk and Spock got trapped between the Enterprise and the planet surface, swirling around like blobs of static.

That's how I feel with less than a month to go before my "retirement." I've grown to hate the word "retirement" and yet I can't stop saying it over and over. Bringing it into every conversation.

"No, Officer. I'm afraid I don't know how fast I was going back there. But I am retiring at the end of the month."

BUTLER: "You realize that "perspirey" is not really a word."

Report me to Webster's. I'm too busy trying to figure out who I am.

BAGMAN: "Come on, Bro! You know who you are! Once we're retired, we can lock up Butler for a change!"

Yeah yeah. Sure. Whatever you want. But you see, one of gems of wisdom that spout fountainlike from my mouth has always been: "What you do is not who you are."

BUTLER: "Ahhh. The ancient existential fountain of personal awareness."

BAGMAN: "I don't even know what that means! I just like getting all perspirey."

These days I just float around like a ghost or a lost transporter beam. And everybody that I talk to...

BUTLER: "How can you talk if you are a beam of light?"

I don't know. I guess I make a hissing or buzzing sound. But everybody I meet says one of two things. If they are retired, they tell me how much I'm going to love it. If they are not yet retired, they tell me how envious they are. I mean, like it's some big huge thing like getting married or going to Disneyland. I don't even want to talk about it!"

BUTLER: "And yet you bring it into every conversation."

I pause to think about that.

BAGMAN: "Yeah!! Like this one!!"

I realize that I have paused but am not actually thinking.

From somewhere, far away, Scotty's voice calls down, "Hang in there, Captain! I'll have you out of this in a minute!" The word 'this' sounds more like 'thish' and I can't tell if it's a Scottish accent or Sean Connery. But I look down and part of my sparkly column near the bottom is trying to form a foot.

BUTLER: "But thinking about not actually thinking is actually thinking."

Huh?

BAGMAN: "Hey! There are reruns of Star Trek tonight at 2:00 a.m.!! We can make popcorn!!"

44 Business Days To Retirement

As a compulsive journalist -- heck, I even majored in journalism in college -- I've often made the effort, particularly, to chronicle the major events, transitions, and travels of my life -- books of things my children did growing up; trips to Mexico, France, Italy; the rather gory and bizarrely x-rated journal about my little bout with prostate cancer...

The problem with journaling, as I see it, is that when you have time to do it right, nothing much is happening.  When you are in the midst of the earthquake there is no time to journal.   So with a few exceptions, I missed most of the pithy stuff but have written millions of words about nothing much and illustrated this pablum with equally bland photographs. 

To be honest, I'm not quite that humble and will lay claim to a few clever and interesting things, but, if I dropped dead tomorrow, any distant descendant who might be interested would have to dig through a mountain of oatmeal to find the raisins.   I remind myself of the old Seinfield sitcom.

Which leads up to my current blog-journal epic about retirement and kicking ass in the last quarter of the football game.  Somewhere along the line, I got the erroneous idea that I would be sitting back in an easy chair, growing a beard and smoking a pipe and dispensing the wisdom of a lifetime.

But instead, I'm running around more manic and freaked out then ever.  Of course, I still haven't retired yet -- so part of it is trying to tie up loose ends at work. 

BUTLER: "If you haven't been able to tie up the loose ends in the 13 years you were there, what makes you think you can tie them up in the next 44 days?"

And home is chaos.  Wonderful chaos - but chaos.  With Brian, Melody and family moving back in a few months ago, the population of living mammals (dogs, cats, humans, grandhumans) has tripled and the furniture has doubled. 

I arrive home after work and my first assessment is that a tornado has hit the place.  Not only that but the tornado is still here, whirling from room to room while I stumble after it, waist deep in toys, all of which have batteries and movement sensors so I am surrounded by squeeky voices saying, "One, two three...Play with me!"   I push through toward where I hear a glass breaking. 

From somewhere else, Karen's voice is calling out for help.  "Brian and Melody have to work late!!  Can you please change Conner's diaper?!  And did you get the salad stuff I asked you to?"

Which of course, I had not done.  

Turning toward where I assume Conner's diapers might be, I step on a small plastic helicopter which, of course, in a squeeky voice, says, "Let's play the alphabet game!  A is for..."

"'A' is for AAAAAAAAH!"  I tell it. 

I wonder if I'll have time to blog about retirement in retirement.

Maybe I should just sit tight and work on blogging about the nursing home.  I'll need one with Internet Access.  Of course, I may not remember what Internet Access does.  Maybe instead of the computer, I'll just bring the plastic helicopter.  "One, two, three...play with me!"     I can drive the nurse's aides crazy.