Spies, Lies, & Cries

Mea Culpa

Trouserville's Department of Corrections, Amplifications, and Moderately Sincere Apologies would like to issue follow-ups to some previous posts.

1.  Spies (Happy To Be American) 

Well, I was so pleased to see that the secret court issued a now sort of public wrist-slap to the secret spies of NSA. Guess the judges weren't too impressed with the defense.  "Yes, indeed, we did indulge in a little bit of domestic overspying, but golly gee willikers, Mr. Judge, it was technical difficulties and we fixed them and plus we set up a compliance department and we now have 300 people making sure we don't over sneak." 

I think I'd feel more secure if they could bring back the spies of yesteryear! 

Not very secret spies Boris and Natasha

Mad Magazine's Spy vs. Spy

2.  Lies (Go DIrectly to Jail)

We don't need no stinkin' fact checkers; Trouserville's family and friends keep this blog on the straight and narrow.

I passed on what I thought was reliable dope from the Wall Street Journal regarding New Improved Monopoly Empire Now Without Go To Jail Cards.  Turns out it was just plain dopey unverified dope. I did drill down to the Hasbro website, but I missed the public outcry and the subsequent revelation that all is well:  you can still go to jail.  My sister informed me of this because she is a professional who pays attention to details, not a lazy oldster who only skims the silly news, and not even every day. You can read her accurate reporting in the Monopoly Empire post on her blog, Pink Slip.



3.  Cries (Compare and Despair No More)

I have been hewing to my resolve to compare and despair no more on the fitness front.  But that resolve was sorely tried by an article about James Kales, at age 98 a Senior Olympics medalist.  Here's the trying part:  although he did some field and track sports in his youth, he didn't take up tennis until he was 85,  and at the same time took up serious dancing. These activities (tennis six days a week, dancing three to five nights a week), plus a little bowling and sensible eating allowed him to bring home two gold, three silver, and one bronze medal in decathlon activities like shot put, discus, javelin. 

Sigh! I'm more than three decades younger and the only shot put I can handle is the shot I put in the gin & tonic.  Discus? Does flinging an old CD down as a coaster under the gin & tonic count?

Of course, this article appeared in the Wall Street Journal, so take it for what it is worth. And just to avoid any future corrections Mr. Kales, much to his annoyance, did not actually win a medal in discus.

Happy (Belated) Birthday, Bill S.

That's William Shakespeare to you, you gleeking, flap-mouthed foot-licker.

Enough with your a-holes, your d-bags, your f-wits.

Celebrate the birthday of the world's best playwright ever by expanding your inventory of invective with the delightful Shakespeare Insult Kit.

Or, if you are within striking distance of Boston, see the Actors Shakespeare Project  production of Pericles which runs through May 12.

Or, take a look at this portrait and remember that he wasn't always 449 years old.

Yeah, like many of us he didn't always have
bad Bozo hair and bags under his eyes.

UPDATE AUG 2013:  Take a look at Actors' Shakespeare Project's 10th Anniversary Season :  Romeo & Juliet, Henry VIII, The Cherry Orchard, As You Like It.

Post the First: In Which I Receive an Invitation and Inaugurate a Blog

For more than a decade I have been receiving direct mail come-ons from AARP. Right into the garbage bag they have gone along with invitations to transfer my credit card balances, catalogs from retailers I have never patronized, and requests from any number of worthy organizations who would like to send a truck to my house to pick up my household items. (Alas, they never want to pick up the truly unwanted items such as dust bunnies, water-stained ceiling tile, or the musty old suitcases in the storage closet. They only want things like my food processor or my second-best reading lamp.)

The other day, however, I received an actual, shiny, red-white-and-blue AARP membership card, albeit temporary, which is still lying on my desk, tempting me. If I reply within a month and send them sixteen bucks I will be able to take advantage of their many, but vaguely described, benefits including “Representation in Washington and all 50 states.” Sorry, AARP, I don't find that compelling as I really feel I have enough lollygagging, thick-headed, pork-barreling representation in those quarters already.

There is something that tempts me, though.  If I register NOW I will GET A BONUS GIFT. “As a 'thank you' for joining, we'll send you a FREE added bonus—this handy Dashboard Buddy.” A Dashboard Buddy! Who could resist? Doesn't everyone need a Dashboard Buddy? Yes! Yes! It's free. I want it. I need it. Wait! Wait! What the heck IS a “Dashboard Buddy?” (AARP Health Advisory: Excess emphasis and unnecessary “punctuation” IS catching, and there is, as yet, no preventative vaccine.)

It is hard to tell about the DB, because the far from luscious photo isn't very crisp and it's in Black and White because, of course, all Golden Agers are “nostalgic” for the days Black and White. Days when you didn't need to worry if you were the four billionth person to view Gangnam Style instead of the first, and you only watched it because you thought it was someone dancing “The Pony” which you danced when you were thirteen or fourteen and wishing you had white go-go boots and lived next door to Fabian. The days before you needed a handy Dashboard Buddy which appears to be a cosmetic bag missing half of its front panel which is handy for keeping needed items at hand and handily in view on your dashboard. Items like lozenges, or are those coins? A garage door opener, or is that one of those one-function phones with really big numbers on it? Why, the DB looks big enough for stashing a bottle of fiber pills or a slim-profile geriatric diaper. To give AARP credit, they must think I am young enough to own a dashboard, which I assumed was a car dashboard, but maybe “Buddy”is for the dashboard of the electric scooter with a basket thing you ride around on in the grocery store.

Dearest AARP, thank you for thinking of me and my needs for representation and handiness, but I am getting into my de-accessioning years, and unless I can opt out of this amazing free gift, I don't think I can join right now. Maybe later I will crave something drool-proof, an item of durable, easy to clean denier nylon construction which I can use on my seat or the floor of the trunk into which my family has tucked me. I do not deny that I am well into your target demographic. I am over the dreaded hill. I have entered, if not quite embraced, my geezerhood. I have installed klieg-level lightbulbs in my reading lamp. There are plenty of days in which I feel older than dirt, and every day I hear, if not the mermaids, then the one or two lines of poetry I can remember:

                    I grow old. I grow old. I will wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

I will wear my trousers rolled, of course, because my dwindling butt has made all of my trousers droop and drag along the floor, threatening to trip me up unless I wear a pair of nice thick-soled comfort shoes. And, wearing my rolled trousers, I will blog for you.