I'm so glad, I'm so glad...

I'm so glad I don't have to go to any company holiday party, especially after I just read an advice column on how you should view said party as a networking opportunity. According to the column I read, you should find out everyone of interest - C-level execs, key clients - who's going to be there. Then you want to figure out how you can "connect" with each and every one of them. This means plotting out - and rehearsing -  what you're going to say to your marks. Don't be long winded, be pithy and trenchant. After the obligatory social nicety - what are you doing for the holidays? - ask your rehearsed question about the business. Or your rehearsed questions about their career. Don't forget to give them your personal, 15 second elevator pitch.  Follow up on social media.

All I can say is, if I were at the holiday party with anyone who took this advice, I'd be hitting the egg nog pretty heavily. Not that I would be on anyone's Christmas stalking list. ("Old geezer. Not a C-level. Nobody. Could damage your career to be seen acknowledging her existence.")

I also can imagine that many of those being stalked at the company party actually might want to be having a relaxing time at the party, time free from a bunch of toadying networkers.

It must be terrible being Warren Buffet. ("Oh, sage of Omaha, do you still like railroads? What about NetJet? Do you mind if I 'friend' you?)

So, I'm so glad I don't have to go to any company holiday party.

I'm so glad that I don't live in North Korea.

Forget that, beyond kim chee, I don't speak a word of Korean.

Forget that I'm not wild about cold, hunger, and drab gray clothing.

Forget that I like to read something other than biographies of the glorious leader.

Forget that I don't want to live any place where this describes typical TV news fare:

...a story about Kim Jong-Il touring a pickle plant ran for 30 mind-numbing minutes. It is perhaps not so much news as Pyongyang's version of George Orwell's 1984.

"Comrade Kim is determined to supply good food products to the people", says the reporter.

"Kim says a supply of nutritious pickles to the people of the North is essential." (Source: ABC/Australia News.)

Forget that living in a total-totalitarian society, glorifying the glorious leader, spending the entire year eagerly anticipating the ribbon dance I would do with 100,000 other ribbon dancers on the glorious leader's birthday, would not be my cup of green tea.

Nope, forget all that.

Now the glorious leadership has - to stave off any free-market impulses that might be emerging out of the cold, hunger, and drab gray - have revalued the currency.  And have wiped out most of the savings of their dirt poor population. Not that there was all that much to buy in North Korea, other than those nutritious pickles.

Still, to have your savings wiped out.

I'm so glad I don't live in North Korea.

Sure, there are a lot of other things I'm glad about. But these are the top two for today.

Where are they now? An update on Marilee Jones

Every once in a while, I ask myself, whatever happened with that person/place/thing/situation that I blogged about back in the day.

What about those kids at Hanover, NH high school who cheated?  What about the rift that formed among the full-bearded Santas? How about the guy who tried to buy the co-op down the street from where I live, but claims he was blackballed because he was Irish Catholic and the building was full of snotty WASPs. (That was one of my original posts, over three years ago now.  I don't know what happened to John Walsh, the protagonist in my post, but I will note that I walk by the building he was trying to get into every day. The unit he was after was on the first floor, street level with no frontage separating the building from the street. The unit, as far as I can tell, remains unoccupied.)

Sure, there are some recurring characters in my blogs - Bernie and Ruthie Madoff  had an evergreen run for a while - but mostly, once something's in the rear-view mirror, I don't look back.

But when the update presents itself to me, well.... Clearly I need to jump on it. Especially when I am in desperate need of a blog post, am grasping for ideas - do I have time to read Super Freakonomics tonight? - and I'm really, really tired. Plus my nose is really, really cold.

Thus, I read with interest an article in today's NY Times, conveniently available yesterday when I was on the hunt for a blog topic, on Marilee Jones, the MIT dean of admissions who was caught up in a scandal a couple of years ago because of a few more-than-little-white-lies on her CV.

I just re-read my blog post on Marilee, and I must say it's an essay that stands the test of time. (And I'm not just saying that because I'm really, really tired. And my nose is really, really cold.)  See for yourself.

Anyway, Ms. Jones has resurfaced, and is doing something that she is highly qualified to do: set up a consulting business, working with admissions offices and parents.

“I dropped off the grid, on purpose,” she said in a recent interview. “I needed time to reground and heal.”

She's also gone full mid-life: she's moved to NYC and gotten a divorce.

Good luck, Marilee, in your new venture. What you did to cause your fall from grace was human, forgivable, and pretty much did no harm (other to you and your family - which is not nothing, but nonetheless....)

As une femme d'un certain age I wish her all the best, and note with interest that she's not looking for full time work.

“I don’t want to work that hard,” she said. “And at this point in my life, I’m not interested in institutions that don’t really move me.”

I can certainly identify with her feelings here, but I'm guessing that she'll be working plenty hard with those NYC parents who are willing to fork over $500 to pick her brain about getting their little darlings into an Ivy.

The perfect snowball maker

I'm a big L.L. Bean fan, and I like nothing better than getting a paper catalog. Although nothing all that much changes from year to year, I eagerly browse through, turning down corners on the items I need and/or want. And then I go online to buy them. (I really should call in, however, because the folks who work the order lines there are really nice and I do want to keep them employed.)

So I was quite content paging through the big, fat holiday catalog that showed up last week.

Perhaps it has been there for years, but one item that jumped out at me as I grazed the book, trying to decide which of my turtlenecks - the ones with the necks stretched from turtle to tortoise - are ratty enough to merit replacement:

A snowball and snow castle maker, which - for $29.95  - will let you "build snow forts and fill them with perfect snowballs."

Hey, kids, and all you moms and dads out there. Here's something you might not be aware of. You can actually build a snow fort and fill it with snowballs (although they may not be perfect) for free.

Here's how you build a fort:

• Make sure the snow has some moisture. If it's all poofy-powdery, make some snow angels. Jump into drifts. Once the snow gets down the back of your neck - which probably isn't allowed these days - go back inside for a cup of cocoa.
• If the snow has some moisture, scope out area where you want your fort to be. If you're anticipating that your fort might be attacked - which probably isn't allowed these days - and you don't have enough kids to cover all sides, look for a location where your back is protected. Up against the house won't do - windows could get broken - but up against a wooden fence or hedgerow would work.
• Pace out the perimeter. Don't get over enthusiastic here. Just because every room in your McMansion is the size of the house your grandparents were raised in doesn't mean you need a McSnowfort. You just need enough room to fit all the kids who a working on the snow fort with you.  (Note: before pacing out the perimeter, make sure you're wearing your galoshes.)
• Situate yourself and your posse within the perimeter. Start pushing the snow out to build up the walls. You can use a shovel. But don't go down to grass level. It's more fun if the floor is snow-covered.
• Pack the snow down as you go. You can use a shovel. If you need more snow, get some from outside the fort. You can do this by carrying the snow in  your arms or pushing it. You can use a shovel.
• Don't be discouraged. Your original idea was that the fort was going to be over your head height, and would have cool window holes, so you could spy on your enemies and throw snowballs through. This is way too much effort. Plus you can't throw snowballs very effectively through a window hole.
• Settle for waist high.
• Then settle for knee high.
• Decide whether you'd be better off with Plan B, which is to find a big mound of snow that the plow has left, and either declare it a fort as is, or hollow some of it out. This probably isn't allowed. The plow could come back and crush you.
• Either way, you now have a fort.
• If it's really cold, you can get a couple of pans of water to pour on your fort. This will turn the walls to ice. Caution: if it's not that cold out, this will turn the walls to mush.
• Now, you can continue to play, or you can come to the realization that your galoshes aren't water proof and your feet are wet. That snot has frozen to your cheeks. And that what you really want to do is take a picture of your cool fort and put it on your Facebook page.  In which case, some jerk will no doubt come over and write something on your wall making fun of your cruddy snow fort.
• You aren't allowed to swear, but under your breath you call your dad an a-hole because he wouldn't get you the L.L. Bean fort maker. You realize too late - with global warming, this might be it for snow this year - that you should have asked your aunt with no kids to get you one.

If you're still outside, you now have a fort. So you need snowballs. (Note: you can make snowballs even if you don't have a fort.)

Here's how you make a snowball.

• First, see instructions on what to do if snow is poofy-powdery.
• Then, if it's okay to proceed, make sure that you're wearing mittens.
• Scoop up snow with both hands.
• With back and forth wrist motion, pack the snow into a ball.
• Place inside fort (if you have one).
• Your original idea is that you will have a pile of snowballs the height of the fort.  (Here's where you realize it's not so bad to have a fort that's only knee high.) The other part of your original idea is that your cache of snowballs will look like the pyramid of cannon balls at Fort Ticonderoga.
• It won't.
• Don't get discouraged.
• And don't do something evil like embed a stone or a block of ice in your snowballs. You could take someone's eye out with that. Or break a car window of a cantankerous old geezer (ha-ha), or some nice lady coming home from the pediatrician with her 6 month old baby. You could end up wrecking someone's car, or hurting someone bad. Even if nothing happens to anyone, the cantankerous old geezer could be so pissed off that he complains to your parents. This could be big trouble. You could be blamed. You could have your Facebook privileges taken away. Or your ultra-cool parents (who knew?) could yell at the old geezer, and tell him to get off your property or they'll call the police. (Ha-ha.)
• In any case, you now have at least a few snowballs.
• If there's no enemy gang to attack, divide up your crew. Make half go outside the fort. (Whoever's yard it is gets to stay in the fort. Just because.)
• Throw snowballs back and forth until a) you run out of snowballs which, even though they are a rather renewable resource, are actually boring to make in large lots; or b) some whiner actually gets (fake) hurt, or decides that it's no fair that he/she's stuck outside the fort he/she helped build, or gets snow down the back of his/her neck and calls it quits.
• Decide that this was sort of fun, but that it would have been better if you'd had that snowball maker, because then your snowballs would have been perfect.
• Make a note to ask your aunt to get you one next Christmas.
• Decide that it would be even more fun to have a snowball maker that was automated.
• Go into the house to invent one.
• Get bored inventing the automated snowball maker - inventing's so hard.
• Search on line for automated snowball maker.
• Discover to your chagrin that everyone in your class is madly texting about what a lame-o dork loser you are to be spending time building a fort and throwing snowballs when you could have been texting.
• Inform your parents that you don't feel well, and that you may be too sick to go to school tomorrow.
• Lay down on your bed and feel sorry for yourself.
• Plot revenge on your enemies, including fantasizing about throwing a humongous snowball with a big rock in it right through the screen of your arch-enemy's laptop.
• Call your great-grandmother in Naples, Florida, and ask if you can move in with her. No perfect or imperfect snow forts and snowballs to worry about there.

The perfect snowball maker! Bah, humbug.

There's a snowball's chance in hell I'll ever be buying one!

And don't get me going on those snowman making kits...

 

 

 

 

What IF the Hokey-Pokey is what it's all about?

I've always been a fan of both reading the obituaries (a.k.a., the Irish sports pages) and asking the "big questions". (Who am I? Why are we here? Why did it take me nearly fifty years of bra-wearing to get one that fits?)

So, quite naturally, I had to click through on an obit in The New York Times the other day on the death of Robert Degen, one of multiple claimants to the authorship of the "Hokey Pokey".

Degen passed on to the Chicken Dance in the Sky at the age of 104, if not exactly demonstrating that the "Hokey Pokey" keeps you young, then at least showing that putting your left hand in and taking your left hand out doesn't hurt.

It's the provenance of the "Hokey Pokey" that's apparently been shaken all about.

It was popularized in the U.S. in the early 1950's trough a recording by the Ray Anthony Orchestra, as the B side to the "Bunny Hop." While I am quite familiar with the "Bunny Hop" - dah-da-dah-da-dah-da, dah-da-dah-da-dah-dah, dah-da-dah-da-dah-da, hop-hop hop - I am mighty confident in asserting that Side B has long surpassed Side A in terms of usage. Still, "Bunny Hop" and "Hokey Pokey". What an A-B punch.

Anthony's recording was of the Larry LaPrise version, created in the late 1940's by LaPrise and the Ram Trio at Sun Valley, Idaho, as a bit of après ski diversion. Talk about a kinder, gentler time. Think of all those wholesome, rosy cheeked, hot toddy guzzling sophisticates - just in from a schuss on their long wooden skis - hokey-pokeying up a storm in their reindeer sweaters. Fast forward to a junior high mixer of today, where the little darlings are grinding to Kanye West....

But before there was Larry LaPrise, there was Robert Degen, who, in 1944, had copyrighted "The Hokey Pokey Dance."

Degen sued LaPrise, and the case settled out of court, with both parties agreeing to shared ownership.  The rights ended up in Sony's hands, and Degen's son reported that his father received regular royalty payments over the years - using a 2005 check for $47K as a proof point. ($47K worth of hokey-pokey! Note to self: write novelty tune.)

But wait, there's more.

Soldiers stationed in England during WW II cut the rug to the "Hokey Cokey", penned by either songwriter Jimmy Kennedy or bandleader Al Tabor.

All this over the "Hokey Pokey."

And, of course, there's even more.

Just as the origins of the "Hokey Pokey" are muddled, so is the root of that dynamic duo of a name.

It may or may not be derived from "hocus pocus". Which may or may not be derived from "hoc est corpus meum" - words used in the consecration of the host during the Roman Catholic mass.

At considerable risk of limb, I dragged out my Abridged Oxford English Dictionary; dug up a magnifying glass; and looked up the definition of "hocus pocus." Certainly, there's some logic that ties "hocus pocus" - conjuring, magic -  to "hoc est...."  But there's no definitive proof that the term was intended to parody the Catholic mass. None whatsoever.

I didn't look it up when I opened the OED to check out "hocus pocus", and I was absolutely not going to lug the tome out again, but I'm a-guessin' that the OED is silent on hokey-pokey.

There has, however, been some brouhaha of late in Scotland over the use of the "Hokey Pokey" as a taunt used by the fans of the Scots football team, the Rangers, aimed at the fans of the Scots football team Celtic.

In much the same way as Catholics are likely to cheer, cheer for old Notre Dame, so, I suspect Mormons root for BYU and Methodists are fans of Southern Methodist.  For whatever reason - perhaps the name "Celtic" is a giveaway - the Irish, including Scots of Irish lineage, support Celtic.  Many of these fans are nominally Catholic. Many of the fans of Ranger are nominally Protestant.

Fans being fans, they feverishly take up sides. And, apparently when it comes to football chanting, fans in the UK are a bit more creative and demonstrative than just chanting "[Enemy Team's Name Goes Here] suck!" And, unlike in the States, where the rally songs - in Boston, that would be "Shipping up to Boston" and "Sweet Caroline" for the Red Sox - are sung in support of your team, in the UK, they're used against the opposition. And they can be a bit more biting than Yankees fans chanting "Who's your Daddy" to Pedro Martinez, who, many years ago, made the ill-considered decision to say, after a major loss to the Yankees, that they were his Daddy.

On the Glasgow football pitch, Ranger fans started using the "Hokey Pokey" (or was it the "Hokey Cokey"?) to get in the face of Celtic fans.

There is apparently quite a history of fairly mean-spirited, droogish bigotry associated with football in the UK, with fans making fun of the race, creed, and national origin of any and all players who are even a bit other-ish. (Remember, this is the country that gave the world the soccer hooligan.  Hooligan. Hmmmmmm. That sounds like a non-PC word, if ever.) So it's not as ridiculous as it might first appear that some took umbrage to the use of the "Hokey Pokey" as a football chant.

Still, it does seem somewhat ludicrous that, last year, some in the R.C. hierarchy in Scotland toyed with the idea that chanting the "Hokey Pokey" should be outlawed and categorized as a hate crime. (Had they so little else on their plate to contend with?)

I didn't know Robert Degen, but I bet he and Larry LaPrise are both rolling around in their respective graves, putting their right foot in, taking their right foot out...

You know how it goes: if the "Hokey Pokey" is outlawed, only outlaws will do the "Hokey Pokey."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Is it just me, or does the banner ad for Bob Dylan's Christmas album appear every time I look at a news story in the New York Times? Is this particular to me, an example of the too smart Internet that knows that I both googled on and blogged about said CD? If it's particular to me, note to the Internet: I already bought a copy. Two, in fact: one so I could write about how awful it is first hand, rather than just imagine it in the abstract; the other as a gag gift. So, NYT, cease and desist with the Bob banners already.

And speaking of Bob's "Christmas in the Heart", when I was wrestling with the OED, I accidentally turned my CD player on, and there was Bob croaking  "Little Town of Bethlehem."

Just in time for Christmas: Walmart pays up

There'll be a bit more jingle in the pockets of Walmart workers in Massachusetts.

The Boys from Bentonville have settled a nearly decade-old class-action suit, and will be paying $40M out to upwards of 87,500 workers (current and past).

The class action lawsuit was filed in 2001 and accused the retailer of denying workers rest and meal breaks, refusing to pay overtime and manipulating time cards to lower employees’ pay.

Payouts will range from $400 - $2.5K, and the article I saw in yesterday's Boston Globe stated that the average worker will be getting $734. (Must be the new math. By my calculation, in order for 87,500 people to average $734, the payout would have to be $64M, not $40M. And that's without the lawyers. However, this could be one of those mode-mean-median situations. We've ruled out "mean", so maybe this is the mode. Or the median. Man, what a pain in the butt to have a parochial school education compounded by a couple of years spent in grad school at MIT. Can't just take the numbers on face value.)

Whatever the amount is, it's probably not enough to make up for having to actually work at a Walmart. But it's also a nice boost to someone making $12.66/hour (which is what Wally-workers earn in Massachusetts).  A $400 payout translates into 31.5 hours of work -  nothing to sneeze into a Puff about, especially these days.

Let us hope that the workers use the money wisely, and don't spend it all loading up carts full of crap they don't need. Although, having just dropped a birthday bundle on really good bras for the first time in my life, who am I to carp about non-essentials.

Anyway, according to Bloomberg,

The Massachusetts agreement brings the total amount of Walmart wage-and-hour lawsuit settlements to almost $900 million.

$40M, $900M.

We think 'ka-ching'; Walmart just yawns.

In their last quarter reported, Walmart's revenues neared $100B, with earnings of $3B.

So the $40M they'll be paying out in Massachusetts barely makes a dent.

Which makes you kinda-sorta wonder why Walmart has historically had such heinous overtime, hours, and lunch break practices in place. It's not like they'd be living on the edge if they didn't behave like such inhumane, rapacious jerks. Not to mention the fact that, if they did have a better reputation for treating their workers decently, more people would be inclined to shop there.

Surely, no one hops in the mini-van to head out on a shopping excursion saying to themselves, 'Hot damn, I can't wait to pull into the parking lot at Walmart. Just knowing that they treat their employee like crap - and that that 70 year old greeter is going without lunch - makes me want to buy an extra canned ham and flat-screen TV.'

And just as surely, someone who at present loathes and despises Walmart might be more inclined to go there to load up on Cottonelle and tube socks if they thought that the company, while maybe not the type of store they really want in their town, at least behaves decently towards the poor souls who don't have much choice, except to work there.

More inventions, good, bad, indifferent

A couple of weeks ago, I posted on the first half of an excellent list of inventions that Time published. Just based on the names of the inventions - Dandelion Rubber, Wooden Bones, the Edible Racing Car - Round Two promises to be another venture into the Mind of the Inventor.

The Robo-Penguin, flying under water, is beautiful to look at. But it doesn't appear, as yet, to have any function following its form. The company intends to adapt it for automated production systems. 'Til then...swim on, oh robo-penguin. Frankly, I would much rather watch you swim aimlessly than have to sit through The March of the Penguins for the second time. (Life, it is so cruel. We march. We march some more. We march some more. And then we die.)

Until I saw this list, I hadn't realized that rubber trees are being wiped out by a fungus. So it's a good thing that someone's come up with Dandelion Rubber. Just think. All those years my father spent digging out every dandelion that dared assault his front lawn. We could have been living on a rubber plantation. Who knew?

Wooden Bones brings to mind George Washington's wooden teeth,  but, because they're organic, they acclimate to your body better than metal bones do. I will keep this in mind if and when (probably when) I'll need a hip or knee replacement. Wonder if you can special order? I would like cherry. Or birch, which is nice and bendable.

The School of One - individualized learning that incorporates interactive games - is probably the wave of the future, as there will be pressure on teachers to come up with bespoke lesson plans that take into account each child's learning style and needs. The other way of achieving the School of One is to put Sister Paulina in front of one-hundred 7th and 8th students, doubled up two-to-a-desk when Sister Florence takes ill. So what if it took a couple of months to replace Sister Flo? Sister Paulina could create that School of One by sheer force of will, the fear factor, and the snip-snap of her clicker.  Individualized learning plans? Fuggedaboutit.

Shut up, open your books, and let the learning begin.

An enterprising Spanish inventor, Pep Torres, has come up with The Human-Powered Vending Machine , by which those who want a snack have to pedal on a stationary bicycle in order to earn their goodie. He's hoping to install this in schools and subway stations. What happens if your train comes in when you're half-way to a bag of M&M's?  And how does the vendor get paid? Ergs? Or do you have to pedal and put in cash. This idea might be more applicable for use in the home. If I had to pedal every time I wanted a Skinny Cow fudge bar, that could only be a good thing. But mostly I suspect it's a non-starter.

With Meat Farms, we'll be growing chicken breasts and leg of lamb in petri dishes. On the upside, we won't have to worry so much about animals ingesting crap (their own and that of others), salmonella, e coli, animal torture, and all the other worrisome things that accompany the non-vegan life. On the downside.... shudder, shudder.

When I read the name The Levitating Mouse, my first thought was computer peripheral, and I was starting to imagine the benefits of having one that levitates. Alas, it's a literal way to suspend a mouse in mid-air, using magnets, as part of space research. With a levitating mouse, can the levitating mousetrap be far behind?

The Edible Race Car is not really edible, it's just eco-friendlier than a gas-guzzling Escalade. It's a Formula 3 rac car that:

...has carrot fibers in its steering wheel, potato starch in its side mirrors and cashew-nut shells in its brake pads. The whole thing runs on a biodiesel mix of chocolate and vegetable oil.

As someone who's had rat infestation under the hood, I would not recommend that anyone park this buggy in an urban area. If rats like wires, what would they make of cashew-shell brake pads?

Someone's figured out how to make silk out of spider webs. Unfortunately, the business model's not quite there yet. It took 4 years, half a million bucks, and 1 million spiders (give or take) to spin up an 11 foot long piece of cloth. (Spiderweb Silk)  Sounds like it's time to figure out how to dramatically increase the size of a spider - and I don't want to be around when that happens. (Eek!)

Since I singularly lack the inventor's imagination, I find that it's always fun to read about the feats of those who invent. Even if half the time wondering, what were they thinking?

 

You say it's your birthday. It's my birthday too, yeah.

And what a birthday it is: The Big 6-0.

Despite the blogging and the Blackberry, I'm getting on in years.

Just typing and posting that, I feel like I'm coming out of a closet. Yikes! Now the people I work with and for, who probably think I'm somewhere in my 50's - which I was, up until just yesterday - will know the wrinkled truth.  You're 60? What's up with that? No one but no one over the age of 60 is still working in high tech product marketing.

We were supposed to have struck it big by now, cashed in, cashed out. Too bad all those options I was granted over the years ended up snorkling.

On Thanksgiving Day, my (65 year old) cousin said, "It's just a number."

But it's not, really.

Yes, I can realistically expect to live for another 25, 30, 35 years - here's hoping in pretty good health, working and/or volunteering for as long as I can, surrounded by the people I care about. But there's no getting around the fact that, statistically speaking, I'm now lumped in with the elderly. (Although I did find one definition of middle age that extends it to 64. Bless you, Erik Erikson, for that.)

So, I haven't exactly welcomed this birthday with open arms and a big wide grin. I have, in fact, surprised myself by how much I have been dreading it. (Surprised myself because not one of the other big birthdays: The Big 3-0, The Big 4-0, The Big 5-0, bothered me in the least.) But The Big 6-0? The song I'm actually associating it with is not the Beatles' Birthday Song, but Barry McGuire's Eve of Destruction.

I can't really put a finger on just what is bugging me about sixty.

Maybe it's just the wistfulness of knowing that from here on out will be, more or less, the home stretch. Or the anticipation of the losses in my generation that will be starting, if not in this decade, then soon enough. Two close friends lost sisters (both in their mid-sixties) to cancer in the last year. Yes, they died too young - but not remarkably so.

Maybe I'm just jealous of all the beautiful, sexy, on the go young people I see out there who have it all ahead of them. And who haven't yet caught on to the fact that they're going to die someday, too.  I've always known the 'going to die someday' bit - you can't grow up Irish-Catholic and not have that knowledge in your repertoire. But I am jealous that "the kids" do have it all ahead of them.  Damn! I want to get a big promotion. Make out with my boyfriend in a bar. Show off my legs in a mini-skirt. (They're still good, at least from the front.) But of course I won't be doing any of the above.

And then there are the little physical markers. The crepey skin on my arms. (When did that happen?) The need for ever more powerful reading lights. The cold tip of my nose. (Sign of aging.) Not to mention the small memory glitches. I used to never forget a name or a face. Sure, there are a lot more names and faces to remember at this point in life, but it's starting to happen occasionally. (We've met?)

Which is not to say that I won't have adventures, fun, interesting work, travel (Paris next May!)...

And look at my fellow 49-ers: Bruce Springsteen, Meryl Streep. Still going strong.

Of course, they have achieved greatness, something I haven't managed to do. (I am, of course, still waiting for greatness to be thrust upon me. Who isn't?)

All in all, this is the homestretch. And I know it. It's still my world, but just barely. Mostly it's the world for the rising generations.

When my Aunt Margaret was in her early eighties, she was visiting my cousin at the Cape. She went for a swim, and when she got out of the water, she told her daughter that this was the last time in her life she'd go in. It was.

I'm sure it will be many years before I start marking off those 'last times', if I ever do. (Driving a car, flying to Europe, wearing jeans.)

Still, I'm feeling a little bittersweet about this birthday.

You say it's your birthday. It's my birthday, too, yeah.