The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Maybe somebody’s trying to tell me something but lately I’ve been invited to a couple of what I thought were merely get-togethers at local watering holes, a few friends, some new, some old, that turned into preliminary meetings for possible men’s groups.  We could meet monthly, share our latest medical insults, discuss erectile dysfunction remedies, ponder strategies for dealing with the Big D.  All items I might consider useful … just before the nurse yanks the IV’s out and disconnects the ventilator.  The thought of a drum circle of old farts mulling over geriatric distresses, reading treatises on the Final Stage, swapping surgical intrusions and offering comradely commiserations, trust me, if I want to feel old I can do it on my own just fine, thanks.  Insofar as prescriptions for how to cope with geezerhood, I got my own ideas that don’t need to be passed around the tavern table.

Maybe the boyz are going through some ‘stage’ of life, no doubt Chapter 8 in the Aged Man’s Guide to Peace of Mind.  Me, not so much.  Course that might change when I’m diagnosed with (Chapter 2 — Pathologies of the Mature Male), but for now I’m fine with the aches and pains, the soft tissue injuries that take four times longer than when I was young, the memory loss and …, well, no need to write my own book here, there are plenty of tomes to choose from.  And yeah, the Plague Years were a treat.  Lost about 20 friends and neighbors in a little over a year, (Chapter 6 of Grief and Loss for Seniors) what might for some of us lead to troubled inquiries into the tenuousness of our brief existence on this planet, but I’m a yahoo who thinks life is probably long enough, no point reaching for the Methuselah cure and an old age of dementia and parts replacement.  (Chapter 2 —Forget You Have Alzheimers and Enjoy Television).

The boyz are a good crew, plenty enjoyable to quaff a pint or two with, crack wise, compare the latest anecdotes of lives that are more interesting than most, one-up each other since half of us are amateur comics, musicians, filmmakers, writers and fellow artists, what, in a different time and place, might come to be referred to, like the Hudson School or the Paris Group, the Vienna Café or Greenwich Village, as the Camano School.  But that isn’t going to happen either, not if I can help it.  Art, like aging, is not a team sport.  We worked alone all our lives, struggling with our demons and with our muses, by our lonesome.  Too late now to call the hotline for assistance.  Why on earth would anyone think we moved to the South End if we were searching for counseling or consolation or support?  We wanted that, we’d have moved to Stanwoodopolis and whiled away the hours at the Duck Inn with the farmers and the fishermen.  Too late now, boyz.  Too late now.

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