Listen to Jim’s 4-minute podcast:  https://youtu.be/UZnbff1NVcU

or read on…

Life, actually…

.

IGNORABLE ADVICE FROM THE PAGES OF GEEZER QUARTERLY MAGAZINE

.

These notes fell out of my Red Clay Diary this morning. They apply solely to guys who are so far gone in age they are largely invisible to younger folks. Here goes…

.

Personal-appearance tips from the Down South imaginary pages of GQ (Geezer Quarterly) Magazine.

.

FASHION TIPS FOR GEEZERS:

.

If you’re going to primp, do it once a day, preferably right before you let anybody else see you. It looks vain to keep checking your cowlick or your comb-over or your bald pate all day, so just do it right one time and forget about it. One of the perks of being aged and over the hill is you can walk around all day looking unkempt, simply because nobody notices.

.

Throw away all your socks and get a dozen pair in just one color, maybe black. That way, you don’t have to waste time finding matching partners. Black goes with everything. If you’re a geezer, people expect you to wear unmatched socks. Black dissolves that problem.

.

If you don’t want your considerable gut to call attention to itself, wear a black (there’s that color again!) shirt or a Book-‘Em-Danno shirt. Book-‘Em-Danno shirts are so colorful and distracting that nobody will focus on your flab. Besides, it’s kind of OK to be chunky when you’re wearing a Book-‘Em-Danno shirt. But if you want to remain invisible, do the black shirt thing.

.

The no-iron rule: select all casual clothes based on whether they have to be pressed after washing. Ironing is a waste of time and, like I said, after a certain age, everybody expects you the geezer to be wrinkled, but nobody expects your clothes to be wrinkle-free. Beware of friends and acquaintances who have their jeans washed, starched and ironed. There’s something a little bit wrong there.

.

Never, never do a comb-over…unless you go all the way. Comb-overs have the same effect on people as toupees and hair club do-overs. Everybody notices them. And the best un-kept secret about toupees and wigs is: If you wear one, that’s all anybody will ever remember about you. Period.*

.

*Exception to the toupee rule: Give actors and performers a pass on their toupees. It’s how they make their living. They have to look good to get jobs. Just enjoy how good-looking they are and stop with the snarky remarks.

.

All day each day, avoid looking at yourself in mirrors. It will only demoralize you. Nothing more disturbing than seeing the reflection of some old saggy baggy guy and suddenly realizing it’s you. Best to cherish how you appeared at your best in high school. You can edit out the remembered acne, of course.

.

Each pocket you add to your shirt ages you another decade. One pocket is useful, two pockets are overkill—you might as well wear a protector. The coolest thing to do is wear shirts without pockets, since pockets only encourage you to stuff things into them, thus bulking you up even more.

.

On the other hand, make sure you utilize all the pockets in your trousers. Keep everything in them for easy access…and don’t ever wear a belt pouch/fanny pack (it looks like a snake that just swallowed something really huge). This allows you to keep both hands free, swinging loose and easy.

.

Don’t get me started about shoes. I learned early on that the only shoes worth wearing are the ones that fit comfortably from the first moment you put them on. If they hurt in the store, they’re never going to stop.

.

Don’t wear trousers unless your pockets contain a set of keys, IDs, money.  This prevents hours of lost time searching for the above. Don’t put them down anywhere, ever!

.

Had enough of this for one sitting?

.

Why not absorb today’s GQ tips and see whether they work for you? If you don’t happen to be a geezer yet, look what you’re missing!

.

And stay tuned for more geezer wisdom as it occurs. Or recurs

.

2023 A.D. by Jim Reed

.

.

Life, actually…

.

BIG SHUNNARAH IS WATCHING YOU

.

“How’s your mom’n’em?” asks Dora, as she fills a fresh-licked white plastic bag with thrift store wearables. Her register is asking for  payment of $15.45.

.

Alice, her friend on the other side of Dora’s counter, is riffling through a large slouchy handbag in search of wallet and workable credit card. As she fishes she smiles and provides Dora with a truncated genealogy of life-up-to-now family facts.

.

I’m the eavesdropper in line just behind Alice. I take my time and listen and observe. This is more fun than anything on the internet or the tube.

.

I’ve dropped a few eaves in my time.

.

Alice and Dora have known each other a long while, but at this moment one is customer, the other is accepter of payment. Family ties run through the conversation as smoothly as Jergen’s Lotion salves a rough spot. A few phrases transform updates into small endearing stories.

.

I am relieved to learn that all is well with mom’n’em and, with an occasional sidebar about kin being arrested or taken ill, life is proceeding with surprise and predictability.

.

Dora and Alice finish their exchange and part ways with smiles and warmth and mutual “Y’all come to see us!” declarations.

.

I’m next up. I place selected books on the counter and Dora begins scanning prices into a keyboarded device, pausing each time the machine fails to do its job, mumbling while she has to hand-enter rows of numbers. She pulls a fresh plastic bag from its rack, licks her fingers to make opening the bag easier, slaps the bag by its body-shirt handles, and balloons it big enough to drop the books in.

.

“You need to press this button and sign this screen with your finger and then sign this paper receipt in order to please the pencil-pusher who set up this redundant and time-wasting system,” she says. Only, she doesn’t say anything of the kind—she just thinks this with a bored frown. She and I silently agree that the only way to get through the day at the counter is to take breaks, grab lunch, gossip with other employees, and occasionally catch up on friends and relatives and strangers who pass by.

.

As I drive away from the store and head back to my village, I glance here and there, amazed at the gigantic billboards mostly filled with images of a smiling attorney screaming “CALL ME ALABAMA.” No commas needed.

.

What would my normal day be like if I didn’t see and hear a dozen BIG SHUNNARAH IS WATCHING YOU messages? What would my day be like if I couldn’t catch up on mom’n’em and all the real, living adventures that await friendly inquiry?

.

Knowing about mom’n’em enriches my time and makes me want to call distant family and catch up. Big Shunnarah doesn’t seem to matter at all

.

© Jim Reed 2023 A.D.

.

.

Life, actually…

.

DEEP COOLING THOUGHTS DOWN SOUTH

AT NINETY DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

.

Each summer in my Down South village, it gets so hot that all I can do is think back…recall icy cold days, and try to lower the weighted temperature.

.

Here’s a ten-year-old winter memory from the pages of my tattered and true Red Clay Diary. Hope it cools your brow:

.

There are more amazements on the frozen streets of Birmingham than are dreamt of in all philosophies.

.

Life, actually…

.

NEXT UP! DANCING AROUND THOSE UNSOLICITED OPINIONS

.

“Duck!” is what I want to shout whenever somebody gets close to my face and begins to recite THAT STORY THEY KEEP TELLING.

.

“Duck!” is my knee-jerk reaction when THAT STORY THEY KEEP TELLING begins to roll out and fill all available space.

.

“Stop and really listen!” is my contrarian shout that immediately follows the duck! volley.

.

Yes, you guessed it—my life overfloweth with characters like myself, people who have deeply-felt opinions—opinions with no place to go. Having no place to go with these long-held rants, many THAT STORY THEY KEEP TELLING folks pick on me. I am easy pickings.

.

After all, I am a dutiful prisoner of my own workplace, a stalwart of my family, a casual victim of wherever I am at the moment.

.

Getting trapped and encapsulated by one of these THAT STORY THEY KEEP TELLING people is something I must endure, something I am slowly beginning to appreciate.

.

Being mostly an internal and private person guarantees that my basic instinct is to avoid at all cost being cornered by the rants and rages of strangers.

.

But here in this lovely Down South village I am learning to stop and listen, pause and ponder, observe and ruminate…whenever a THAT STORY denizen needs to mouth off and show off and plead for attention.

.

I am actually getting better at listening.

.

Are you also a deflector of THAT STORY people? Maybe you know what I’m talking about.

.

My entire life has been spent defending my small solitude of a mind, defending it against encroachment by those who would like to move in and take up space. Perhaps I have been unfair to many of these rant-tellers. Maybe not all of them want to storm my defenses and take over…maybe some of them simply wish to vent, then move on.

.

As I learn to listen more, I make fewer wisecracks—wisecracks being my main weapon against alien or forbidden ideas that these ranters wish to implant. Wisecracks have protected me from many attacks by bullies and shamers and predators and needier-than-thou warriors.

.

But wisecracks also can keep me so isolated that I miss the special gifts that some folks unknowingly offer. When I stop and examine what’s really happening during one of these storytelling episodes, I find that there is a kind of wisdom and fellow-human-being confidentiality that can be helpful or comforting.

.

When I stop and lay down my armor and my weapons—in the form of defensiveness or resistance or smart-aleck remarks or fake emergencies—I can actually appreciate what is going on.

.

Of course, the ranters have their own limitations. Some are beyond help, having long ago given up being taken seriously. Some have stopped looking for cues as to whether they are being heard.

.

But now and then, now and then, one of those THAT STORY THEY KEEP TELLING people will pause and, taking my signal, take a deep breath at the same time I am taking a deep breath. Now and then, now and then, I and thou will leap from the swirling habits we’ve established…and actually hear each other.

.

When that leap of recognition occurs, even if temporary, great understanding and humanity can rear themselves and actual real-life conversation can commence.

.

This is something to strive for. I need this kind of progress now and then.

.

I need to disarm. I need to peek into the abyss. Just to see whether a really good day is about to jump out and happy-fy me despite myself

.

© Jim Reed 2023 A.D.

.

.

Life, actually…

.

WHICH FIRST? BOOK OR EGG?

.

Way back when, so many years ago I can’t count, I am a nine-year-old peering at a vending machine, sweaty-palmed nickel in hand, wondering…

.

I wonder what will pop out of that machine once the coin drops. What Cracker Jack-type prize will next grace the innards of the battered cigar box I keep under the bed at home.

.

Everything is nine-year-old magical in my mind. Everything glistens with mystery and meaning.

.

The vending machine is Pandora’s Box to me, only I choose to make Pandora a guardian of good and fun instead of a portender of pestilence and horror. As an avid reader I have already experienced the thrill of changing lore of old to suit my own imaginary world.

.

Whatever is in that machine will cause my imagination to take off and build a story to comfort me in the dead of night.

.

The old cigar box patiently awaits the arrival of Pandora Boy—me. Whatever lovely memory I add to its contents will improve and enrich my short time on this small planet.

.

Now, the time is Today. At the bookstore, Allie is searching the front display table for one elusive old book that will be shipped to one elusive old customer, once found.

.

“What’s this?” she asks, holding open a hollowed-out book, a book containing no words. A book someone has carefully crafted to look normal to the casual browser. A book intended to hide some treasure.

.

I explain that I have found hollowed-out books now and then for many years—some filled with trinkets and treasures, some hiding love letters, some securing diaries, some waiting to be filled with secrets.

.

These time capsules almost always are nondescript, adding to their invisibility. If a book’s cover and title instantly bore you, you are not apt to open it for further examination. The hidden secrets remain hidden secrets. Think what you may have missed.

.

Allie reverently closes the hollow book and makes it invisible again, waiting for someone—maybe Pandora Boy—to hide something really special within.

.

I walk to the front of the shop and stand before the old vending machines filled with invisible delights.

.

Whenever anyone—a child of fifty or a child of five—places two quarters into the metallic slots, turns the handle to dispense the surprises, a colorful plastic egg pops out. Each egg contains various miscellaneous objects designed to mystify or delight or puzzle the five to fifty child.

.

Each egg brings a nine-year-old smile back to my face and jolts me into the Good Pandora parts of life that are always worth exploring

.

© Jim Reed 2023 A.D.

.

Life, actually…

.

THE MAN WHO COULD PREDICT THE PAST

.

I live mostly in the past.

.

Why, you ask, do I make such a statement?

.

For one thing, back here in the Past, I can re-enact all things troublesome and make them somewhat more bearable. Or at least re-sort them into less mysterious configurations.

.

What I shoulda done. What I shoulda said. What if I had turned this way instead of that way, at just the right moment?

.

What really happened that time back then, instead of what I supposed was happening?

.

Great questions to ask myself when my brain is in between heavy copings and lazy meanderings.

.

Anyhow, come join me in re-organizing the past. Seeing life from different angles can be useful. Or at least hilarious.

.

Let’s suppose I could actually alter the past, thus altering the future? Would I do anything significant, or would I just pick on the little things?

.

I wave my magic wand and proclaim:

.

NATIONAL NO HONKING DAY. Lay that heavy hand down and listen to the quiet.

.

.

Life, actually…

.

 WEARING PEE-WEE’S PLAY SUIT

 After many decades of living, loving and getting by, I’ve come to the conclusion that everybody feels cool at least once in a lifetime–maybe even a few times in a lifetime for the lucky ones.

.

Life, actually…

.

NOVELS DOODLED ON STICKY NOTES

.

Some people doodle their thoughts, then wad and toss them. Being a keeper of things, I tend to save my own doodles for later examination.

.

Here are four stories I have doodled and archived on sticky notes.

.

You are now my sticky-note judge and critic.

.

STICKY NOVEL NUMBER ONE:

.

PREMEDITATION

.

Molly was curious to know why her dreaded teacher, Mrs. Philbin—the one who always looked like she’d just bitten into a lemon and chased it with a green persimmon—was so cruel to her.

What makes a teacher act like this? she pondered.

Molly couldn’t get Mrs. Philbin’s behavior out of her mind, so she made one covert and desperate attempt to spy on the cruel teacher. Just one more time, to see whether she had misjudged her, to see if she had any redeeming qualities.

One night, peeking into the teacher’s kitchen window, Molly observed Mrs. Philbin biting into a lemon and holding ready a green persimmon.

THE END

.

STICKY NOVEL NUMBER TWO:

.

SCRUNCH

.

“This is the life,” he said to himself, as the sunny beach sand scrunched between his toes.

“It doesn’t get any better than this.”

He was right.

For the next fifty years, nothing got any better.

THE END

.

STICKY NOVEL NUMBER THREE:

.

GIDDYUP

.

Back in the before times, he had driven a horse and buggy for thirty years before finally purchasing a Model-T automobile.

One day, the brakes failed.

As his Model-T hurtled toward a fence, he shouted, WHOA!”

THE END

.

FOURTH AND FINAL STICKY NOVEL:

.

SWEETNESS AND LIGHT

.

The day after the Liberators brought Democracy to the people, the people were heard to cry out, “Hey, why isn’t everything perfect now? You and your Democracy!”

Some of the people yearned for a powerful yet benevolent leader who would provide for them, Democracy or no Democracy.

Since they had not experienced Democracy, they did not miss it.

THE END

.

You are now free to write your own one-page sticky novel.

.

Be not afraid

.

© Jim Reed 2023 A.D.

.