Sunday, July 24, 2016


Let’s see . . .


LOSING MY HAIR? Double check.
RECEPTION OF  VALENTINE? Don’t make me laugh. The last one I ever got was  6 years ago. And oddly enough, I just found it while I was going through some old notebooks. Talk about getting your heart punched. 

BIRTHDAY GREETINGS? Yes, but there’s always somebody I want to hear from who never gets in touch. 

BOTTLE OF WINE? Hell no—at least 2. And red or rosé please.  

STAYING OUT TILL QUARTER TO THREE? At least once a month. 

LOCKED OUT BY YOU WHEN I GET HOME?  There is no “you.” 

WILL YOU STILL NEED ME?  Seriously—who the fuck is “you?” 

WILL YOU STILL FEED ME?  What are you, my mother? 

WHEN I’M 64? That would be today. So, a big N-O to all of that, okay? 

YOU'LL BE OLDER TOO?  Older? Hah! NFW! Seriously—do you even know me? (Cue “Stop dating millennials!” speech from Felicity.) 

COULD I STAY WITH YOU IF YOU SAY THE WORD? Sure—but only if you’re the WRONG you. Which means you don’t have to say a word at all, and I’ll stay no matter what. Because I am 12. 

CAN I BE HANDY?  Let me show you the bookcase I built. You can find it in the surrealist room at MOMA. 

MENDING FUSES WHEN THE LIGHTS BLOW? Not in my wheelhouse. And what, you don’t like the dark? 

WILL YOU KNIT A SWEATER BY THE FIRESIDE? You may be able to knit, but there is no way in hell that I am ever going to be able to afford to live where there’s a fireplace. 

SUNDAY MORNINGS GO FOR A RIDE? Sunday mornings go to Kips Bay for a half-price matinee. 

DOING THE GARDEN; DIGGING THE WEEDS?  Going to the Garden; in the weeds. 

WHO COULD ASK FOR MORE? Me. Remember me? The old coot who’s losing his hair? 

WILL YOU STILL NEED ME?  If the “you” here is who I think it is, she never needed me in the first place. 

WILL YOU STILL FEED ME?  She just fed me a line that she needed me. 

WHEN I’M 64? And when she found out that my salary was only 64K, she dumped me. 

SUMMER RENTAL OF A COTTAGE IN THE ISLE OF WIGHT, IF IT’S NOT TOO EXPENSIVE. Cape Cod, maybe—but the Isle of Fucking Wight? Who do I look like, Agatha Christie? 

SCRIMPING AND SAVING? Okay—yes—that I can guarantee. Because I’ll be on Social Security. 

GRANDCHILDREN ON YOUR KNEE?  Only if they’re from your first marriage. 

VERA, CHUCK & DAVE? Who names their kids that? It sounds like a Fifties folk group. “And now, here’s Vera, Chuck And Dave singing their top ten answer to ‘Masters of War,’  ‘Kitchen Of Peace.’ ” 

SEND ME POSTCARDS OR LETTERS IN WHICH YOU STATE YOUR POV.  Actually I’d be happier if you just returned my fucking texts. I’m not holding my breath. 

BE VERY PRECISE ABOUT WHAT YOU MEAN TO SAY?  Okay—that narrows it down—now I know EXACTLY who the “you” is. 

YOUR SIGN THE LETTER “YOURS SINCERELY, WASTING AWAY?” Not even a pathologically honest desiccated corpse would sign a letter to me that way.  

ANSWER REQUESTED? It’ll be no, right? I thought so. 

FORM FILLED IN? Ah, if you could only fill in that form the way you fill in your own. Ba-dump-psh-sh-sh. 

MINE FOR EVERMORE? The three most terrifying words a male will ever ever hear. 

WILL YOU STILL NEED ME?  What I need is a drink. 

WILL YOU STILL FEED ME? And some nachos.
WHEN I'M SIXTY-FOUR. I’ll take a shot for each year, please. Jamey shots for the odd years and Powers shots for the even.

HOO?  Me!


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