Broken Hip

I used to be cool.

Really. I went to dances, was a bon vivant at society affairs, and wasn’t that Jackie O beside me in that photo in the Village Voice? Frankie and Sammy, no second name needed. Henry Kissinger in my Rolodex under “Hank”.

Groovy baby.

But now my 'hip' is broken. Young women think I am the janitor. Teen-aged punks sneer: "old man". My former tonsorial splendor is but a memory, gray and going, going, gone.

Enough of this wallowing in the sty of self-pity.

What assets do I have?

#1. Wits: at least half of them at any given moment.
#2. Family: the kids are alright.
#3. Wife: restricted topic.
#4. God and Country: well one out of two ain't bad.
#5. Real friends: none so close as to want to borrow my tools.
#6. Imaginary friends: some more so than others- just who are these strange people that keep popping up in this blog?
#7. Health: my middle leg neither drips nor droops
#8. Money: enough for a six-pack of German beer once in a while.
#9. Home: yeah. OK, I'm a homeboy, not a player.

So, I’ll have to trade stability for glamour. Frankie and Sammy and Jackie aren’t looking so good themselves right now. I’ll pop open a Spaten and kick back. It could be worse. IÆll put off that “hip” replacement for a while longer.