The Wisdom of Elders

Some cultures respect the wisdom of elders. Not us. We follow Facebook, TV evangelism, identity cult politics, and Kardashian's lip and bikini shots. It's okay with me, even though I'm growing long in the tooth. The last thing I want to become is some sort of Jacka$$ Yoda: no thanks!

The band I'm in plays at nursing homes. We do morning gigs because afternoons are "nappy time." Evenings are out because bedtime is shortly after dinner, which is served around 4 PM. They feed us lunch, so we'll stick around and visit with the prisoners. We chew the overcooked cod, mushy carrots, and runny Jell-O infused with brown bananas. Hey, it's well-balanced.

After wrapping up a recent rest-home gig with a bluesy version of, "I Just Don't Look Good Naked Anymore," I meandered through the dining room shouting HELLO! into hearing aids and gently shaking hands, trying not to mash the metacarpals of the Greatest Generation. My goal was to learn from these seasoned elders. Surely the generation that gave us the most expensive health care on the planet, figured out how to melt Antarctica, and elected the world's greatest leader would have a lot to offer.

"Sit here! Hell's the matter with you?" he bellowed.

It was just the two of us at a corner table. He was sporting a polyester powder-blue leisure suit with wide lapels. It was a size too large but likely fit him forty years ago. Old people shrink but just can't part with their cruise wear. He was shod in slip-on surgical slippers and wore a familiar bright red cap. His long ponytail and ZZ Top beard were snow white. He reeked of bourbon.

"Name's Curly," he said. "Wanna know what's wrong with your picking?"

"I guess," I said reluctantly.

"You need to trash that tiny toy geetar and get a real one."

"It's a mandolin."

"I don't give a damn what brand it is, it's too small; probably made in Japan! Advertised as full-size, I bet. They're clever. Gotta watch 'em."

He unbuttoned the front of his leisure suit and exposed a hairy yellow chest. His middle finger traced a jagged nine-inch scar running diagonally from nipple to navel.

"Accident?" I asked.

"Nope. Iwo Jima. I was out of ammo and playing dead in some pucker brush. Tojo tried to gut me like a fish. Them little ones were starving. Gonna make Who Flung What outta me and eat me!"

"Who Flung What sounds more Chinese than Japanese, Curly," I responded.

"What's the difference?"

He grinned and slipped a silver flask out of his pocket then belched, "Buffalo Trace? Close as you're ever gonna get to a real wild buffalo. Them red devils sure didn't leave us none to shoot."

As the bourbon warmed my throat and I asked him, "How old are ya, Curly?"

"I'll be ninety-six in a couple of weeks."

"Curly. You've been alive almost a century. You've seen a lot. Tell me, what's the one thing that disturbs you the most. What really keeps you up at night?"

"Wiping myself!"

"That's your biggest worry?"

"Look-it, junior."

"I'm seventy-two, Curly!"

"All my life I've eviscerated my bowels on a daily basis."

"I think you mean evacuated your bowels, Curly."

"Potato-tomato. Let's say I learned to wipe my tooter at the age of ten. That's eighty-six years times three hundred and sixty-five days." He whipped out a beautiful old bamboo slide rule which his gnarled knuckles manipulated deftly.

"That comes to thirty-one thousand-three-hundred and ninety brown trout. If the average number of swipes is, let's say six, it works out to one hundred and eighty-eight thousand three hundred and forty. That's damn near half a million! And there ain't no telling how many times my booger hooks broke through the tissue! Then you gotta start counting all over. I'M SICK AND TIRED OF IT!"

"Okay Curly...I get it."

"NO! You don't! And stop interrupting me!"

"Right."

"Wrong! The only thing worse than having to wipe yourself a bazillion times is reaching the point where someone else has to wipe it for you. The last thing I need is some sweet young nurse reaming my stink rocket! You don't get no points when it's done for you!"

"Curly. None of this makes sense. I mean...I'm confused."

"There's a surprise."

I escaped, claiming I needed to visit the men's room. Driving home, I pondered the wisdom of elders. I know...I know, one conversation is insufficient from which to draw any conclusions. But I don't care. It's time to pass the baton. Let the Millenials take the helm.

They can't screw things up any worse than we did.