WHO WANTS TO LIVE TO BE 150-YEARS OLD?

BallPoint, The Beaufort Observer
Allen Ball
June 27, 2009

With the advancement of medical technology comes the prediction that people may live to be 150-years old in the future. Whoop-dee-doo! That's just wonderful! If you live to be 150, instead of having a few nieces and nephews who ignore you, you'll have many nieces, nephews and many great-great-great nephews and nieces who ignore you. And instead of swallowing 14 or more prescriptive medicines a day, like my parents do now, in the year 2005, when you're 150, you lucky scamps, you'll probably be scarfing down 40 a day.

I don't want to live to be 150-years old. Here are a few of the reasons why:

The entertainment world ignores everyone over 30. With the exception of the O, Brother, Where Art Thou? soundtrack and Norah Jones, in the last four years, what new music is there for adults to listen to. I mean, when was the last time your grandmother bought a Snoop Dog CD? When was the last time you saw your parents boogie down to an Eminem song on the radio? What new movies can they watch at the movie theater?; they are all aimed at a teenagers and people under 30.

I was born in 1948 and I was privileged to witness the Golden Era of pop music, television, and the tail-end of the Golden Era of Hollywood. Today's world of entertainment for adult audiences is pathetic. Thank God for Stephen Spielberg, Woody Allen, and Clint Eastwood who, among a short list of others, make wonderful movies for adults looking for culture and intelligence in cinema. When I grew up the following mega-superstars of music, art, and the silver screen were living: Picasso, Stravinsky, Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Elvis, The Beatles, John Wayne, Cary Grant, Clark Gable, James Stewart, James Cagney, Ava Gardner, Katherine Hepburn, Lucille Ball, Charlie Chaplin, Betty Davis, Ingrid Bergman, Marilyn Monroe .... It was a wonderful time.

With the appearance of Elvis, but more importantly, The Beatles, on the world-wide stage, came a consumption explosion among teenagers. With unparalleled prosperity in America, parents now had more money to dole out to their children so they could "have what we didn't have when we grew up." Young boys and girls and young adults alike started spending millions of dollars on music provided by English musicians and bands that were part of what was dubbed the "British Invasion." The success of The Beatles became the inspiration for not only new British bands but many new American bands, as well. The impact on world-wide culture was phenomenal and everlasting, ushering in and influencing new fashions and styles of dress, new art forms, psychedelic music, the new drug culture, and a "do your own thing" mentality.

Influential singers of protest songs, most prominently Bob Dylan, now had a huge platform from which to address controversial world issues. These artists and their music imbued the younger generation with a sense of empowerment from which grew an activist movement among young people which theretofore had never existed.

That new generation and the ones which have succeeded it have continued to grow significantly in power in terms of how the market place caters to their needs and desires. So, the rest of us old fogies over thirty must resort to listening to our favorite old songs and singers, over and over again, at home and tune in to TCM and AMC on cable-TV to see our favorite old movies with John Wayne, James Cagney, Maureen O'Hara, Sophia Loren ... And, since I already despise 99% of contemporary pop music, 99% of contemporary films and 99% of all television programs, and about 99% of all country music, I can't imagine how repulsive music of tomorrow will be, to me. I cannot fathom what it will be like if I lived another 93 years! to be 150-years old!

Since the 1950s civilians have become increasingly uncivil, forsaking the Christian world for the material world. Jesus slept in the hills, by the rivers and under bridges while present-day televangelists own the hills, build million-dollar homes by the rivers and oceans, and drive BMWs over the bridges.

News broadcaster and commentator Paul Harvey predicted in the early 1990s that, due to the enormous influx of Hispanics, the color of America will be tan, by the year 2050. After 9/11, a militant Muslim, on TV, had the gall to lay the blame of that horrible disaster on the Jews and Americans, proclaiming that, "in 100 years from now, America will be a Muslim nation!

Adapting to cultural changes would be a traumatic experience for any of us who managed to live to the ripe, old age of 150, as the medical community has predicted.

To put it all in perspective, imagine you were born in 1861, the year the civil war began, and you lived to be 150-years old, to the year 2011. You would live through the Civil War, the assassination of Abraham Lincoln, the invention of the telegraph, automobile, airplane, radio, and television. You would live through World War I, the Great Depression, World War II, the development of the atomic bomb, the invention of the computer, the assassinations of John F. Kennedy, Robert Kennedy, Martin Luther King, the first landing on the moon by a manned spacecraft, the Vietnam War, the Persian Gulf War, the destruction of the World Trade Center twin towers, the attack on the Pentagon, the related airline crash in Pennsylvania, the war in Afghanistan, and the War in Iraq (the beginning, if not the end).

From a musical perspective, you will grow up to the songs of Stephen Foster (who died in 1864, three years after you were born) -- songs like "Camptown Races," "Oh, Suzanna," "My Old Kentucky Home," and "Beautiful Dreamer."

You will be 46-years old before Irving Berlin's "Alexander's Ragtime Band," "God Bless America," and "White Christmas" are written. You will be 56 when Igor Stravinsky's controversial Rite of Spring makes its debut in 1917; 63, when George Gershwin debuts his classic Rhapsody in Blue, at Aeolian Hall, at 34 West Forty-third Street, February 12, 1924, and you will be 100-years-of-age before the Beatles appear on the Ed Sullivan show, in the early '60s. You will witness the emergence of jazz, swing, bop, rock, disco, rap, and hip-hop music.

You will hear music from Stephen Foster to music by performers and songwriters Al Jolson, Irving Berlin, Cole Porter, Jerome Kerns, Duke Ellington, Glenn Miller, Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Hank Williams, Sr., Elvis Presley, the Beatles, Michael Jackson, Celine Dion, and Eminem. In 2003, the year country singer Toby Keith becomes a super star, you will be 143-years old, singing along with his big hit "I Like This Bar."

In art you will see the emergence of Picasso and Cubism. In movies and television you will see all the greats from Charlie Chaplin, Orson Welles, James Cagney, Jimmy Stewart, Katherine Hepburn, Lawrence Olivier, Jackie Gleason, Clark Gable, Jack Benny, Judy Garland, Mickey Rooney, Ava Gardner, Betty Davis, and Marilyn Monroe to Julia Roberts, Tom Cruise, Jerry Seinfeld, Tom Hanks, Clint Eastwood, Steve Martin, Paul Newman Barbra Streisand, Robert Redford and Woody Allen.

Politically, you will live through the years from the administration of Abraham Lincoln to the Presidency of George Walker Bush and the first three years of the administration of the man or woman who succeeds him in the White House.

Who needs or wants to live to be 150-years old. Not I; I get tired just thinking about living through all of that. Just give me my 80 years or so -- or as many years as I'm happy and healthy -- and then let me go quietly into the bye and bye.

--From Earthlings Are Crazy As Hell, by Allen Ball-- Saturday, April 16, 2005


Reader Feedback

Life and Death Decisions
July 02, 2009 | 10:45 PM

I wouldn't want to miss the 1940's and the 1950's. I was born in 1935 but I loved the music of the /20's and 30's (heard often because my father was a piano player.) You've outlined my kind of music -- especially my all-time favorite, Bing Crosby. On the issue of living longer, you might want to look at the piece I did for HubPages: http://hubpages.com/_wft/hub/Life-and-Death-Decisions

William F. Torpey

Bing Crosby
June 28, 2009 | 12:55 PM

I enjoyed this article and it's good to see Bing Crosby get some recognition. He was certainly great!

Lachlan



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THE TAUNTING OF THE DADDY-LONG-LEGS

Daddy-long-legs are the most poisonous spiders in the world, however, their mouths are too small to bite humans. So, I taunt them. I taunt them by saying things like: Oooo---big, bad daddy-long-legs, I'm sooo scared. Why don't you bite me? Open that tiny little pie hole and bite me, why don't cha? What? You can't? Could it be that your teenie-weenie pie hole is too teenie-weenie to bite me, O, poisonous one? Come hither! Open wide! Stick them there fangs in me Mr. arachnoid, tough guy. I dare you, spider-brain. I double-dare you. Still can't bite me can you, big daddy? You punk....
Is it true, as they say, that if I pick you up by all of your legs, but one, your free leg will point me in the direction of my lost cattle? It is?! Well, if I had some lost cattle I'd do that.
Fret not, O, big daddy-long-legs; I'm not going to kill you, because I don't want it to rain tomorrow. EARTHLINGS ARE CRAZY AS HELL!, by ALLEN BALL-- Tuesday, July 8, 2003

UDAY AND QUSAY

Uday and Qusay were the sons of evil tyrant, and part-time veal cutlet salesman, Saddam Hussein. Although they lived in constant fear of having their testicles removed for the slightest perceived offense against their father, being the sons of a dictator had its perks. They were never punished for raping women and pillaging men, or vice versa; they were never held accountable for cold-blooded acts of murder; and they were never audited. Parking violations were routinely ignored. And, their medical and dental plans were the envy of all Baghdad.
Most of us poor schleps must drop a "twenty" for drinks on a strange woman at a bar, wine and dine a female in a highfalutin restaurant, or sit through a boring evening of a production of La Boheme, before finding out whether or not we're going to get "lucky" at the end of the night. Not so with Messrs. Uday and Qusay. They had only to cruise the streets of Baghdad, in their Kias, to fulfill their lustful desires, selecting the objects of their sexual desire, like picking out guacamole at a produce stand. [ It is interesting, though irrelevant, to note here that sudden outbursts of laughter, by selected partners, during sex, were met with infliction of unspeakable horrors. Comical and derogatory references to "size" were immediately followed by summary execution of the offending party.]
The downside of being the sons of an evil despot included never sleeping in the same bed two nights in a row, living with the ever-present fear of being blown to smithereens, and having to shell out big bucks for things like hiring a "taster" to taste their "Happy Meals" for poison.
Punishment for acts of the sons deemed offensive by the father usually involved not losing privileges, but, instead, entailed either a stern reprimand, a vigorous spanking, or the loss of a testicle or appendage. The latter being a harsh penalty considering the affinity Iraqis develop for their body parts, however unsightly.
In the end, Uday and Qusay met their inevitable fates in a shoot-out with American soldiers in the Northern Iraqi city of Mosul. News reports indicated the bodies of the regime's No. 2 and No. 3 figures were badly damaged and, despite the expenditure of three rolls of duct tape to "patch 'em up", the bodies were still unrecognizable. Several sources, including dental records and stool samples, were needed for conclusive identification because, as one observer stated: "The sum bitches' heads were the size of melons." Pictures of the mangled bodies were taken and 5x7's, 8x10's and wallet-size photos were soon made available for purchase on the internet at Baghdad.com. just in time for the holidays.
Invitations to the funeral service for Uday and Qusay were posted on Iraqi television. Recipients of invitations included members of the Saddam regime, still at large, and Saddam himself. Only two members of the regime showed up, but, then, only after hearing that there would be refreshments.
At the end of the chapel service, an Iraqi man sang a stirring rendition of "For The Good Times", by Kris Kristofferson, accompanied by an old Iraqi woman on the banjo.
The service was followed by the serving of refreshments--hot dogs, potato chips, and Dr. Pepper. Roasted marshmallows, a last minute suggestion by Dr. Ibrahim Al Basri, were included, since Uday and Qusay were being cremated.
--EARTHLINGS ARE CRAZY AS HELL! by ALLEN BALL

SCARLETTE

I met Scarlette in the frozen food department of the Piggly Wiggly; and, after thirty minutes of being seduced, by her wit, charm, and beauty, I barely noticed the humongous, hairy mole over her upper lip. She was everything I'd ever wanted in a woman--the rare combination of beauty, intellect, and breasts requiring a 38-D cup. I asked her out.
Dining at my favorite restaurant, "Earl's Eatery", we began to explore one another's past. Scarlette had recently gotten a divorce prompted by the discovery, after coming home early from work one afternoon, that her husband, Winslow Tew, had an inordinate and unnatural fondness for woodchucks.
Winslow swore to Scarlette that the woodchuck meant nothing to him. Scarlette, devastated, departed. All of Tew’s attempts at reconciliation failed. Spiraling into a fit of depression, Winslow made a half-hearted attempt to take his life by watching a 72-hour marathon of televised fishing. Plagued by thoughts of suicide, still, he made a second attempt by staring at a Cubist painting by Picasso until he started mumbling the words to the Canadian national anthem, vehemently demanding a meeting with The Price Is Right host, Bob Barker.
There was a quiet dignity about Scarlette that could not be masked by her go-go boots, hot pants and Led Zeppelin T-shirt. Though Philippine, she had an awe-inspiring command of the English language, albeit her conversation was often peppered with phrases like: "Dis mackeral don't smell right" or "Dat waiter looks queer.”
There was a mutual attraction between us that could only be described as mutual. A chance meeting in a Piggly Wiggly had blossomed into a passion-filled, sexually-charged romance. Our love knew no bounds. Things, however, would soon change. A twist of fate would alter our lives forever --- or at least until Tuesday.
Scarlette, on the fourth night of our relationship, met a banjo player, Seymour Melnick, at a tent revival on the outskirts of town. They carried on a torrid secret love affair behind my back for fifteen minutes in the back seat of his Oldsmobile. Distraught, but determined to move on with my life, I relocated to Lizard Lick, North Carolina and wrote a book on the culinary arts entitled: One Hundred Ways To Cook Bald Eagle.
After much reflection on the tristful turnabout of events in my relationship with Scarlette, I've reached the conclusion that, if there is a moral to my story, it would have to be: Always accompany your wife to a tent revival.

LUCRETIA

Lucretia received a thunderous round of applause from the males in the bleachers whenever she performed her high-leg kicks during her debut as a cheerleader for the opening game of the new basketball season at Remo Leatherwood High. A member of the Honor Society and the drama club, Lucretia was a staunch, vocal opponent of "barbaric high-heel shoes" and any kind of restrictive underwear. --"EARTHLINGS ARE CRAZY AS HELL!", by Allen Ball

BEAM ME UP, SCOTTY!

In the late ’70s, a friend of mine, Terry Williams, a fellow musician known for his quit wit and humor, was driving home early one morning, after our band finished playing at "Tom's" in New Bern, North Carolina. In his rear-view mirror Terry saw the flashing blue light of a patrol car signaling him to pull over to the side of the road. The patrolman walked up to the driver's window as Terry rolled it down. "May I see your driver's license?", he asked. After extracting his folding wallet from his pocket, Terry leaned over sticking his head out the window. Looking up toward the heavens, he flipped open his wallet with a quick jerk of his wrist and said: "Kirk to Enterprise! Kirk to Enterprise! Beam me up, Scotty!” The patrolman burst into laughter saying: "Get outta here---and watch your speed!"

BOB

Bob, when told by his new boss, that "Bob" spelled backwards spells "Bob", was not amused and summarily punched his new boss in the nose, knocking him out cold. The arch bishop was then taken by paramedics to the emergency room of the local hospital where his nose was reset and bandaged. --ALLEN BALL, EARTHLINGS ARE CRAZY AS HELL!