This is another column made up of the sum of its parts, along with a tangle of tangents and ditch full digressions. I tweaked it, too. Up first, I turned 65 the other day, so now I’m officially old as dirt and nowhere is this more evident than in my need for a stick to walk even the shortest distances. But a new hip is coming in 2027, perhaps, and then I will be back to jumping up and down on the nearest trampoline with the rest of the neighborhood kids. I also keep putting beer in my ice cream, because John Steinbeck turned me on to the notion of a beer float in Cannery Row. You can’t get a better dessert recommendation than one from John Steinbeck. Still, I won’t officially be older than dirt – that’s OOTD — until I turn 901/2 years old like a certain gubernatorial candidate seems to be. That’s when I’ll be allowed to whack people with my stick if they get in my way while I am out campaigning, or should they stand in front of the TV while I’m in my recliner trying to watch Doctor Who reruns or The Price is Right. Boy, that Drew Carey is something. Even better, when I get to be 100, I’ll be able to cuss out reporters who ask dumb questions, as most reporters are prone to do. I’ve asked more dumb questions than smart ones, probably. Like the time I asked a guy at a fish hatchery whether or not fish get thirsty. It’s just one of many reasons why I don’t fit in with the community page folks. Anyway, we used to cover people when they turned 100, so I assume when I’m 100…
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