Aging Gracefully

Mark this date in your calendar—October 10, 2007. Ta da, fireworks, bells and whistles.

It’s the 40^th anniversary of His Gavness birth. The Big Four-Oh. The Date that will live in Infamy.

I am not giving you this Top Secret information because I have an ulterior motive. I am not, repeat NOT, trying to suck up to Beth Spotswood. I am annoyed because she prematurely revealed my secret information yesterday for the world to see. So in the name of decency, I feel compelled to explain how I came by this knowledge a long time ago, before she was born in fact.

It’s on the internet! Surprise! Surprise! In an interesting little old database called the California Birth Index, 1905-1995.

Not only do I know when and where the Gavster was born, I have similar information on Jen Siebel and some other Bay Area notables, information I intend to hold private until such time as an offending party screws up, like getting married or hanging around with underage girls.

In the meantime, now that the cat is out of the bag, I’d like to speak to the effects of reaching that magic number. The following is pure conjecture. I personally have remained 39 for a year or two.

So here it is from my confidential informants–All hell breaks loose when you look in the mirror one day and for the first time see a wrinkle, a droopy eyelid, a grey hair, a crease on your forehead. You panic. You head for the nearest total make-over center, you hit the tanning salons, you call up Jackie Warner, you buy a fire-engine red convertible, you dump your partner.

Suddenly, life deteriorates rapidly. Gravity takes over. On the sly, you buy a back brace to straighten up that shoulder slump. In a futile effort to maintain the illusion of youth, you hire not one, not two, not three, but a plethora of tall supple blond chauffeurs, body guards, office janitors, political strategists.

You pull your pants low enough to expose your briefs and a hint of a crack. You grab a baseball cap and wear it backward. You have at least three studs implanted, one through your nose and a couple in the private treasure spot of all men. To finish it off, you have a top to bottom tattoo which repeats endlessly, “I am not old you stupid jerk. Stop staring.”

Finally, one day you look in the mirror and your father stares back at you. You are dead meat, bro.

What’s the solution?

Simple. Move to Japan. Japanese women love a middle-aged man with grey at the temples and a mature look. It’s called the “Romance Grey” effect. Here, unfortunately, we just refer to the natural signs of maturity as “some old geezer” or “that dirty old man.”

As the Number One Inamorata of Sweet Gavness, that is what you have to look forward to, Spotsie.