Sunday, November 6, 2016


Like Putty In Your Hands

Old fossils like me invariably calcify, our minds and hearts harden. The ridiculous notions that inform our consciousness crystalize and turn to stone, like once wonderful Play-Doh becoming Play-D'oh. Sadly, we flip our lids then forget to put them back on.

As I watch my ancient acquaintances watch their stories on the idiot box, listening to answers on Jeopardy, seldom knowing or bothering to ask the questions, I realize it was not always so. I dimly recall awakening each day without the pain and stiffness of early onset rigor mortis. We oldsters were once youngsters. When you're young your box of rocks is filled with Silly Putty. Your gray matter has some flex to it.

Sure young monkeys also watch their boob tubes and listen to answers proclaimed by pontificators, but some of them ask questions and flex their putty. That's not something to worry about, it's healthy, and if it makes fogies uptight, tough titties.

When I was a kid I remember pressing Silly Putty onto the newspaper, capturing the text and pictures with that weird stuff, then bending and stretching it to see how it could be changed and manipulated. Distorting the news is a game that never gets old, it just gets harder to distinguish the paper from the putty. 

And speaking of ridiculous old fossils: Washington is filled with statues, larger than life men and women who appear impressive on the outside, but who are hollow on the inside. I hope young voters question the status quo and start providing their own answers. 

Rock the vote don't vote for rocks.

Sincerely, Grandpa 

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