Who knew Ted Danson would be my hero (at least for today)?
I read The New Yorker "On The Town" piece about his commitment to Oceana, a non-profit dedicated to ocean conservation, and his relish playing in a TV series filmed in Manhattan called "Bored to Death." In the series, he plays an aging bon vivant named George. Through the vagaries of George's superficially glamorous life, Danson says there runs a constant: "a desperate need of a sixty-three-year-old to still be relevant in the world. I love that. It resonates with me."
Well, Ted, I have to say it resonates with me, as well. Thanks for the thought.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Monday, May 2, 2011
What I Learned at Camp
I just spent a weekend in the wilds of the San Bernadino Mountains at a camp for food bloggers. There are several conundrums in that sentence.
First, I had no idea that, beyond the San Fernando Valley, the end of the Sierra range rears up to a rather impressive height (a sad statement from a native Californian). A couple of years ago, my friend Susan and I took a leisurely drive up the eastern spine of the Sierras through Lone Pine and Bishop. It didn't occur to me that the mountains would have a similar face on the opposite side: high, dry and austerely magnificent. At 7,000 feet, my nasal passages shriveled, my skin cracked, and my alcohol consumption plummeted.
Second, I had been advised that the blogging camp was, indeed, a camp: rugged, basic, simple. Southern California urbanites have developed a whole new definition for camp. The first blogger I encountered was draped in a lissome sun dress, accented with blue sandals. Another camper was outfitted in white slacks, a white hoodie and a white vest. I felt embarrassingly under-dressed in my brown (to match the dust and dirt) Muir Woods t-shirt and jeans (the only outfit I brought). I knew I was really under-prepared when the make-up kits and blow dryers appeared. Luckily, the camp had electricity, mirrors, running showers, and forced air heating to accommodate this new level of "roughing it." Whew.
Third, the passion is gone from my life. I had applied for and was granted permission to attend the blogging camp. (For my work, I need to understand and be able to communicate with facebookers, tweeters and bloggers. As an excuse for my sadly lacking skills, I'll note that foodservice is always years behind the media status of other industries.) Little did I know how engaged, energized, eager, enthusiastic and PASSIONATE these bloggers are about their craft. I expanded my blogging knowledge exponentially at the conference/camp, but my passion meter remained at zero. I can no longer maintain excitement about anything for 36 hours.
When I finally dragged my suitcase and [my brother's] sleeping bag into my apartment, I felt several lessons hit me with a mega-force.
1. I will never again willingly fly with a sleeping bag in tow (sorry Southwest, I stowed in the overhead compartment with my suitcase).
2. No more sharing rooms with someone I don't know. Sleeping in peace is worth the price.
3. Blog with circumspection and care. Do you really want to create an online community?
4. Maybe a sixties blog isn't such a bad idea. There are hundreds of food blogs, but only one sixties limbo blog.
First, I had no idea that, beyond the San Fernando Valley, the end of the Sierra range rears up to a rather impressive height (a sad statement from a native Californian). A couple of years ago, my friend Susan and I took a leisurely drive up the eastern spine of the Sierras through Lone Pine and Bishop. It didn't occur to me that the mountains would have a similar face on the opposite side: high, dry and austerely magnificent. At 7,000 feet, my nasal passages shriveled, my skin cracked, and my alcohol consumption plummeted.
Second, I had been advised that the blogging camp was, indeed, a camp: rugged, basic, simple. Southern California urbanites have developed a whole new definition for camp. The first blogger I encountered was draped in a lissome sun dress, accented with blue sandals. Another camper was outfitted in white slacks, a white hoodie and a white vest. I felt embarrassingly under-dressed in my brown (to match the dust and dirt) Muir Woods t-shirt and jeans (the only outfit I brought). I knew I was really under-prepared when the make-up kits and blow dryers appeared. Luckily, the camp had electricity, mirrors, running showers, and forced air heating to accommodate this new level of "roughing it." Whew.
Third, the passion is gone from my life. I had applied for and was granted permission to attend the blogging camp. (For my work, I need to understand and be able to communicate with facebookers, tweeters and bloggers. As an excuse for my sadly lacking skills, I'll note that foodservice is always years behind the media status of other industries.) Little did I know how engaged, energized, eager, enthusiastic and PASSIONATE these bloggers are about their craft. I expanded my blogging knowledge exponentially at the conference/camp, but my passion meter remained at zero. I can no longer maintain excitement about anything for 36 hours.
When I finally dragged my suitcase and [my brother's] sleeping bag into my apartment, I felt several lessons hit me with a mega-force.
1. I will never again willingly fly with a sleeping bag in tow (sorry Southwest, I stowed in the overhead compartment with my suitcase).
2. No more sharing rooms with someone I don't know. Sleeping in peace is worth the price.
3. Blog with circumspection and care. Do you really want to create an online community?
4. Maybe a sixties blog isn't such a bad idea. There are hundreds of food blogs, but only one sixties limbo blog.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Why I'm Writing
I'm sixty-two-years-old. Luckily, I'm still working (I've been a foodservice consultant for nearly twenty years, and established a bit of niche in PR and writing/editing for my clients), but I can feel both the workload slowing down and ennui setting in. I can't really complain about either. I'm fortunate enough to have lived a cash-centric life, so I've got an immediately adequate investment portfolio and the promise of a turn-key retirement domicile that I'll inherit from my mother. It all looks good on paper.
That's what millions of Americans in my age bracket also thought before the "economic downturn." For my generation of baby boomers who grew up in an age of expansion and never-ending guarantees, the current situation is beyond unnerving, it's downright debilitating. Who would think that one would yearn to be sixty-five, just to be able to pry the medical insurance piranhas off my back (forget dental or vision). And the $2,200 per month in social security that's promised me when I reach the fabled sixty-six? I'll be there, will it?
So there you go. This blog is my experience plodding through this social, political, emotional, physical and psychological miasma that is being six-ish. My body is graying and wrinkling, but my mind is still operating in technicolor. I've got small plans that involve making things grow (it's harder than it looks) and preserving things (also harder than it looks; gotta love pectin). I've been sharing the senior care of my mother (a spry ninety) with my brothers, so I'd also like to share what I've learned about growing really old, and ruminate about what's in store for me. I know I'm not the only one in this country and on the globe having an identity crisis, but it really does lighten the load just writing about it. Thanks, ethersphere, you'll hear from me again soon.
That's what millions of Americans in my age bracket also thought before the "economic downturn." For my generation of baby boomers who grew up in an age of expansion and never-ending guarantees, the current situation is beyond unnerving, it's downright debilitating. Who would think that one would yearn to be sixty-five, just to be able to pry the medical insurance piranhas off my back (forget dental or vision). And the $2,200 per month in social security that's promised me when I reach the fabled sixty-six? I'll be there, will it?
So there you go. This blog is my experience plodding through this social, political, emotional, physical and psychological miasma that is being six-ish. My body is graying and wrinkling, but my mind is still operating in technicolor. I've got small plans that involve making things grow (it's harder than it looks) and preserving things (also harder than it looks; gotta love pectin). I've been sharing the senior care of my mother (a spry ninety) with my brothers, so I'd also like to share what I've learned about growing really old, and ruminate about what's in store for me. I know I'm not the only one in this country and on the globe having an identity crisis, but it really does lighten the load just writing about it. Thanks, ethersphere, you'll hear from me again soon.
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