It struck me yesterday, while we were watching the two Millionaires we watch nearly every afternoon, that I hope I don't live long enough that Meredith Vierra starts looking dowdy. She's in her fifties and looks like the million bucks she keeps trying to give away. It's no wonder we hate the show every time she's out for a week or so. No one else can do it like she can.
Disturbing news on the tube a few weeks ago. "Nadya Suleman Gives Birth to Octuplets," it said. A 33-year-old single mother of six (all with the help of fertility processes) now has fourteen children from the age of one week to six years. Wow! Either avowed Catholicism or stupidity. But I repeat myself. In an age of world over-population, we now have a woman with few financial resources who will try to raise fourteen children . . . by herself. What could the doctors who helped bring this about have been thinking? I'd really be interested in hearing them explain how they thought this would be a good idea. This situation is mind-boggling. Am I the only one whose mind is boggled by this example of selfishness? I hope not.
Stray thoughts and observations: I've noticed a peculiar trend in films and television the last several years. We're getting more and more scenes in restrooms, more and more men standing at urinals, backs to the camera, urinating and then shaking off. I wonder why filmmakers find it necessary to have scenes like this. Even Charlie and Alan in “Two-and-a-Half Men” were seen this season, trying to see who could last the longest before having to go back out to pay the restaurant bill. I guess this trend is similar to the upward (or downward) spiral toward ever more vulgar language. And nudity. Even full frontal male nudity. In The Reader, young Michael is seen fleetingly in front as he is being bathed by his German lover. Hung like a young stallion. And I'd bet females of all ages are calling him for a date.
Time is really flying this summer. August just flew by me and I barely noticed it. I'm seventy-five years old and figure I probably have ten more years to go. That's 120 months. If each month were a dollar, I'd have $120 in my mental piggy bank. And August just cost me a buck. It seemed more like two-bits. Inflation, I guess. I could stretch it out to twenty years if I behaved myself, lost thirty pounds, went on that exercise program I keep talking about, give up ice cream and booze. But the quality of my life would go down dramatically. I think I'll spend a few pennies thinking about it . . . I thought about it and decided against it. Okay, then, 119 months left. Spend them wisely, fool.
It's been almost fifteen years since I retired and I'm now wondering, in these economically depressed times, if I and the rest of the nation's retirees aren't the last to be able to live in places like Sun City West. My children and the rest of their generation may not be able to quit working until they're eighty or ninety or until they're dead. The Social Security pot will have to run dry soon. The present work force can't continue to support the growing numbers of retired people, and then there won't be anything left for them. How sad. One day, our little retirement oases, like all the Sun Cities around the world and the others like them, will be a thing of the past. I keep remembering Arthur C. Clarke's Childhood's End, in which Clarke's society of the future has everyone living extended lives, technological advances providing for all human needs, no one any longer having to work, instead being able to devote themselves to many careers and intellectual pursuits. It would be nice if the world could make it to that level before killing ourselves or destroying the planet we live on.