More Toys Would Only Make Things Worse

Remember those bumper stickers years ago that read “He Who Dies With the Most Toys Wins”? It was a catchy, relatable sentiment that appealed to the acquisitive, competitive beast within us all, especially at a young(er) age.

Innocence, meaning naive and susceptible to social pressures, advertising and hormones, made the notion plausible. But today owning lots of shiny possessions, or being subject to the whims of fame or notoriety ought to repel any sensible soul. I’d truly rather be a phone booth in Cleveland than Mayor of San Francisco, even knowing the last phone booth in Cleveland was dragged away 20 years ago.

These days I look at life both forward and backward and see that my Toy Chest doth runneth over. There were times in the old days when I envied others, but I laid such idiocies to rest many years ago. I wouldn’t trade lives, places or experiences with anyone today, and I’m relieved God and the world didn’t allow me to make those kinds of mistakes 50 or 30 years ago.

The notion it would be cool or thrilling to be, say, Bill Gates now seems an invitation to madness. The Positive: You’d have enough money to pave California in hundred dollar bills six feet deep. The Negative: You’d spend five hours a day talking to accountants, lawyers, bankers and other criminals. Protecting your assets would be Job Number One in life, and also Jobs Two and Three. 

So what if Bill Gates owns nine planes and a hundred cars? He can only drive one at a time, and probably has a chauffeur so he can’t even do that. And he can only eat three meals a day no matter how expensive. Bill Gates can fly to Greece tomorrow? So can you.

Trade places with Mick Jagger? I’d jump off the Noyo Bridge first. The poor guy has sung ‘Satisfaction’ 63,000 times in his life and he’s got to sing it again tonight in some stadium in Brazil while prancing around stage shaking a 90-year old fanny tightly wrapped in yellow lycra. Is that something you’d be willing to do? 

Life as a Rolling Stone could not possibly be enjoyable beyond age 50, but accountants, bankers, lawyers and other criminals have the band members hemmed in, forced to keep touring so they can earn yet another 100 million superfluous dollars.

I might like pretending to be Joe Biden for a couple hours but I don’t think I’d be able to endure the lobotomy and electroshock treatments. 

No, I’m thrilled, if that’s the word, to be where I am and who I am, even if A) I’m in Ukiah, and B) Poor company. I’ve got a nice house or two, I’ve been married to the World’s Best Wife 25 years in a row, my kids are smarter, happier and better looking than me, and my very excellent dog still hasn’t died yet. Yeah I’ve had three heart attacks, but I don’t care so why should anyone?

Plus, being retired makes living in the midst of a pandemic really easy and almost relaxing; I might as well be quarantined for all the socializing I do, and self-isolation means no one notices when I start drinking in the afternoon. They just think I’m lazy, which is true, and which I also blame on being retired. 

Most retired guys around my age feel the same. Our lives have settled into warm, fuzzy, comfortable ruts where petty concerns and constant jousting seem pointless and rarely worth the effort. Launching a fancy endeavor at this stage of my life would be strained and faintly comical. 

Polls say old people are the most satisfied and least stressed in America, despite our splotchy skin, aching knees, dementia and, for some, three heart attacks. Of course those pollsters never interview dead people, the elderly homeless or all the sad souls locked away in nursing homes. 

But hey, if your house has heat and you’re not having cans of dog food for lunch, life can be pretty good even if you’re as old as Mick Jagger or as lazy as me. 

Our generation’s got nothing left to prove and we couldn’t prove it even if we did. (What? Huh?) So the caravan rolls on, the dogs keep barking.

We’ve only got a short time left (maybe just months) and there’s no point in fussing over complicated hairdos, color-coordinated wardrobes, nice lawns, standing in line for more than two minutes, or fashionable anything. 

I suppose we could worry about the future but we’ve been worrying about the future for half a century and look where it’s gotten us, and the world. 

Instead, count your toys and your blessings, smell the roses, go out to admire all that sunshine, and mix your first gin and tonic of 2022. Enjoy!

Your dementia probably won’t get much worse for a few more weeks.

(Just don’t grumble about everything like TWK does; frankly Tom Hine grows weary of his endless complaining about inflation, the high cost of Coors these days, youngsters with all those tattoos, lack of rain, Joe Biden, and this year’s Super Bowl halftime show.)