Wednesday, August 28, 2019



When I was young, I gazed out at an infinite horizon filled with unlimited possibilities; goals were a dime a dozen and inspiration as easy to maintain as an erection.

Older now, I’ve noticed the horizon has shrunk considerably. (Probably because I’m living in a crowded city and look out on another apartment block and not the Pacific Ocean I looked out onto as a boy.)

Things slowed down a bit along the way; it became more difficult to find a purpose worthy of my time and talent. It seemed the world was no longer hungry for that which I had to offer. After all, who, in their right mind, was looking for a middle-aged show boy in the advanced stages of male balding pattern?

At forty, I found solace in writing, photographing, painting, and innumerable other enterprises that inspired my soul but didn’t pay the rent. I continued to dance: insignificant parts as far away from my adolescent dreams of becoming the next Nureyev as Quinten Crisp to Hulk Hogen.

 Inspiration dwindled.

Yet, I still needed to pay the rent.

Then came the big yoga boom. A career tailor-cut for a dancer and philosopher. I was on fire. Inspiration had me feeling invincible again. Alas, I quickly discovered present-day yoga did not share my dream of finding peace of mind through the medium of the body. People were more concerned with developing their abs than their minds. Women attend in search of new anti-aging program, men to check out carnal sights in yoga tights. 5,000 years of spiritual history reduced to a sex app on a sticky mat.


Okay. I admit: it’s not that bad. There are those few yogis who have taken their heads out of their asses and aspire to higher goals. These are the rare few who have kept me inspired enough to continue all these years.

But the sad truth had dawned: inspiration, along with my libido was getting more and more difficult to sustain.

Inspiration. The force that keeps us from entering the lusterless world of the aging. With its help, we retain the vivid colors that colors the world of youth.

Inspiration is more nourishing to the soul than Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and just as satisfying. And, like Peanut Butter Cups, as you get older, just about as difficult to find, (especially if you’re living in Germany).

Inspiration is life-sustaining. As necessary as the right food, fresh air, or a good TV series.
Without it, life is as bland as a black and white film, filled with anxiety, and hopelessness.

SO, how to get and retain it? It’s what this blog is about. My journey into the zone of the aged with the hope of coming back with a few hints designed to keep a twinkle in your eye, spring in your step, and an itch between your legs.

Sunday, August 25, 2019

Yoga Breath

Dirga Pranayama

This stupendous breathing exercise, (practiced by singers, orators, musicians that blow on wind instruments, and babies), is best initiated while lying down.

Comfortably on your back, place the palms of your hands or fingertips on your lower belly just above the pubic bone.

Close your eyes and begin to, effortlessly, lengthen your inhalations and exhalations. After a few breaths, notice which part of your upper body you are using to achieve this deepened breathing: your shoulders, your ribs, or your stomach. 

Be okay with that.

Now, begin to lengthen the exhale until it is longer than the inhale. Continue until the exhale is twice as long as the inhale. Example: if you are able to breathe in for 3 seconds with ease, eventually aim the exhale for 6 seconds. Try to stay in the realm of comfort, breathing slowly in and even slower out.

Since you only have three or four seconds to fill your lungs, inhale with gusto. Exhale slowly with control and awareness; six to eight seconds is a long time to keep the breath flowing.

Gently, contract the ribs and stomach to keep the exhale flowing until the end count.  

Remain relaxed with as few thoughts as possible.

Purposefully contract the belly as the out-breath approaches the end, sinking the belly ever deeper towards your spine so that the diaphragm pushes up against the bottom of the lungs. Feel how the hands sink ever lower.

Now, imagine a balloon behind your navel. With the contraction of the stomach, try to get all the air out of the balloon. The hands sink with the belly. On the inhale, imagine you are filling the balloon with air until it pushes up against your hands and extends your belly up nice and round, (which, paradoxically, pulls the diaphragm down sucking the air into, first your lower lungs, then the middle part, and finally the tips of your lungs up by your collarbones.

This is what we call a full yoga breath, or: Dirga Pranayama

Keep practicing until all the tension in your stomach muscles relaxes as you inhale. Feel how the breath stretches those hardened muscles from within.

After five minutes of patient practice, notice how the volume of air you are taking in is at least twice the amount you normally take in.  

In time, begin to imagine the balloon either behind your pubic bone expanding backward in such a way as to push against the pelvic floor and the muscles of your lower back in the region of your lumbar vertebrae.

Beware of horny feeling flooding your pelvis as the prana is set free in your first three chakras. If you get overly aroused, pray to God to save your soul….

Friday, August 23, 2019



The last unreasonable goal I laid aside, and with it more stress than I ever thought imaginable, was the goal of attaining enlightenment.
Enlightenment was high on my list of priorities even before I was born. Hanging out in ‘my life between lives,’ I pieced together the perfect environment for my upcoming life. I wanted an incarnation full of sunshine, health, adequate education, white skin; and of course, a penis. Impossible to even think about enlightenment in the body of a woman. (😊)
As the crowning touch, I also decided to be born in a country where I would never have to experience the horrors of an invading army. (I’d had enough of rape and wanton pillaging in my other lifetimes.) Unfortunately, Canada was all booked out, so I chose America; my only stipulation was: the city had to be close enough to Disneyland for an occasional visit.
Satisfied I’d arranged the circumstances well enough to achieve enlightenment before I grew out of puberty, I took a deep breath and jumped into my next incarnation
But the universe had other plans.
I’ve been down every yellow-brick-road, kissed an unfathomable amount of lotus toes, built altars to an unending number of gods; mantra-ed, yoga-ed, meditated myself into unfathomable states of consciousness, (none anywhere near the Kingdom of Heaven); fasted, irrigated my bowels, done green smoothies; an all this with the purpose of reaching God’s consciousness.
Here I am now, old enough to be considering my next incarnation, and I’m still feeling very far away from the shores of enlightenment.
Actually, I’m not really sure if enlightenment really exists. Could the search for God be just another ploy of the ego to keep us frustrated, humbled, and preoccupied with something that seems of utmost importance? I’m beginning to think, trying to gain God-consciousness is just another way of keeping me from looking at the real problem, namely seeing the ego for what it is and withdrawing my investment from it.
Now, on the other side of 50, seeing God will probably happen in Heaven sooner than here on earth, so why continue the effort?
What went wrong?
Who knows? But maybe something went right. Maybe I’m here on earth to find something else, and not God. Something like: myself. My True Self.
And, on the way, maybe finding out what makes me really happy so that I might arrive at the Pearly Gates with a huge smile on my face!

Wednesday, August 21, 2019

impossible goals

Lost goals

One of the finest benefits that comes to mind when I consider the aging process is the relinquishment of senseless goals, not because my inner-critic tells me how ridiculous setting inappropriate goals is, but because I finally am able to see the futility in those goals.

 For instance, it is a great relief to know that I can stop trying to be the best dancer in the world. Not only did that goal take up too many years of my life, but it was also unrealistic from the start. ‘Best’ is a relative term and as elusive as the lead hunk in a wet-dream.

 It also occurred to me that even if I believed I’d achieved ‘the best’ status, I probably would have felt let down, asking myself, ‘That’s it? All that work, and for what? Was it worth the effort?’ Worst off, once on top, how long would I have been able to retain the grade and at what cost? (Seeing how short-termed Baryshnikov’s career was, and he really was the best, I doubt it. I mean, who even knows who Baryshnikov is nowadays? Which is a pretty rotten deal if your dead and aren’t able to see how your fame died out, but the guy is still alive and has to deal with it.

And so it is with so many other goals I had when I was younger: unattainable preoccupations that, had I achieved any one of them, wouldn’t have changed me or the world one iota.

Here are a few: having more toys than anyone else on the block, (I gave this up when I finally buried my Dennis the Menace doll… at 35); finding and marrying the Prince, (if it hadn’t happened by the time I was 50, I calculated it would never happen); having my name up in lights, (sadly, a bit of this still remains when I look down deep); becoming the Marlboro Man, (this was when I started to model. I gave up the dream when the poor guy died of lung cancer, realizing God must have had my best interests in mind by keeping this goal out of reach); kissing Ryan Gosling (until I calculated the difference in our ages and realized I'm old enough to be his father; becoming president of the United States, (thank God I woke up to the fallacy of that goal. Seeing how things are going now, who, on God’s earth, you’d have to be even less than a moron to take on that position)

In short, all the grand things I dreamed about achieving or having when I was younger (than 60) would now be a burden. Like getting rich: great when you’re twenty and have your life ahead of you. But now? Buying that once dreamed about villa in the south of France would simply mean having to engage a housekeeper, gardener, and pool-boy, which would eat up my assets faster than the last years of my life.  

On top of that, paying taxes would drive me out of my mind; wondering if people liked me or my money would turn me into a bitter old man; the fear of getting robbed would have me barring the windows and door turning the villa into a prison;  trying to find a suitable heir would keep me up every night for the rest of my life.

The last superfluous goal I rid myself of is so ridiculous I feel I must dedicate an entire article to its exposition.

Monday, August 19, 2019


After decades of practicing yoga, I’m convinced that the single-most-important factor to consider in regards to both physical and mental health, is the awareness of breath. Especially in regards to retaining any semblance of youth. It’s the failing ingredient in almost every other type of physical exercise program, one of the key components to the magic of which yoga is known for.

The breath of God is what gave life to the soul, inspired us to be more than just a mound of dust, a clump of clay, a conglomeration of oily exudations, semen, blood, the fatty substance of the brain, urine, feces, the mucus of the nose, ear-wax, phlegm, tears, the rheum of the eyes, and sweat. The breath of God ensures us that we are immortal beings and not just a body to be born and die. The breath of God is the legal high every hippie has been searching for since his very first joint.


Without food, a normal man can survive up to 50 days. Add a little weight to his frame before he stops eating and the time can be stretched out to a couple of months. Without water, two days to a week, maybe longer if you’ve incarnated as an advanced sadhu on the shores of the Ganges. But without the breath… well, try holding your breath and see how long you can keep the body alive. Minutes at the most, but certainly not hours.

In an age so plagued with dire circumstance and anxiety, is it surprising that individuals do everything in their power to keep from taking a long engaging breath? Au contraire. It seems we do everything possible to separate ourselves from reality. We smoke cigarettes to keep the lungs so clogged we don’t have to take in any more breath than we need to stay alive. We live in cities where the air is so polluted your eyes tear three minutes on the street. People hold their breaths when moving into the realm of orgasm. (At least the ones I’ve shared an orgasm with in Germany.) Western yogis even avoid classes that contain any kind of pranayama (breath control) preferring the gymnastic yoga classes that only engage the physical body. When we breathe, we engage only the upper part of the lungs, out breathing so shallow and restricted that most people are on constantly on the verge of hyperventilation. Symptoms: tense feeling, anxiety, dizziness, palpitations in the chest… (Sounds like me in the presence of a very horny looking individual.)

Odd. We have no problem overindulging in eating and drinking. Even over-satisfying our sexual urges is high on our agenda. But conscious, healthful breathing, satisfying the body’s need for oxygen and life energy, is a function we prefer to steer clear of, more now than ever.

For people who say they want to stay on top of the aging process, isn’t odd they spend hours training tending their bodies with the right food, exercise, and fashion, but hardly a minute of full conscious breathing? We spend small fortunes on cosmetic surgeries, Botox parties, and repair cremes, but not a cent on learning how to breathe.  

Again: the ego is not your best friend. It doesn’t want you to engage in healthful breathing because the breath will lead you to absolute peace, a state of being that is so far removed from the ego’s idea of what is good for you as heaven to hell.

Seeing how this article has probably taken more than 20 seconds to read and exceeded the normal reader's attention span,  I will continue at another point in time with a splendid breathing exercise I teach in yoga called, Dirga Pranayama.

Friday, August 16, 2019

Dwindling circle of friends


It shocked me to find out that, according to studies, the friend pool of most people decreases around the age of 25.


This wasn’t the case with me. Either I didn’t have a lot of friends to begin with, had kept the circle small to monitor those close to me, or I was too picky from the word go.

Now that I think about it, the first is the real reason. I never had a huge circle of friends. First off, I was gay. Although the word ‘gay’ denotes happiness, this wasn’t the case with me. At school, I was a loner because I was light on my toes, spoke like a poet, loved art and drama classes, and was in constant fear of getting beat up. Not the best mix in a one-horse town.

Later in life, I never lived in one spot for more than a year. How many friends can you make in a year? In Teheran, Nairobi, or Udine?

By the time I reached 50, I realized I didn’t really want any. Friends. First off, I was too lazy. Cultivating a worthwhile relationship takes time and trouble. Second, no one met my standards… which I admit were/are high. How was I to know people like Jesus, Buddha, and Ramana Maharshi weren’t a dime a dozen, just waiting to cross my path?

As I became more mature, my friend zone began to dwindle big time. At first, I thought this was because I was an asshole. Then, I thought: who cares? Some people like assholes. Especially in the gay community.

The people I did take the time and effort to befriend, I found out later didn’t like me as much as I like them. But they were such good actors, it didn’t bother me until it was too late.
It was a hard fall.

Nowadays, I go for months without ever having to rewind the answering machine. Which suits me fine as I hate to talk on the telephone.

I’ve isolated myself even more as my interests changed. In a world going mad with Instagram, Grinder, and YouPorn, I realized being alone wasn’t such a bad thing. Outside of that, in the shadow of social media, who wants to talk to someone about God and the meaning of life, the only things that really interest me. 

Unless I’m horny.

So, I’m down to a very limited number of friends. Actually three: my husband and my two birds.
I thought about cultivating a younger group of friends if, for nothing else, to keep me young. A habit the emperors of ancient Rome cultivated, as I mentioned in one of my earlier posts. Not children though. I’d prefer to have them a bit older. People who are too young tend to tire me out. I’m aiming at a crowd of men 21, or so. Young athletic guys, high on hormones, boys who run around half-naked with sexy smiles and deep dark mysterious eyes. Unfortunately, young men who fall into this category aren’t searching for elderly yoga teachers, so I’ve been forced back to square one.

I’m wondering what the next step is. I mean, if my circle dwindles any further, I might disappear. And, who would know it if I did??

Thursday, August 15, 2019

Silencing the mind

Our thoughts are our own worst enemy

A more advanced technique in ridding oneself from the anxiety of aging is: STOP THINKING.

Some will argue this is like saying if you want to cure yourself of asthma, stop breathing. Not a good idea. On the other hand, if you stop breathing because you don’t want to face the trials and tribulations of aging, do it for at least 25 minutes. I read yesterday that a deep-sea diver was able to hold his breath for 22 minutes and came out of it alive, so, just to stop the game of aging, 25 minutes would be better.

The empty mind exercise is more reasonable, however, because the age paradigm is all in the head. Once that’s, it should be smooth sailing from now into your next incarnation.

Granted, it takes a while to master the technique of silencing the mind, perhaps longer time than is allotted us in this lifetime, but the results are well worth the effort and the benefits manifest themselves, albeit short term, almost immediately. Choosing peace over the disquiet of thoughts constantly running through the mind can manifest bliss straight from the start. The question is: do we want peace of mind or the roller coaster run of emotions our thoughts are responsible for. Once that question is answered, things get less difficult. But remember: a lot less difficult is not synonymous with easy. If it were easy, we’d all be in Heaven before the summer is out. To say you want peace, and to mean you want peace is as different as beer and alcohol-free beer. One does the job, the other is a poor substitute.   

So, again: the best remedy for anti-aging is to master your mind and turn off your thoughts.
A quote from the Bhagavat Gita in regards to controlling the mind:
 एवं बुद्धे: परं बुद्ध्वा संस्तभ्यात्मानमात्मना |
जहि शत्रुं महाबाहो कामरूपं दुरासदम् ||
Which pretty much sums up what I have been trying to say.

Again, some say silencing your thoughts is like opening yourself to Alzheimer’s long before your time. I say; in this mindless state people would call dementia, who has more peace? The afflicted or the caretaker?

But believe me, you won’t end up a zombie. In fact, recent studies have shown that in longer periods of silence, (meditation, for example), the brain actually builds new neurons, synapse, and prolapse, or whatever it is the brain does while continuing to grow.

Some say: change your thoughts and you can change your world.

I say: silence your thoughts and realize the world isn’t what it appears. In fact, when the mind is still, the world as we know it disappears, (and with it all fear of growing old). When the world is gone, only rapture remains, for, when push comes to shove, bliss, glory, and beatitude is what you are.

 A little fact we tend to forget now and then. 

Tuesday, August 13, 2019

Smile and the world smiles with you...

Better than surgery, and cheaper!

I composed a series of exercises for the face about twenty years ago. I have no idea how effective they are against staving off wrinkles and drooping jowls as I have been practicing them since I turned 50. However, people do say I look astounding for my age. (I take their compliments with a grain of salt as most of them have no idea how old I really am and have never bothered to ask.)


Considering there are 43 muscles in the face, it seems logical that even if you firm up half of them, you’re bound to see results. The exercises are easy to learn but difficult to practice as they make you look like an idiot when you do them and who wants to look like an idiot?

The most potent of all my exercises is what I call, the smile; a facial movement that has all but disappeared over here in Germany from lack of application.

Again, I am unsure how effective this particular grimace is in staving off the wear and tear of old age as I have practiced the smile ever since I was old enough to understand flies are more attracted honey than lemon juice.  But I can attest to disastrous results on faces where it is not put to use. I witness this every time I walk out of our apartment. (Not to put down the German race, but in a culture that is not known for its spontaneous bouts of ridiculousness, the effects of not smiling are ever-present.)

 (On the other hand, America is also not without its representatives for dismal and dispirited faces.

Considering the number of people one meets during the day, a smile of greeting to each of them would firm up your cheeks in no time, even if your president of the United States. Granted, it’s a bit of a chore to always be the one who has to initiate a smile of greeting, but the alternative is disastrous, (and is to be seen in each and every person you greet who refuses to return your smile).

My father was a great example of greeting people with a smile. He and my mother were living in Washington state when I went home for a visit one year. I decided to accompany him on his morning runs up, over, and around the golf course. We passed other joggers along the way, all of whom he greeted with a broad smile and a pleasant, ‘Good morning, ’ as each one passed. About a third of them bothered to return his greeting. (I found out later there is a huge German contingent living in Washington.) I asked him if it bothered him that so few people responded to his friendly smile. He answered with a question. ‘For whom am I smiling if not for myself?’

Not that his face was firm as a ball of play-dough left out of its container, despite his smiles. Probably because he didn’t have access to the rest of my facercises. Who knows?

For those interested in a copy of my book, you’ll have to wait until one of my other eight books becomes a best seller and I feel it is worth the time and effort to write it.

Sunday, August 11, 2019

No finish line

Another peculiarity about growing old: the realization the process has no ending. Every day, I wake up only to discover the process is still continuing. And, from what I hear from others, not only is it drawn out, it also doesn’t easier.
Most endeavors in my life have had an end:  a diploma to hang on the wall to prove I passed the course, a new skill I mastered that I could present to my admirers, one of life’s phases finished so I could move on to the next. I learned to walk, to ride a bicycle, to have an orgasm. Once accomplished, I moved on to learning other skills.  
Even tragedies were over at a certain point and, realizing they hadn’t killed me, I felt they made me stronger. My hair, for example. One day it was there, and then it wasn’t. It came to an end. Granted, I am still gay. THAT never came to an end. But even though it was a minor crucifixion when I was growing up, once I hit 20, it became fabulous.
Then l I reached the age of sophistication (read: I turned 50), and came up against something that never ends: Old Age! No graduation, no degree, no grand finale promises to come along and free me of this new endeavor.
Except death.
Which might sound macabre, but the idea does bring some comfort. Imagine continuing the aging project forever and forever. Alone the idea of the loose flesh sagging ever deeper is appalling. And, all those little quirks that come with old age like heart attacks, stiff knees, drooping testicles; what afflictions would we be up against as we reached the millennial mark in getting older? I hate to think about it. There are things now happening to my body and mind I would have thought hard to believe ten years, impossible to believe when I was in my twenties. And it doesn’t stop. What would it look like in the year 3024?
I used to think if I were good enough, didn’t complain, carried on like nothing was happening, the whole aging would stop at a certain point; life, pleased with the way I’d mastered getting old, would shout out, ‘You did it, man. I’m proud of you. So, here’s your old body back. We’re now on to a different adventure.’
Alas, the next birthday came along and I discovered I was still getting older.
I tried to stave the process off with green smoothies, hyaluronic Acid, and repair tools enough to fill an auto mechanics garage. They all slowed it down somewhat, but I find out now, it was like trying to build a dam on life. The waters of aging collected in the reservoir, everything appeared to be going well on the other side of the dam. But life has a way of multiplying beyond imagination and when the damn burst I was inundated with effects of things I had no idea existed: whiskers in my ears, eyebrows growing faster than my hair ever did, wrinkles under my butt, gray pubic hairs, the libido of a twenty-year-old…
The list continues to grow.
The only consolation: I’m not alone. According to recent studies, over 90% of people still alive are also getting older.

Tuesday, August 6, 2019

Has youth lost its ability to inspire us?

There’s an old saying that says if you want to remain young, surround yourself with young people. The emperors of ancient Rome did it, kings and queens of the old world did it, the Aztecs practiced it, grandparents still do it to a certain extent. The elixir worked for thousands of years without flaw.

The Present

I was seated on my preferred machine of self-maintenance at the gym and happened to spy a young guy sitting on a giant beach ball doing sit ups – staring at his handy and laughing his head off. Ten minutes later, he was still at it: bobbing up and down, staring at his cell phone, and laughing.

To the other side of me, a pretty young thing sat on the thigh trainer, legs crossed, looking quite comfortable, textmerized by the small display of her mobile. She was oblivious to the growing queue of girls standing in front of her waiting for their turn. Only one was getting peeved. The other four were moblivious to what was going on, engrossed as they were in whatever was to be seen on the displays of their phones.

Meanwhile, a young man was walking from one end of the gym to the other and back again while talking to an invisible someone on the other end of his invisible telephone. His voice was loud enough to fill an amphitheater.

Another boy was doing women’s push-ups over at the far wall with his cellular on the floor in front of his face obviously in a session of extreme cellularbation.

As I widened my field of depth, I realized over 60% of the people in the gym at that time were connected to their cell phones. Most were thirty and looked about as fit as forty-year-old’s who never saw a fitness studio from the inside.

Did these people really think they had a chance to get fit, stave off the signs of encroaching old age, have a chance to attain any semblance of a six-pack?

When I was a teenager, society said our generation was going to pot. (which we were, if pot meant marijuana!) I’ve asked myself for the past ten years, where the current generations are headed?

I can’t think of a better way to age quickly than to hang around with a young person nowadays. There are exceptions, but, alas, they don’t want to hang around with me. 😉

Monday, August 5, 2019

Aged Flesh - Zumba

Image result for Jello images

Aged Flesh

Zumba class yesterday.

Now that I’m getting good enough to finally raise my eyes to the mirror, I find the image that greets me is not as enticing as it once was. For one, it doesn’t look like the same guy who took dance classes fifty years ago. Odd. The structure moves pretty much the same way as it once did, but the flesh seems to have a mind of its own.

Take, for example, the shimmy shake movement that takes place in every Latin American style dance class. Fifty years ago, even thirty years ago, my shoulders were the only thing that vacillated in this movement. Now, everything shakes. No, not shakes – shudders. Like Jell-O shortly before it sets. The funny thing is, my biceps are quite firm when I flex them, as are my thighs, and my pecs. But when I raise my arms to shoulder level and then shimmy my shoulders to and fro, an ample amount of flesh hanging from my upper arm began to flap like the wings of a trapped bird in a cage. Also, those firm tits I was once so proud of: with all the stretching a relaxing I’ve forced upon them in yoga, they now shake like the withered tits of an aged witch.

The inner side of my thighs also leave something to be desired, having a tendency now to jangle when I shake my ass, which I am glad I cannot see as it is certainly sagging worse than my face.

Not that I’m complaining. In fact, I am quite proud I can make it through the class without going into cardiac arrest, the fear that kept me away from dance classes for the past 20 years. Now that I have surmounted this fear, I feel I can take on the world fast movement again, return to the world of dance and treadmills, jog to catch the streetcar or bus. 

I just have to remember to keep my eyes shut in the vicinity of a mirror.

Sunday, August 4, 2019

Forever Young

Forever Young/Old

Friends visited from Holland this past week and coerced me into attending an exhibition at one of the museums here in the neighborhood. The name of the showing: Forever Young.

The name hooked me.   Maybe I could find a few hints about anti-aging or maybe a new inspiration for my blog.

Alas. The exhibition wasn’t so much about staying forever young, but rather a display of works of artists who had died long before their time: Elvis, Warhol, Haring, Basquiat. Like Marilyn and James Dan, they have remained forever young in our eyes.

So, I guess the message was: if you want to stay forever young, die young. Unfortunately, the message has come a bit too late for me.

With my luck, I’ll find out after my death that we spend eternity in Heaven in a body resembling the one we left.

Hail to the people who have died young. Youth for eternity.

For those of us who waited too long, an eternity as Statler and Walldorf of Muppets, ancient figures, endlessly staring down at humanity from the clouds above, ridden with wrinkles and bitterness, Forever Old…
The alternative is :
Repeat after me: "I am not a body, I am free for I am as God created me!" (ACIM)
This little tid-bit is good to know and rely on, for what is God if not the concept of eternity and perfect peace? In His image, I share those attributes. 
I hope.

Friday, August 2, 2019

Alternatives (Premature Balding)


But why bitch about being bald? There are so many remedies to ease you out of your insecurities.

If you’re a woman, buy a wig. If you’re a man, don’t buy a wig. The only thing  less appealing than a bald-headed man is a bald-headed man with a toupee. Believe me. And, from the comments I hear, I am not alone. I advise a total head-shave, even if you’re only half bald. It gives you the feeling that you’re back in command, that YOU have decided to look this way, not nature. Granted, it adds a few years to appearence, but what you lose in youthfulness you gain in dignity.

Or, buy a hat. I currently have 2,517 hats of all shapes and sizes. I consider them a man’s alternative to a wig. The only downside is seeing the shock on peoples faces when the hat comes off by accident on a windy day, by reflex in a Catholic church, or to scratch one of the scabs that have developed by keeping the cap on for too long. 

Surgeon caps are also good, especially if you’re a surgeon. They are also appropriate in Zumba classes and yoga sessions and keep a lot of sweat out of your eyes.


There are also hair transplants, but these can be costly, especially if you’re planning on touching up more than a receding hair-line.

One technique I’ve never tried, but sounds logical in its application is to expose other parts of your body that are more prominent than your bald head. If you have über-dimensional genitals, leave your fly zipper open. Either that or skip putting on your underwear when getting dressed. Believe me, no one will look at your head if you port a sizable package between your legs. The same is true for women: if you have enormous breasts… rest assured, they will be your distinguishing feature, not your head. 

Tattoos? If you’re into pain, this is a great solution. If not, find another plan because this has to be about the most painful thing outside of a crucifixion. Believe me. A mosquito bit me on the top of my head once and it hurt like hell. The idea of some tattoo artist poking me with a needle for hours on end must be a hundred times worse.
Also good to consider is the crowd you run with. Some social circles frown on a full head tattoo. The fright factor should also to be taken into consideration.

Italian Tablecloths disguised as keffiyehs or babushkas pretending to be Hijabs: both do a fine job of covering up premature balding, especially n the Middle East. Be forewarned: due to the current up rise of racism in Europe and the United States, you might want to consider this as a last option. Being considered a terrorist is far worse than being considered old before your time.

If none of these techniques help heal your blues about balding, I suggest you stop feeling sorry for yourself and start pitying all those young souls who died with a full head of hair and were never able to flaunt their good luck when they were older.
Caring for others is also a great way to step outside of the ego, which was the cause of the problem from the very start!