I turned 59. Not 69, 79, or 99, but 59. I had no parade, fan fare, or visits from anyone from the entertainment industry, political world or even next door. I was a happy man.
"59" has rejuvenated my "Reverse Bucket List" feelings in me. Unlike the hit movie, "The Bucket List," starring Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman, who played two guys whose days were limited and they had this "list" of things they wanted to do before that awful day of their demise, I have this "list" of things I could still do . . .even at age 59.
Such as walking right up to a pretty girl wearing a cute sundress and complimenting her on having a fantastic fashion choice, then take her to lunch at an outside restaurant. No strings attached. No late-night sex romp. Nothing like that. Just a friendly lunch, an embrace and then I leave.
Oh, I have other things that are not as risque as dining with a pretty girl in a pretty sundress, but still, these might prove risky to a man of my experienced years.
Take being a late-night DJ, spinning hip-hop records at a wild, all-night party where it's wall-to-wall young people ranging from 19 to 29. That is scary, but still, I'd like to "throw down" with some songs by some of my favorite artists: Kool Moe Dee; Public Enemy; Jay-Zee and even LL Cool J, before he went Hollywood.
I've always had this love for diesel rigs. From the first time I had the pleasure of watching "Movin' On," starring Claude Akins and Frank Converse on NBC. This was a weekly show about two truckers who have various adventures on the road (naturally) and how they help people and just "get the job done." This show ran from 1974 to 1976, and fired a love for the open road in me that no domestic surroundings could cure. At "59," if I were taught, I could change my name to "Fireball" Kenneth and climb into the cab of a Kenworth and head to San Diego.
To live completely-secluded in a nice log cabin has been a dream of mine since I was 13. Just to have a cell phone, a television that picks up VHF signals, and a road leading from the entrance to my home and going no further. My cabin would not be able to be seen from the air or any other way. I love seclusion. So does my wife, Pam. At my age now, again, "59," this dream is all the more attainable.
Then when the secluded-life grows a bit boring, I've had this hidden-desire to sing in public ever since I watched Elvis Presley sing and writhe around on my neighbor, Clow Roberts' black and white television, when I was age seven. Presley "did his thing," with such ease that "I" thought to my young, foolish heart that I too, could sing. Well, to not bore you. I've made "that" fatal mistake that all would-be singers make when starting out: I heard myself one time. That was that.
Would you like to meet "Batman?" I sure would. Okay, so what if he doesn't exist? I would still love to be given a tour of the Bat-Cave, a ride in the Batmobile, not the one Christian Bale rode around Gotham City in, but the old version driven by Adam West and Burt Ward. That sucker would fly. And designed by Los Angeles superstar car designer, George Barris, it looked great. Being "59" hasn't squelched my dream of meeting "Batman," it might have ignited another dream: to BE (a) "Batman" and fight crime in my hometown. Shhhhhh.
My late, colorful uncle Ector Goodson, worked for a tugboat company in Illinois when he was 22. He loved it. But his job of being "point man," was not a dream come true. Ector's job was to be the lone guy who walked the barges day and night to check for loose cables and other danger signs. In rain, sleet, freezing weather, Ector did a great job. Of course he was 22, like I said, not "59," but I think I'd like to try this job--simply to tell you on HubPages that "I" did it.
My last three dreams I guess are my most-important (and secret) dreams. Please don't laugh. I would give all of my earthly-possessions to be able to write like Hunter Thompson, the "father of yellow dog journalism." Thompson, to me, was nothing short of a literary master. A genius without any paper qualifications on his walls. I have admired Thompson for years, and now that I have a PC, and HubPages, my fifty-nine-year-old-mind could still "churn-out" an award-winning story or two. If I had plenty of naps between stories.
To own my very own late-night FM rock radio station and hire Big Jay Fink from WRIP FM in the Catskills to relieve me when my 15-hour shift had ended. What a great time I would have, sitting in the dark playing LP's by The Stones; Yard Birds; Cream; Janis Joplin; The Beatles and any other artist from the 60's. And give all of my sponsors a break in their advertising bills. I could do that. I own the joint. I mean, station.
My last thing I could do at age "59," is one you have to approach with an open-mind. I'd love to take my sweet time and paint a pretty girl's toenails. No strings attached. Nothing expected. Just see if I had the nerve and patience to do this off-the-wall venture and have this lovely creature sit still and ask (every five minutes), "like, you mean you are doing this, for like, nothing?" Yes, dearest, for like, nothing.
Say what you want. Say what you will, but I am so grateful to even have a "Reverse Bucket List," that I am now going to finish this story and take a break in my living room while watching the evening news . . .
which is NOT as exciting as painting pretty girls' toenails for nothing, but it's restful.
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