I remember when Mick was asked how long he'd keep his little song and dance routine going, to which he replied, "Well, I'd look pretty daft doing this when I'm forty."
OK... so I've been thinking about this age thing lately. I'm neither young, nor emerging- more like middle aged and festering. And this year I finally got around to shaving off the uppermost region of my anatomy. I really thought I had this unwritten agreement with The Guy Upstairs. He didn't do all that great with the body, so I'd at least get to keep the hair- but even that small measure of dignity has been stripped away.
Once I'd fantasize about winning the MacArthur Grant, now I fantasize about some asshole discovering my negatives many moons after I mix my last ratio of D-76 1:1, and making his next month's rent off my entire lifetime's work... Of course, there's an infinitely better chance that my portable, fireproof, Kodak negative safe will get swallowed up in a giant crevice when the inevitable Big One hits SF.
Actually, the totality of all these miserable thoughts came about upon first hearing this song. And I really do love this little ditty, which I've been meaning to post for a good month now (and was probably known to everyone but me). It's just that my life was once filled with so many tunes I couldn't bare to live without each and every day (as my head was once filled with hair). A curiously joyful addiction which I somehow mourn more than miss. I'm just happy I still got an ear, and a pork pie hat (that I've been lusting for since my Ska days in the late '70s) to wear over both of 'em.
(If only Mick would've stuck with his game plan.)
photo: Gene Hackman as Popeye Doyle in The French Connection