Of all the things I’ve lost I miss my mind the most, Episode #17,643

Getting old is such a drag at times, but it's better than the alternative. I saw that Harry Belafonte died this week at the age of 96. Carol Burnett is being honored on NBC-TV tonight at the age of 90. Even Tony Danza --Tony Danza -- is 72. Elvis is dead and I don't feel too well myself.

That's not true. I'm joking. I feel fine. That having been said, I could keel over tomorrow afternoon. I could keel over in the next five minutes.

Know something? So could you.

So we keep putting one foot in front of the other and count our blessings and hope for the best.

Today I couldn't think of the name of an actor. I could see his face as plain as day but his name had taken a hike. He was in a movie with Steve Martin, something about rascals, no, scoundrels, Dirty Rotten Scoundrels was the title. I even remembered that his real name was Maurice Micklewhite, but his actor name would not come to me. I finally resorted to googling Maurice Micklewhite, something I would not ordinarily do, and there it was, Michael Caine.

Of course. Michael Caine, who I discovered is also 90.

I think I have identified the problem. We are slowly aging off this planet. That's all right. We keep on, boats against the current, being borne ceaselessly into the past.

If you recognize that, and can name the work it's from, and its author, it's very likely that you too have become a member of the old folks club. Young folks don't care.