captaincliff

My son Eli says that I share too much of “myself” on Facebook and in my WordPress blog. Meanwhile on Facebook, he has 248 pictures of himself in Atlanta dressed in custom made, super-hero costumes at DragonCon with 50,000 other people dressed similarly. They all pose provocatively in skintight spandex that would make me look like Barney Fife at an Underdog Halloween party, or if I really was a super-hero, I would be Baby Boomer Man with his loyal dog FUPA (see previous blog).

On a good day people say I look like Mr. Clean or Dustin Hoffman after chemotherapy or before the Juice fast. Honestly, I dont have the body anymore, so I suppose I rely on my sarcasm, wit, and my rapidly decaying memory. The point is we all have our strengths, and I like to think that humor is mine. Looking at this obviously absurd world in a funny way, especially when one is not suicidally depressed, is a necessary tonic for preserving ones sanity and dealing with adversity. People who lose their sense of humor typically dont do as well. A recent article in the New York Times about James Holmes, the Colorado Batman shooter (see link below) depicts a socially inept and quirky Ph.D. student who was weird but moderately funny…up until he started flipping out. In other words, what his peers and instructors most remember about him was how he lost his sense of humor along with his frickin’ mind. He got deadly serious and delusional simultaneously.

That is probably really why I write my CaptCliff blog, to remind myself (and my friends) to laugh and not get too serious. Ok, I admit I am also narcissistic as hell and enjoy exhibiting my nutty perspective to the world somewhat like a nudist at the beach likes to walk up to the outdoor Tiki bar with all his junk showing. We all know how THAT looks, especially if the guy is 50+ years old, and, now that I think about it, that is very likely EXACTLY how my grown-up children feel about my “confessional”-style of writing, ie. “Oh God, that’s my Dad ordering a Mai Tai….look away!”  Yet they indulge me, and on a very VERY good day, they even take the time to press the “like” button on Facebook. I guess that is part of what love is all about. Don’t worry, my dear beloved sons, I will NOT be posting a picture of myself sans clothes and with full FUPA at the Tiki Bar. I promise.

First they find trillions of diamonds in Russia and now this article (see below) says there is new evidence to show that Jesus was MARRIED. What the hell is going on? So if Jesus had a wife, why cant we hear her side of the story? Maybe it went something like this:

(Found on a papyrus scroll in a cave outside of Jerusalem)

Dear Diary,
Jesus was gone for three days. I didnt hear one holy word from him the whole time. Then all of a sudden he shows up looking like complete dreck, with his clothes in tatters and dripping blood from large holes in his hands. I yelled at him and told him, “What, just because you believe you’re the son of God you think you can disappear for days and then come back hungover drunk and dripping blood all over the cave floor?? You have zero respect for your helpmate! Also, its time you get a real job. This wandering sage, mystical healer thing is obviously not working out! Look at yourself for Yahweh Sake!! At least carpentry is a decent trade, even if you never fix your own furniture when it breaks. The kitchen stool you made is a piece of camel dung and dont even THINK about telling me one of your stupid three legged stool metaphors. Save it for your shmendrik disciples that think you’re so great …….Oy, I’m not talking to you until you take a bath. You stink and your breath is HORRENDOUS.”

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/09/18/the-gospel-of-jesus-wife_n_1891325.html?1347990916&icid=maing-grid7|main5|dl3|sec1_lnk3%26pLid%3D207309

In what seems like a rather unusual act of vengeance and unnecessary hot-dogging by Yahweh, aka the Divine One, the Lord Our God, etc., a dramatic display of hellfire and brimstone was recently reported in Australia. Terrified citizens and Aboriginal tribe members managed to videotape a “fire tornado” (see web story below) in between babbling incoherently, repenting for their earthly sins and running for their lives. Those who were stupid enough to look back at the horrible sight were turned into a pillar of Kosher salt, which is at least good for cooking and certainly useful in divinely inspired ice-storms. The nearly impossible to imagine meteorological event, also called a “fire devil” touched down in the Australian Outback and lasted at least 30 minutes before disappearing into a large cloud, followed by a golden chariot adorned with Cherubim (Holy Angels).

Despite the presence of multiple high quality video images and digital cell phone photos depicting God’s wrath and displeasure with the way modern humans are conducting their lives, the Australian military and various government officials are calling the occurrence a “normal variation of Australia’s unpredictable weather” and do not endorse the event as an unmistakable sign of eternal damnation for mankind.

http://www.aol.com/video/caught-on-tape-fire-tornado-rips-through-australia/517481898/?icid=maing-grid9|maing6-video|popular-videos-5min|sec2_lnk2|126987

Therapy Secret Revealed:  I know that mindful meditation is all in vogue today, but here’s another simple suggestion. When life gets too weird, chaotic, ironic or unpredictable, try turning on Law and Order to regain ones composure and sense of stability. Fortunately, there is ALWAYS a Law and Order episode playing 24/7 in every part of the known universe. I watch Law and Order in bed, on the treadmill, on the computer and if I have to go to the bathroom, always leave the door open so I can hear when the recognizable “Ta-Dum” sound occurs signaling the start of the show. Someone somewhere in the black trash bag piled streets of NYC has been killed or victimized and we the vicarious “living through others” people of Earth seek justice, and maybe some violent retribution. In fact, I’m pretty sure there are  tribes in remote jungles somewhere in Brazil or New Guinea who hunt, forage and dig for wild yam during the day and at night gather together in a smoky communal hut to watch Law and Order SVU. It’s not inconceivable, especially with Satellite and Dish TV.  Like me, the pygmies and loin cloth wearing Cannibals wonder why the police and the SVU team never see the enraged female gunman or family member on the courthouse steps who predictably guns down the smug rapist or child killer (who just got off on some obscure legal technicality). Of course the difference is that the Cannibals would celebrate the episodes oh-so-predictable ending by dismembering the bad guy, eating his body and ingesting his soul while I’m satisfied that karmic justice has been served and that Nancy Grace will likely be in a less hysterical mood. I may or may not also celebrate the fact by going downstairs to the kitchen and eating a turkey sandwich on rye bread with Durkees Dressing….

Why do I think the world is so weird and filled with irony? Most of us are too busy to notice and as human beings we swim in ironic circumstances like zebra fish in a large murky aquarium. We dont see the great irony until it’s brought to our attention. One small example from my life may suffice.

I was trained as a sex therapist under the auspices of a particular pre-Viagra time and place (San Francisco circa 1976) which worshiped the pioneers of the burgeoning field of sexology. The big Kahunas were Masters and Johnson, a team of Washington University, St. Louis researchers who also happened to have written a 1966 best seller called Human Sexual Response. In 1971, William Masters divorced his wife and married Virginia Johnson, his research partner.  Maybe all that steamy stuff in the lab went to their heads, or maybe they just fell in love. At UCSF we learned to use the Masters and Johnson method of treating sexual dysfunction and helping struggling couples improve their physical intimacy. Trust me there were alot of “take home” assignments given to individual clients and couples back then including specialized reading, watching certain “movies”, sensate focus and self-stimulation exercises (aka, “jerking off”), back-rubs, and, well, body rubs of all kinds. You didnt just see people for a few minutes and tell them to “get out there and do it, dammit”. Nor did we have magic blue pills to throw at them and say, “This ought to do it…just call me in the morning”.

Well, that was then and this is now. Masters and Johnson, the gurus of sex therapy and intimacy got divorced in 1992. William Masters died in 2001. So is that the irony? No there is more. Earlier this year William Masters III, the son of the esteemed sex therapist was arrested for exposing himself in New York’s Central Park. You might say it was an accident or a unfortunate fluke, but this week he was busted again for showing off his sex-related junk to two female undercover police officers posing as kayakers in rural Michigan. I guess they skip the Bait Car and To Catch a Predator routine up there and go right to the Bait Kayak maneuver. He is, as the links below shows, a dead ringer for his dear old dad. Now that’s irony. If you don’t mind I’ll stop right there and turn on another Law and Order. I think it’s the one where Stabler goes bananas on a perp and Olivia is working on her PTSD issues. God bless them.

Picture of the Old Man and Pioneer Sex Researcher:
http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.biografiasyvidas.com/biografia/m/fotos/masters.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.biografiasyvidas.com/biografia/m/masters.htm&h=162&w=188&sz=6&tbnid=xM7Ot5amiB8VwM&tbnh=0&tbnw=0&prev=/search%3Fq%3Dwilliam%2BMasters,wiki%26tbm%3Disch%26tbo%3Du&zoom=1&q=william+Masters,wiki&usg=__AIPVamUlmCHDxw5GsLMfusva9fk=&docid=EVSgyIvjG9wgoM&sa=X&ei=ySZJUL7eBoHI9QSwioDoAw&ved=0CF8Q1Rc

Picture and Story about Sonny boy and his recent “Northern Exposure” problem:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/09/06/william-h-masters-iii-exposing-exposure_n_1860616.html

The Agony

Have you ever gone on a Florida vacation and had one “nightmare” dining day and night followed by the best and most wonderful meal the very next night? How about the other way around? We stayed in Longboat Key and thanks to free accommodations figured we would “splurge” and try out the finest that LBK and Sarasota could offer food-wise. When I say finest I mean best tasting and highest quality, not necessarily the most expensive. My AMEX isn’t Black, Platinum, Gold or any other precious material that I know of, unless you consider battleship grey plastic to be a semi-precious substance.

All in all, it was a perfect trip minus a small glancing hurricane and an inexplicable swarm of tiny and relentless biting sand flies called “noseeum”, which are almost impossible to see until they have taken their microscopic, vampire-like pound of flesh and liter of blood. Google it, I swear I’m not making them up!! They are the unseen “bedbugs of the beach” and they prefer certain people whom they descend upon like a plague of locusts and then leave their victims itching and scratching for days like Mississippi hound-dogs with a bad case of fleas. I know. I know. Next time bring “Skin So Soft”. Now the Florida residents tell me. Why dont they just post a large sign at the beach that said, “Forget the Sharks, Watch Out for the Noseeum”?

After layering ourselves in three coats of Calamine lotion and popping a  handful of Benedryls we decided to mellow out at  the Mar Vista Grill on the North end of Longboat Key. Mar Vista is right next to Moores, the famously overpriced but popular Stone Crab and seafood restaurant. We wanted more privacy, less waiting and didnt want to hear, “Bernstein, party of 12″ all nite and throughout our meal. Plus, the admittedly delicious Stone crab claws were not in season. Believe me, if I could have caught a fresh Stone crab myself I would have cornered one, stabbed it multiple times with a sharpened stick, clobbered it with a large boulder ala Survivorman and parboiled it over a campfire with or without the necessary permits.

Mar Vista is more an intimate “pub” like atmosphere than Moores and recently has added a nice outdoor area to it’s fishing shack/bar dining decor. We should have noticed there were few customers outside and those who were dining “al fresco” were scratching themselves vigorously and rubbing their ankles against each other in between looking around for missing wait staff. You know that “craning neck” gesture and half raised index finger and hand motion that means, “Im trying to be laid back and relaxed on my vacation but if I dont get some service soon I might either start a fire by rubbing my itchy ankles together or go POSTAL on someone” look?  Well, now imagine six or eight tables doing that simultaneously. It became ridiculous at one point and, perhaps due to an allergic reaction to sand flies and the Benedryl (in addition to a pretty watery but potent Long Island Ice Tea) I began to fantasize that beach zombies had eaten the entire Mar Vista kitchen staff and both bartenders. Worse yet, I figured the servers, if not at the restaurant, must be somewhere on the beach by now faceless, horribly maimed and covered in a Tsunami sized swarm of noseeum.

I was shaken from my horror show fantasy when a young frowning waitress came up and without so much as a smile or apology said, “Do you know what you want because I’m really busy!”  Whhhhhaaaat? I couldn’t believe my ears. I swear to you she said this in a pitch perfect “Mean Girls” tone that suggested either her father owned the restaurant or she was currently auditioning for the Sarah Michelle Gellar bitch part in Sarasota’s stage production of Cruel Intentions. She even had the bored, spoiled rich girl body language down pat. Regarding the unbelievably long wait for my drink (“What is this, Gilligan’s Island?”) the rude waitress mentioned that, “our bartenders are all backed up.” Wait, it’s now 9PM and almost everyone is gone……or in anaphylactic shock.

I realize most people would have cut their losses at this point and left, maybe to forget dinner altogether or go directly to the  dessert line at the Loft (above Euphemia Haye). Unfortunately, we had already had three straight day’s worth of Euphemia Haye’s Apple Walnut Crumble Pie, and even more sado-masochistically, I wanted to know how this epic epicurean psychodrama at Mar Vista was going to turn out. Surely the fresh seafood and famous clam chowder would counterbalance the sand flies, invisible insects and sickeningly spoiled sorority girl server. Isn’t that usually the way the Universe does it? Did I not have the reverse experience in my younger hippie days in the jungles of Palenque, Mexico where after ingesting magic mushrooms and stripped naked to emphasize my spiritual receptivity and primal innocence I experienced God in all his natural splendor….only to find out later that my whole body was covered in blood sucking jungle leeches? Leeches, I hate leeches……and noseeum too.  Luckily I wasn’t allergic to leeches, and some local farmer took pity on me and poured several cans of gasoline on my blood-sucked tush and sunburned body. Noseeum and mosquitoes are, however, a totally different story. I should have bought stock 40 years ago in Benedryl and Skin So Soft, but who knew?

Allow me to cut to the chase as you probably know where I’m going. EVERYTHING at Mar Vista was horrible as in horrendous, haphazard, and hideous. The tuna “fusion” appetizer was stringy and “sushi-grade” ONLY if you happen to be in grade school and dont know anything about sushi. The clam chowder tasted neither of clams or vegetables and the “authentic award winning” creamy broth tasted artificial. Better to have called it Potato Filler Soup. I tried to doctor it up with the sherry-soy dipping sauce that came with the Cat-grade tuna appetizer but to no avail. The fresh Gulf coast mussels were overcooked, chewy and Dead on Arrival and so was my patience. Adding insult to injury we had moved our table inside in an attempt to survive both the rainy remnants of Hurricane Isaac and the biblical plague of insects but STILL could not find our waitress, a restaurant manager, a standing bartender, or any signs of life whatsoever besides one older couple who appeared to be on an E-Harmony or Christian Mingle inspired first date. May the Good Lord be with them because he certainly wasn’t with us that cursed night. Aargh!

Next blog: The Ecstasy

Are (both) my blog readers bored yet with my “weird sex news” updates?  As a sexologist there is so much weirdness in this world but “so little time”, as they say. Forget Furry sex and  turn the page on the Dinosaur sex blog entry. That’s old news, especially in the case of the dinosaurs doing “it”, which is about 65 million years old. Imagine the giant comet/asteroid hitting the Earth while some T-rex couple are mating. Talk about “seeing stars”!  Anyway, you might think nobody could top these kind of orgasmic extinction events (OEEs) but apparently there are an endless supply of “WHhhhattt???” sex related stories on the nonsense/worthless knowledge ridden Internet. Case in point:  A British lady (see link below) who is sexually addicted to “objects” rather then people…. and her current sex obsession is the Statue of Liberty. Yes, Lady Liberty turns her on and gives her orgasms. She has filled her home with replicas purchased online and visits the real deal in New York whenever she is able. I’m sure she is a fun fellow tourist on the Statue tour up to the Observation deck and leaves many a sightseer repeating the old line, “I’ll have whatever she’s having” from When Harry Met Sally. To me, a Corned Beef or Reuben sandwich from Katz’s Deli (like in the movie) is a much more likely scenario for a climax, epicurean or otherwise, but what do I know?

Finally, and I believe this story deserves a certain amount of genuine sympathy as it could conceivably happen, physiologically speaking. To be honest, it’s difficult to imagine that the loony lady from Great Britain is suffering terribly from an actual disorder in need of specialized medical care and counseling. She (the Statue stalker)  falls into the “what ever turns you on” category, as long as one doesn’t impose the sharp end of their sexual obsession on other people and their delicate body parts, that is. In the second story (see doubly absurd link below) a nurse who lives in New Jersey (of course) fell down a flight of stairs 10 years ago and since that time has been “plagued” by PGAD, otherwise known as Persistent Genital Arousal Disorder. She cant STOP having orgasms. Most of us havent suffered from anything similar to that since gym class right after reaching puberty. Unfortunately this poor lady not only cant stop having multiple orgasms but also experiences climax from simple physical movements like turning on the coffeemaker or pushing the button on the toaster in the morning. If I had this problem, in particular, I would probably be drinking gallons of coffee and eating several loaves of toast every morning. Of course one can also imagine the untoward side effects of such habit forming behaviors. Somewhat like eating disorders which are real afflictions not to make light of, PGAD is something that a casual observer might just wonder, “Hey, how can a acquire a slight case of that?” My professional answer is'”You cant, so dont bother”, and plus, most of us couldn’t afford the calories or the caffeine that comes with the sexual fireworks. Just like the dinosaurs we might want to leave well enough alone and be especially careful what we wish upon a star for. Enough said.

http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/news/4442556/Statue-of-Liberty-gave-me-an-orgasm.html
http://blog.sfgate.com/hottopics/2012/08/28/nurse-plagued-by-up-to-100-orgasms-a-day/

Extra Credit: The closest thing to PGAD in men put to music: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4pXfHLUlZf4&feature=related

Blogging is different from writing. I bet you knew that already. First, if you really want a ton of traffic and a gazillion hits, especially from young/younger people (which is about everybody) you have to write with BIG WORDS. When I say BIG I really mean small words in a large font. People today dont like to read. Hey, that’s not a criticism, bro!!  Most peeps are way more used to a text or tweet or something short and sweet, so that they dont get totally bored!! Kinda like TMZ or Grindr only shorter, dumber, and if it’s at all possible, more superficial. Also, you have to use alot of exclamation points because it WAKES PEOPLE UP and keeps their interest! Yay!! Woo Hoo!!  It’s also really important to use contemporary phrases (see Urban Dictionary below) and idiomatic expressions that are fresh and all pimped out, yo, so remember to talk straight up Gangsta not geekspeak. Old is so yesterday, and today is the new ..well, present tense.

At the end of the day, in this 24/7 world, you gotta give it all you got and be FIERCE!!  It’s hella good to throw in and throw down what you know about indie music and the kind of E Hollywood TV shows that really rock. When I say rock I dont mean the Beatles and I’m not talking brick and mortar. In fact, if you want to BUILD AWESOME COMMUNITIES and be all about GREEN TECHNOLOGIES, you have to go offline and bucketize whats REALLY important TODAY!! But hey, it’s all good!!  Basically, if you want to attract (Law of Attraction) some wicked tight readership, meaning more BFFs and bromances and less fantards or trolls you gotta suck it up and get REAL! When I say real, I dont mean Kim Kardashian phony real. I mean Anderson Cooper, I’m cool AND I’m GAY real but its not even about that. And it’s not all about YOU or ME either! It’s about keeping it real, even if you get breast cancer, then recover and finally get pregnant real, like Guliana Rancic and US magazine, or Perez Hilton, “we are THIN (now) and RICH and do PILATES” real. Last but not least, you gotta be ghetto real, that is if you want to be gettin’ bitches, booty and Benjamins. Aight?? You know what I’m sayin’? Dont be punking out MOFO. Otherwise you be all by your lonesome. Word!!

http://www.urbandictionary.com/

Really? Is this what social media and web journalism have finally come to? How pathetic is it, and how desperate for user “hits” and internet “traffic” is the Huffington Post anyway?

Yesterday, I was surfing the internet for basic information about dinosaurs in a futile but game attempt to avoid important life decisions and adult responsibilities. There was some generic dinosaur story posted (dont ask me what it was about because that was nearly 24 hours ago) and when I clicked on it I was IMMEDIATELY sent to a slide show link (see below) on “dinosaur sex”.  Yes, DINOSAUR SEX. I didn’t even ask to see or preview the shocking and hellacious depictions of Jurassic Park creatures copulating before the graphic multi- image “show” began flashing before my eyes automatically, leaving literally NOTHING to ones imagination or to natural history’s private desk drawer. Once I regained my composure and realized I was now probably on a secret FBI database as a life long dedicated dinosaur porn user, I surrendered to my innate curiosity and learned a thing or two.

For example, I learned that dinosaurs do it from behind, like all domestic farm animals and Jenna Jameson. I also learned that most dinosaurs didnt even have penises. Instead, both male and females had “cloacas”, best described as all-purpose body cavities that were used for copulation, urination, and defecation. Um, ewww…

You could have blown me over with a Pteradactyl feather, if they indeed did have feathers, which they probably did not. This was all incredible new information, even for myself, CaptCliff, Dr. Mazer, the licensed sexologist and certified sex therapist and possible now unintentional dinosaur pervert. For some reason, and I say this with great shame and embarrassment, I figured that almost all of those enormous dog bone shaped fossils they find in Utah or Uganda were either Brontosaurus femurs or random prehistoric penises left for posterity, so to speak.

As a boy, around age ten or eleven, I distinctly remember going to the Field Museum of Natural History in Chicago and standing agog beneath “Sue” the largest, most complete and best-preserved Tyrannosaurus rex in the world. My next thought back then was, “If she’s that big, how big was her boyfriend, and….how big was his dino dong??!!   At 13-foot-tall and 42-feet-long not counting her razor-sharp teeth and massive legs, the mental image of Mr. Sue and his Triassic shlong was “daunting”, especially to a boy my age, with or without a fledgling sized Portnoy’s Complaint complex….. Talk about penis envy. I guess what I really learned is that we need more dinosaur sex education for human beings, and the scholarly Huffington Post intends to teach us all the down and dirty about dinosaurs, whether we like it or not.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/07/09/dinosaur-sex_n_1659391.html

Boomer Rants: Part Dieu, by Cliff Mazer, Ph.D.

I dont really care what famous people like Tom Brokaw, Alan Rosenberg or Morgan Fairchild have to say about Baby Boomers. Sure, there are some undeniable truths and pithy observations to be made in various PBS specials and television programs that aim to define this noteworthy generation (those born between 1946 and 1964) of which I am a proud member.

However, several important less publicized facts remain:  1) Baby Boomers, in general, dont particularly like being called Baby Boomers all that much. We know what it means sociologically and demographically, but too often it makes us sound like two things we dont see ourselves as: people getting older and being characterized as “homogeneous”. Homosexual is just fine and so are descriptions like “young at heart” but homogeneous, as in “all alike” and not unique is a total bummer.

2) Not only do Boomers not appreciate efforts by the media or various celebrities to typecast our place in history (either as naive idealistic fools or as game changers as far as music, sex, drugs, and societal values/ morality are concerned) but such broad brush strokes and generalizations often dont apply.

To be sure, Woodstock was a defining musical event and the 1967 Summer of Love in San Francisco did capture the essence of a certain cultural imperative and movement for social change, but many of us either plain missed it, caught only the tail end, or more striking, were simply not inclined to do as Timothy Leary suggested by “tuning in, turning on and dropping out.”  Furthermore, older Baby Boomers and younger ones bear relatively few similarities and display rather significant differences. Think about it. Kids born in 1946 are pretty obviously different from people born in 1963. They danced to music as wildly disparate as the Platters or Bobby Vinton versus The Bee Gees and Joan Jett and the Blackhearts.

Mid-generation Boomers, such as myself, born in 1953, epitomize more of the stereotypical Rock and Roll turned hippie turned disenchanted investment banker (or psychologist) trajectory….while still clinging to an annoying social conscience and latent fantasies about tropical islands and Utopian communities (with nice amenities of course). The older Boomers are generally less spoiled and narcissistic and felt blessed to just survive the War in Viet Nam. They lived through the historic events comically portrayed in the movie Forrest Gump. The younger generation of Baby Boomers, in contrast, know how to use their iPhones and digital devices instinctively. Baby baby boomers grew up watching the Breakfast Club and personally related to the Brat Pack “coming of age” movies in the 1980s.  Collectively, all of us spoiled the crap out of our kids, got our butts kicked by the lousy economy and are fully responsible for the latest wave of teenagers and young adults who have over-sized, unusually dexterous thumbs, text each other constantly, cannot sustain a real conversation and immediately call a plumber when the toilet clogs, even just a little bit.

In retrospect, not many of us Baby Boomers, whether older or younger, were smart or prescient enough to actually consider becoming a licensed plumber who by now would have OWNED his/her own tropical island with off the grid solar energy, high tech Japanese toilets AND a well-stocked Tiki Bar. We also know we cant go back. We realize we should have bought land, any land, and especially wish we had kept our vintage toys. On the other hand, who could blame us for not knowing to keep the “mint condition” boxes they came in too? They dont call it hindsight for nothing. If there is anything every Baby Boomer has in common, it’s hindsight vision and the urge to kick ourselves for all the stuff we tossed out that is now worth a small FORTUNE. However, we dont regret all the relatively worthless cultural debris, ie. old menus, old photos, old roach clips, and Presidential campaign buttons, etc. we insist on keeping in our dresser drawers both to remind us of all the fun we had as well as what very special and unique people we are.

Cliff Mazer, Ph.D. is a licensed Clinical Psychologist living in Atlanta Georgia. He writes a boomer related blog under the psuedonym CaptainCliff at https://captaincliff.wordpress.com/
and he has an inexplicable love of all things Pirate.  Contact: 404-932-7193

I just finished watching another Shark week episode, which has pretty much convinced me to stay pool side next week when I take my once a year (if I’m lucky) vacation to Longboat Key, Florida. In fact, I may carry an automatic weapon INTO the swimming pool on account of Great White sharks and their superior intelligence as well as unrivaled capacity for surprise attacks. There is NO WAY I’m going to be taken by surprise while casually shelling on the pristine white sand beaches of either Longboat or Siesta Key by a bull shark dressed as a life guard who attempts to drag me behind a sand dune and have his way with me.

At my mid Baby Boomer age I dont have the stamina or physical strength of those buff young Aussie surfers in the TV series who manage to fend off Jaws sized sharks, killer jellyfish and man-eating crocodiles (before going out later to drink beer with their mates and eat shrimp on the barbie). The loss of a limb or two may be a “badge of courage” in Perth, but it’s a distinct disadvantage in the suburbs of Atlanta, Georgia.

Instead, we, the rapidly aging, must rely on our wits and stealth. For example I noticed at Starbucks this morning that I was absolutely invisible to any woman under the age of 40. Perhaps this camouflage technique could be put to good use on my upcoming beach vacation, like when it’s time to pay the bill in Florida for my perennially overpriced crab dinner at Moore’s Stone Crab Restaurant, or after stuffing my face with the last gooey remnants of my exquisite pan seared duck and garlicky Caesar salad at Euphemia Haye. Unfortunately, even if I manage to blend in like a stealthy ocean floor Cephalopod, the servers will no doubt still smell my garlic breath and unmistakable hints of “oak, berries and leather” from the house Cabernet on my invisible beard. So I will willingly surrender my AMEX card and not be offended when my AARP membership (as usual) gets me nothing off the bill.

Oh well, it’s “all good” as they say…. Plus, I just saw a brief You Tube video about a “Total Body Lift” procedure (see absurd link below). Apparently,  it wont matter how much you eat in the near future. They can just take out whole gaping sections of your body and staple you back up, thus defying advancing age, gravity, sloth and my personal favorite total gluttony. To be honest, the video looks an awful lot like what the Great White Sharks do to surfers and other idiots wearing black rubber wet suits bearing an invisible sign that says, “I look just like a yummy Seal! Bite me.”  I think I’ll just stick to being stealthy at Starbucks and gnawing on my fancy duck dinner in Longboat. Feel free to call me chicken.

http://www.5min.com/Video/Total-Body-Lift-Animation-114222996