June 22, 2314.…an expedition of archeologist from the World Central Committee of China, discovered ancient ruins in the Pocono region of the province of Pennsylvania. The People’s Committee of Antiquities had sponsored several digs in both the Liberated Americas and also most recently in the Middle East, following the abatement of the radiation levels. The above photo was taken in a secluded resort once occupied centuries ago by Yankee imperialist masters. Note the elaborate décor and fixtures of their garnished life style.  In Wong Chan’s book, “The Rise And Fall Of The Capitalist Dog Empire,” he writes of such decadence as these porcelain ‘foot washers’ located in many of the indoor relief centers of the privileged and elite. Recovered records of that period indicate that these fixtures were once manufactured in Nanjing and Beijing by an indentured labor force and then delivered to the ignominious West. Found also were a number of bidet face washers.

2314 6月22日，….一個小組從中國，被發現的古老廢墟的世界中央委員會的考古學家在賓夕法尼亞的省的地區。上古人民的委員會在兩被解放的美洲最近主辦了幾開掘並且在中東，跟隨輻射能級的減少。 上述照片在一種偏僻的手段被拍了一次被佔領的世紀前由美國人帝國主義者大師。注意他們的被裝飾的生活方式精心製作的décor和裝置。 在陳黃的書,他說:「大起大落的資本主義的狗帝國」,他寫的是這種墮落為這些瓷器’呎墊圈的設在許多室內救濟中心的特權和精英。  那期間恢復的紀錄表明這些裝置在南京和北京曾經被製造了由勞動力然後被提供了到可恥西部。也找到一定數量的淨身盆面孔洗衣機。

                                                                                                                                                Dr. Charlie Chan

    I am a Baby Boomer. I didn’t enlist to become one, nor was I sentenced to live my life as one. I was simply conceived by a randy sailor home from the Pacific following WW II and my mother was a waitress and a willing recipient of his randiness. As nature dictates, I arrived on the scene eight months and eleven days later with limited options. The year was 1947, President Harry Truman was in office and King George VI was the British monarch. On the music charts was Chi-Baba, Chi-Baba sung by Perry Como and Mam’selle sung by Frank Sinatra. Aliens had landed and were running amok in Roswell, New Mexico, much as they are today. The number one movies were Miracle on 34th Street and Life with father. Both were plagued with politically incorrect normality.

     My ignorant kids once told me that life doesn’t really begin until your 50. It’s a shame my body didn’t attend that series of lectures, as it’s currently in remission and my fat index exceeds my body’s warranty. I don’t think or feel very old. Fact is, I don’t really feel much of my body anymore until around midday and then it hits me like a sumo on meth and then I just take a nap. My doctor tells me that at my age, diet is everything, followed closely by exercise. He tells me to never eat anything that taste good or is served through a window. The dog’s Gravy Train and Milk Bones are starting to look good and I fear our relationship may soon suffer due to my diet. My exercise routine consist of walking to the mailbox, (and back), and sometimes over into my foreign neighbor’s backyard where I pick a few oranges from one of his trees. I know he sees me, but he’s afraid to say anything for fear I’m wading around in a dementia minefield looking for the Viet Cong. I stash my oranges in my garage like a three hundred pound chipmunk hording acorns. Wifey rations my fruit intake because of the sugar, but I know she’s eating buckets of fruit cocktail when I’m conveniently taking my nap. She can be cruel.

     Then there’s that portion of my brain that controls my memory. It’s about the size of a walnut now. Some days I don’t have any memory problems at all. Other days, I can’t find the “Lone Ranger” or “The Jack Benny Show” on the radio. Wifey just smiles, takes my hand, and gently asks me where the safety deposit box key is….again. Well, this is just a small insight into the Baby Boomer club house and I would like to write more, but I really need to take a potty break……uh oh!….never mind.

                                                                                                                                                                                          Charlie

     When I woke up this morning, I slid out of bed like a slow lava flow and then zombied into the bathroom. I looked in the mirror and thought, “Jeez, I’m still here.” After my morning maintenance and gargle, I roamed into the kitchen and poured myself a cup of Wifey’s coffee. I asked her how I took my coffee and she said I liked it with a little cream, (when you get our age, you’ll understand). After I concocted my brew, I wandered out onto the patio and sat down in my favorite Chinese made chaise lounge. The Cardinals and mocking birds were flapping around the yard torpedoing my roses with poop, which made me regret ever running over the cat with our lawn mower. The morning sun was warm, and everything was calm and peaceful, and my neighbors had yet to turn on their deafening mariachi music.

    Wifey is the ‘Diet Gestapo’ of our house and forces me to eat like I’m in a fourth world country. She brought me my usual breakfast sandwich of scrambled egg white on dry toast. Then she went back inside to get my meds and some juice. As usual, I fed my sandwich to my faithful dog. My dog has lost a lot of weight. Back with my assorted meds and cranberry juice, Wifey starts to nag on me for always eating my egg sandwich too fast. This causes my dog to look up at me with conspiratorial disgust. Anyway, sugar-muffin gives me the weather forecast for the day and then announces the assorted projects, drudgeries, chores and challenges she has scheduled.

      I’m not sure how it works in nature, like the relationship between old wolves or maybe arthritic squirrels or any of the other mammals when they get old together, but it seems like when me and Wifey retired and put away our lunch pails for the last time, she kind of took charge! I didn’t notice it at first, but, after awhile I did notice that I was saying “okay“ and “yes dear” a lot and she was now critiquing me on a regular basis. She started patting me on the head a lot too, which I liked, and this disgusted the dog even more. 

     Chores done, bath taken and BenGay applied….we then relax for the day and have our dinner. My meals are now based primarily on three food groups; brown, green and pale. There are two categories of flavor; sticky and mushy.  No sweets….desserts are where you find sand dunes. The dog snorts and refuses to eat leftovers. Then we watch a couple of hours of brain sucking TV until Wifey’s head starts to bobble and then she kisses me goodnight, pats me on the head and heads off to bed with the dog meandering behind her. I watch some news and when I finally hear her snoring from three rooms away, I get up and head out to the garage where I keep my stash of Oreos. I get a glass of fat laden milk and then head into the den and my computer to catch the next bus to Xangaville. All and all, it’s a really good life being retired, with a wonderful woman and a skinny disgusted dog.
 
                                                                                                                                                                                         Charlie

     When I was very young, Mom always fixed certain things for each day of the week, ending with roast chicken on Sundays. Now, Thursdays was meatloaf night. Mom could work a pound of ground beef into four pounds of loaf by adding loads of onions, oatmeal for filler, a variety of left over meats from previous nights and finally an entire can of stewed tomatoes. It was usually on Thursday mornings, as Dad was walking out the door on his way to work, that he would announce that Mom had worked hard that week and needed a break. So, he would be taking all of us out to eat when he got home that evening. Mom enjoyed the break and me and my little brother would thank Dad repeatedly under our breath. Now understand, I relied on being well fed, but trying to hide Mom’s meatloaf under the mash potatoes never worked and the dog knew when it was meatloaf night cause he stayed in the garage.

     That evening, Dad would load the family up in the Pontiac and head to the A&W, the Valhalla of burgerdom and the purveyors of that wondrous elixir known as root beer. He would pull into the A&W on Steward Street and carefully slid his automobile into the first available spot. All the smells, bright lights and rock and roll music was like an epiphany to my little brain and tended to cause me to get euphoric, which I guess was like getting high back then for a 11 year. Then I saw her! The car hop heading down our way. My heart would thump like a puppy dog as the bleached blond goddess on roller skates rolled up to our window. Dad was always in charge of ordering for us and it usually meant a burger and small fry each for me and lil bro, a fish sandwich for Mom and two chili dogs and a large onion ring for him. Then, of course, four arctic frosted, solid glass mugs of their legendary root beer!

     This particular A&W was always busy on Thursday nights, as I assumed that was meatloaf night for a lot of folks. Well, for the next ten minutes, my brother and I crawled around in the back seat like a pair of starving hyena cubs as we watched tray after tray of wondrous delights roll pass our car. Finally….blondie rolled up to Dad’s side of the car, did a tight pirouette and then hooked a metal tray onto the car door window. I was agasp at her proficiency. Dad then handed out the grub and once we were all settled, he would finally pass around the crystal steins of the sassafras infused beverage. To me, there was nothing as unique or as satisfying as an A&W root beer. Understand, it would not be until years later when you could actually buy a bottle of it. Till then, here was the only source.

     Fed, refreshed, and satisfied, we finally headed home. But….sometimes, Dad would go all out and buy a glass gallon jug of root beer and take it home with us. This usually caused a state of contention between me and my brother once we got it in the fridge, but Dad would put the death grip on the screw top and it would have taken Superman or Grandma to loosen it. Anyhow, when I drive by the new A&W’s of today, it just ain’t the same. Prefab buildings serving steroid enhanced burgers, machine extruded fish squares and a facsimile of the legendary root beer, which is delivered each week and pumped into an underground storage tank. Car hops??  It’s call drive-thru.

Anyway….I can close my eyes and still remember those wonderful Thursday nights and the joy and excitement of going to a very special place both loved and enjoyed by the entire family……as a family.

                                                                                                                                                                     Charlie