Undercover New York: Nobody’s Immortal So Live A Little

I have these friends (60-ish, 70-ish) who are always exercising: gym machines, cold yoga, hot yoga, hiking backward in loose sand to build up one’s calf muscles, etc. There is also plastic surgery. The wife says their “goal” is to climb Mt. Everest. What is my goal? I dunno. To belch musically?

I never told these people, but it is an established fact that EVERYBODY DIES.

Of course, I wouldn’t mind living a lot longer, but this is just my curiosity. I am one of those people — idiots, really — who gape out of a plane’s windows during takeoff and landing just to see what’s happening. I recall a particular flight at O’Hare in the dead of winter. The runways were coated with a thick sheet of ice, and airport personnel had placed smudge pots all over in an attempt to recover traction.

The airport lounge was full because most flights were being delayed. It looked like one of those war films showing crowds waiting for the last train out of Warsaw.

Suddenly, over the loudspeaker, you heard, “DR. BROTHERS, DR. JOYCE BROTHERS!” (She was a TV psychiatrist, the precursor of Dr. Phil, Ruth Westheimer and Dr. Oz, and was all over the airwaves in those days.)

Suddenly, we boarded. The plane waited on the runway for an eternity. I started browsing through the channels on my headset. Apparently, the plane had come from Hawaii. I found a channel playing ridiculous hula music: “Tiny Bubbles” by Don Ho, etc. People all around me had their rosaries out or were davening. I told as many people as possible within earshot to switch to my channel. Pretty soon, everybody was bobbing up and down, “Eeeky wocky-wocky.” The plane took off. We lifted up between the smudge pots.

I now administer the following questionnaire: a) Do you have wrinkles? b) Is your skin “bright” or “dull”? c) Do you eat Chinese food? d) How many fingers am I holding up?

I rarely give advice, and this might sound perverse, but KN says: LIVE A LITTLE!