Birthday Time!

So JediBoy turned 17 yesterday. In my mind's eye, he's been 12 for an eternity - perhaps because that matches my own mental age. Stll, there's no denying that my youngest brat is getting older. If there's an upside to being reminded of my own mortality like this, it's that finding a birthday present for JediBoy is easy-peasy these days. I pretend to buy something for myself, I wrap it in pretty paper, and I give to him.

Thanks to family far and wide, the boy hauled in some Doctor Who and Minecraft nerd-wear, Dishonored for Xbox, and some books courtesy of Doctorow, Moore, and Inman. While I'm well past being able to share clothes with a tall, skinny teenager, I look forward to reading his books and playing his games once a respectful number of days have passed (I calculate 17 is about right).

But back to my own mortality since this is my blog. Once the rest of the house had gone to bed, JediBoy and I retired to the basement to catch a few episodes of Adventure Time and sip an illicit bottle of birthday beer (his Mom will never find out). In between making our standard WTF Faces at Finn and Jake, I kept reminding myself that things are changing. In a few months, the boy will be figuring out his post-high-school plans. A few months after that he could be moving to some other town to attend school.

I want the best for him, of course. But I selfishly don't want things to change too much for me. The idea of sitting alone to play my video games or watch my zombies - it's a sad picture. I know my wife will try to step up her geekiness (she'a already hardcore into Doctor Who), but I still lament the idea that JediBoy won't be in his chair while I'm in mine.

In the meantime, I'll be waiting patiently for the Xbox to be free.

He Finds Himself Older

Charles is a guy I know who is almost 15 years my senior. When I turned 40, we talked about how it feels to grow older. To me, 40 felt like 30 and 30 didn't feel a whole lot different than 20. So I asked Charles about when he started to feel 'older'.

There was no hesitation. "It's 50", he said. "When a guy turns 50, he notices things starting to change. Your body starts giving you signs that maybe it's not going to work the way you expect. You'll just have to see."

Knowing Charles' generally pessimistic outlook, I smiled the smile of a fellow who had a decade to negotiate the terms of turning 50. At 40, you still believe you could live forever.

Nowadays, I'm almost halfway between 49 and 50. I think about Charles' warning and, dammit, he might have been right. There are signs.

There's the obvious stuff, of course. I have the odd strand of grey hair on my head. Finding them has become a game for my family, mostly because those grey hairs are rare and elusive for now. Even on my chest those bits of grey are making themselves known and I sometimes wonder if plucking them would be worth the discomfort. And while it gives me the willies to think about it, I await the inevitable strands of gray further south (anatomically speaking). I cannot think of a sadder sign of aging than that. It may be time to research The Boyzilian.

I suppose there are wrinkles to think about - a bit around the eyes, for sure. The backs of my hands look like they might belong to someone middle-aged. But for the most part, my skin has been spared the wizened look (so far).

And speaking of hair, I'm noticing some growing in places it never grew before. If not for my 'personal electric trimmer' and the nice lady who coifs my hair, others might notice that my ears can take on a vague fuzziness and my eyebrows have no clear sense of 'beginning' and 'ending'.

All of this represents the outward signs of getting older, of course. Since I'm married and legally have no need to attract the fairer sex, I can manage the optics of aging well enough.  But the inward signs that things might be changing - they give me pause that maybe, just maybe, I won't be living forever.

Physical activity hurts more than it used to. I play hockey once a week for fun. I go to the gym of few times a week to keep my knees healthy enough to play hockey. It's a delicate balance that I've perfected over the last few years. But anymore, the pains from one activity just serve to take my mind off the pains from another activity.

My body doesn't bounce back from things the way it used to. I played in a charity hockey tournament last weekend. For a change, my team played in a division reserved solely for those of us over 45. This should have been manageable, but I could barely walk for 3 days afterwards.  Even a full day of yardwork can mean an evening of creakiness in my joints (Scotch is an effective medicine for this).

I'm not the night owl I used to be. Far too often I find myself nodding off before the 11pm news. This angers me because I know all the cool kids are having fun into the wee hours. I imagine my friends noticing my XBOX is offline at midnight, which is pretty embarrassing in its way.

I'm experiencing life at 4am for all the wrong reasons. It's a touchy subject for guys, but it's a good bet that ageing is going to include a new alarm clock for your bladder. As a double slap to the male ego, your bladder will drag you to the pre-dawn porcelaine only to develop a certain shyness about the whole idea.

I no longer know how to dress myself, apparently. I've never much cared about being fashionable. When I'm not at work, my clothing choices are governed by a hatred of socks, shoes, and long pants. But when my teenaged kids suggest that I should re-think the cargo shorts, that hurts, man. I've worked hard for these legs, you know?

On the surface, Charles might have been right about turning 50. Or maybe it's all just a self-fulfilling prophecy - ten years of wondering manifesting itself in the physical world. But knowing Charles, I'm thinking his warning was a bit of a challenge - a virus in my psyche - aimed at making sure I fight the feeling of 'older'. If Charles can still play D&D on a regular basis while staring at 65 years on this Earth, then I'm thinking I can still wear cargo shorts and play XBOX into the wee hours once in awhile. I'll just need a quick nap, I think.

"You're Gone!"

Too often I forget about the inter-connectedness of things in this world of ours. Today was one of those times when it really hit home. Ted Tevan died.

You might not know who Ted Tevan is/was, but there are many of us who do. Ted was a legend in the Montreal radio scene back in the 1970's. Generally considered a Canadian pioneer in sports/talk radio, Ted's late night open-line radio show, Sports Rap, was an institution back in the day. It was a few hours almost every night where anything could happen - and usually did. Ted had his own style, his own way of doing things, and we couldn't get enough of it.

I was just a West Island kid in those days, so I'd risk the wrath of my Mother by sneaking a radio under my pillow to catch Ted's antics into the wee hours. It didn't matter that I wasn't a huge sports fan - I just wanted to hear Ted cut off some hapless caller with his usual "You're gone!".

But Ted was a little more than all that. You see, back in those days, he was also part of my Dad's circle of friends. They were a weird collection of Montreal car salesman, radio jocks, and pro athletes who all liked to drink beer at the same West Island haunts. How they got together is a tale I wish I knew..

So the story goes that my Dad had this running gag with Ted (likely made funnier by a beverage or two). My Dad would cajole Ted to "put him on the air" as co-host of Sports Rap. This was always funny to me because (1) my Dad was a car salesman, not a radio guy and (2) he knew very little about sports. Ted would, of course, tell my Dad to bugger off and buy another round. And then my Dad would feign his disappointment and anger - presumabley to gales of laughter from the rest of the bar.

Around and around went this schtick. Months passed, until one day Ted Tevan called my Dad's bluff. Instead of the usual "bugger off", Ted said "yes". He offered my Dad - who you'll remember had no radio experience - a weekly guest commentary spot on Sports Rap. All my Dad had to do was fill 5 minutes every week or so with 'something controversial'. And like that, the persona of 'O.J. Godin' was born - my Dad's not-clever morphing of his actual initals, E.J., into something more sports-like.

In months to come, I'd make sure to listen in on Wednesday nights sometime after 11pm to hear my Dad try to be controversial and get the station's phone lines lit up. Sometimes it worked (he managed to tick off Ken Dryden once) and sometimes it didn't. I never cared how good my Dad sounded, because he was still my Dad. And Ted was always the consumate pro in filling in the rough spots, anyways.

But my other memory of that time was Ted Tevan, himself. I remember him being such a kind fellow to me and my siblings - all of us always a little star-struck in Ted's presence. I used to love being the guy who answered the phone when Ted called our house. Ted would recognize my voice on the line and, without fail, would use his bestest, deepest radio voice, "Do you know who this is, young man?". And I'd rely back, "It's Ted Tevan and you're gone!".

It's been over 35 years since I last talked to Ted. And I really hadn't thought about him since my Dad passed away almost 4 years ago. Hearing today of Ted's passing saddens me, of course, but it also brought an unexpected smile to my face thinking about a time when Ted and my Dad, O.J., ruled the airwaves - at least under my pillow.