Aging is a trade-off process. You balance plusses and minuses. For instance, in my case, I’m no longer an impulsive, mercurial, slave to my libido, know-it-all, which nicely described me when I was, oh, 22 years old.
Now, nearly a half century later, none of those descriptors apply. Hurrah.
On the other hand, this body I inhabit is the equivalent of a car with 235,000 miles on it. It’s rattly, creaky, squeaky, in need of constant repair, slow, awkward, worn out, and has a vanishingly small trade-in value.
It gets me from here to there but not in any decent style and, on the way, I worry about the next breakdown.
Overall, I’d take this version of me over that younger version.
Funny thing is, when I was 22, I fretted that I wasn’t good enough for the world. Now, I fear the world isn’t good enough for me.
Not that the world — or, more accurately, humanity — has changed all that much since 1978, but over these years, these decades, I’ve realized we’re a mighty fucked up species. And the fucked-upness I sensed within myself way back then was the same thing, only with different details, that makes every living and dead human being something less than a paragon.
Speaking of imperfect human beings, the other week I finished reading Chris Wallace’s book, Countdown 1960: The Behind-the-Scenes of the 312 Days that Changed America’s Politics Forever. It’s a light-as-a-feather history of the presidential race between John F. Kennedy and Richard M. Nixon. They were two imperfect human beings.
JFK, too, was a slave to his libido. I mean he was an every day, sometimes several times a day, dipper into what Mark Twain so aptly called a refreshment.
Nixon, on the other hand, appeared to be just the opposite, a tendency, in my view, as odious as his opponent’s.
Anyway, let’s concentrate on Kennedy. Despite the fact that his always-rigid sundial spurred him to betray his marriage vows, keep countless secrets from his wife, treat other women as playthings, and get involved with people whose friends and acquaintances were too often sleazy-slash-criminal, he truly cared about the poor, Black people, kids, immigrants, and pretty much everybody else who through dint of birth and circumstance were dealt a lousy hand.
Were he to have been transported to this day, running for president, the other party would vilify him ceaselessly. Perhaps his charisma would allow him to overcome the vilification. Perhaps a plurality of voters would say, Aw hell, boys will be boys. Pretty much what some 51 percent of those who voted in the presidential election last November essentially said about the eventual winner, a man with all the charisma of a weasel.
(L-R) Kennedy, Nixon, a weasel.
Wallace’s book made me think about why I would have voted for Kennedy (I didn’t; I was way too young) even though he had the sexual morals of a goat. And it made me think about the repulsion I feel toward the current occupant of the White House.
I don’t believe Li’l Duce was as tumescent as JFK was. I get the feeling the current president doesn’t really like sex, seeing it more as a cudgel of power, rather than a sweet expression of love or even fleeting affection. Li’l Duce’s a germophobe so, really, how much do you think he savors the mixing of sweat, skin, and slippery stuff the sex act entails?
No matter, his view of women is, in its own way, as repulsive as JFK’s. Maybe even worse.
So would I ignore Kennedy’s sins and mark the box next to his name?
Of course I would. At this age, I’ve come to understand every saint wears a cloak, hiding the sinner within. The opposite holds true too: a friend’s mother was a childhood neighbor back in the 1950s of notorious Chicago Outfit capo Tony “Joe Batters” Accardo. He earned his nickname while, as a lieutenant under Al Capone, he beat some recalcitrant business partners to death with a baseball bat. Accardo and the Chicago Mob polluted labor unions, Las Vegas, complicit law enforcement officials, and businesspeople unable or unwilling to resist his gang’s influence. Yet, according to this friend’s mother, in his private life, Accardo was generous, warm, loyal, and a sterling neighbor.
The evil Mafia cloak he wore hid the swell guy within. That’s where the analogy ends. Whereas I can forgive JFK’s sins so long as he strove to better the lives of the miserable, I can never excuse the crimes of the likes of Tony Accardo.
Or Donald J. Trump, for that matter.
Li’l Duce cares nothing for the losers (his word) of the world. He possesses few, if any, redeeming characteristics. I suppose I’ll give him credit for speaking from the heart, which he does. That’s not enough, though, to overcome his swift dismantling of this nation’s safety net. It’s clear he wants to end every conceivable federal program that helps people in poverty, consumers, the environment, new parents, working people, Black, brown, or otherwise nonwhites, the aged, the hungry, the homeless, students, teachers…, everybody, that is, save for the billionaires.
The good in JFK hid, and overcame, a certain ugliness.
The ugliness in Li’l Duce only hides more ugliness.
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