The Carp Speaks

They, and I never quite know who "they" are, say that life begins after fifty. Hmm, I thought life began in my mom's womb. Which I barely remember other than it was wet and warm and I didn't want to leave.
But aside from anxiously waiting for my AARP card, or getting the blue-plate special at Home Town Buffet, I'm looking forward to sharing my putrid, I mean pretentious, okay, rather pedantic life with those who are willing to follow along. Musing about this and that and the other. Not specifically about being an Asian American man, the son of African American sharecroppers, and was convicted of a ponzi scheme when he was twelve. No, my rants, and raves, and disassociated non sequiturs are only a part of what I have to tell. Truth is, I am barely over fifty years old. The last of the great baby-boomers. And a fourth generation Japanese American man (so I've been told by my psychiatrist and my parents.) My grandparents on my father's side were not African American, but were indeed sharecroppers. A subject I will most likely feature later. The whole Manzanar thing. You know, the internment of "my people" during World War Two. The stereotypes Asian American's face. Though it's true, Asian men have small penises, so there's no chance I'd be caught in an Anthony Weiner wiener Twitter scandal. Say that ten times fast. Then take a picture of your crotch and send it to me as I forward it to a college co-ed.
I'll talk about my "Mad Men" days in advertising. My torrid affair with my secretary as I pitched a major account while knocking back a single-malt scotch and smoking a Marlboro (unfiltered). Oh, the nostalgia!
I continue to work as an "ad man." But that's not what I'm all about. I hope. If so, I really need to get out more.
As a single man in his fifties, I've learned a few things about life. Like cooking for myself. And that a microwave oven is useful for drying out wet socks. And not making a gourmet meal. Unless you consider a Hungry Man TV dinner the height of haute cuisine. But I'm not judging. I'll microwave a Hot Pocket and call it an evening.
In the meantime, if I'm not writing some blurb here, I'm off fighting the evils of Sarah Palin. More to come on Mama Bear Bimbo. I never knew Paul Revere rang bells and fired warning shots in the air to tell all Americans that the British were here to take away our arms. Wow, I"ll have to check on that. 
Even I, as a former high school teacher with a MA degree, I never realized Ms. Palin was such an astute a historian.