Where have all the bloggers gone?

Joanie. Unhappy.

Joanie. Unhappy.

Joanie is nine years old. Definitely pushing beyond catdom middle age. She was born feral and saved as a tiny kitten by an employee of City Vet in Dallas (her name, of course, was Joanie). Kitten Joanie was a mess, and by the time they spent money and time fixing her up (including setting a broken leg), they wanted a good home for her.

Enter the old fart (well, I was only 59 at the time) cat lover. I, of course, took her. She has lived uncomfortably in my apartment for nine years. She was mightily offended after a year here when the Cat Brothers, Groucho and, of course, Chachi moved in. Joanie does not love Chachi, but she has tolerated him for eight years. She tolerates his brother Groucho even less.

Now Joanie, for reasons I cannot imagine, has decided they both must go. Or she must hide. Her favorite place is under the bed. If I’m lucky, I can get her to come out long enough to have her picture taken. She has become a growler and hisser.

Joanie is about 60 in human terms, and she’s had it with these younger folks. I’m 68, and I still teach 60 nineteen-year-old university students every semester.  I haven’t had it with the younger folks. But I am getting tired. They are so strange (and they tolerate me about the way Joanie tolerates Groucho; I’m their means to an end—college degrees which will make them rich).

I have a problem in my right hip. How much pain did those old folks have to be in before they got new hips? Poor old things. I suppose there’s something creepy about a fat old man posting a picture of himself in tight yoga clothes on the internet for all the world (the thirty of you, at any rate) to see. But I want to demonstrate what I continue to do with my aching hip. Not bad, huh?

The old bridge.

The old bridge.

This writing was going to have a point, but I think I’ve forgotten what it was. It had something to do with Joanie looking totally disgusted with everything (doesn’t she, though?), and my being able to manage Setu Bandha Savangasana even with a pained hip (it’s probably what’s keeping me from a steel one). From grouchy Joanie (wouldn’t you know—now that I’m saying awful things about her, she has come out from under the bed and is lying in her favorite position on my right foot and purring) to my painful hip I was going somehow logically to get to blogs. I Google blogs and follow tags about old age, trying to connect with other old fart bloggers and increase my “traffic.”

Joanie. Happy?

Joanie. Happy?

A really weird thing happens to blogs about about getting older. They stop. The last month in their archives tends to be January 2010, or March 2011, or February 2007, or. . . you get the picture. All I ask is that, when I remember too little or my logic is even more bizarre than it already is—Chachi just came in and Joanie growled and left, by the way—someone please get WordPress to remove this blog. Sheeeeesh! I want to be immortal, but not by what I leave behind in cyber space!

When I remember the connection between Joanie’s growling, the pain in my left hip, and blogs without bloggers, I’ll let you know.

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