The Candyman is Here

There's an old adage that says, "write what you know about."

Of course if I abided by that maxim, and considering how little I know, this blog would have ended 4 days after it started. I've been told I shouldn't engage in so much self-deprecation, but the irony is that's one of the few things I'm good at. Hence, it's something I know about.

I can't write about advertising because frankly I don't recognize the business in all its algorithmic machinations. Nor do I know any of the people in it. They're all Digital Worst and strangers to my analog ways. 

That leaves me fewer choices than a fat guy at an all-you-can-eat-dessert-bar five minutes before closing.

However the well is not completely dry. As I slip, or sometimes fall, into my senior stage, I'm finding a myriad of new experiences. For instance take the pill boxes pictured above. The round one belongs to Ms. Muse. It's one that her father left her.

The rectangular pill box on the left belongs to me. Until recently I had been a complete stranger to the notion of carrying a pill box. My father, though he passed at 57, a tragically young age for a man who can best be characterized as being strong as a bull with an equally fierce temperament, never owned a pill box. 

Or for that matter, any niceties of civilized life. 

If he needed to go out and wanted to keep a stash of aspirin or cancer pills, he'd stuff them in his trouser pocket. Probably the same one jangling around some subway tokens, loose change and a pack of matches. He never owned a lighter. Which would have been seriously mocked by his Bronx hoodlum friends.

Me? I'm a pillbox convert. 

In addition to looking cool and manly, it's incredibly utilitarian. I don't know about you and heartburn and the soothing relief that can only come from a Pepcid AC, but like the old American Express ads used to say, I never leave home without it. 

In addition to my chalky little angels, I also like to keep some Tylenol/Advil or even something of an industrial grade painkiller on hand. Because falls, tweaks or muscle pulls can, and often do happen. Even if I'm sleeping.  And finally there's room for my Petra microdose mints. These come in handy if I forget to refill the other pills and if I double up the dose, allow me to simply forget the heartburn of the creaky knee joints.

It also comes in handy at dinner parties where I can offer unsuspecting guests some needed digestive relief. "Can I offer you a Pepcid?" I'll say. And proceed to open my pocket-size buffet bar of medicinal desserts.

Not long ago I misplaced my handy dandy pill box. Thoughtfully, Ms. Muse tracked down the original artist in Sierra Madre who makes them, and bought me another one for Father's Day.

I'm going to do my best to hold onto this one, but the sad geriatric truth is I keep losing shit. That's another topic I know a little something about. Which could be another blog post. If I can remember I just said that.