Uncle Albert helped us understand time is relative, and I’m here to tell you 12 years is a freakin’ long time; yet I have a feeling the next twelve solar circles are going to test Professor Einstein’s theories on the speed of life.
Last week I was a world away, embracing all that is fake in Las Vegas. The only thing real there is the plight of the 15% unemployed and of homeowners who have seen abode values drop a median 58.4% since the market peak in 2006. On the Strip, the pain is numbed by the botox of a bogus Manhattan skyline, an Eiffel effigy, and of course enough double D’s to deem the place Silicone Valley.
In the appropriately named “Mirage,” a couple work pals and I smooth talked our way past a bouncer who looked like Warren Sapp at the Beatles-themed “Revolution” club, and proceeded to party like rock stars with the other 6 tourists who were there on a Monday night. Still, the place was cool with psychedelic animations projected on the walls and everything Beatles pouring out of a crystal clear sound system.
As I sipped a $15 Maker’s on the rocks courtesy of Joey D, I floated off on a musical cloud until snapped back into my seat with the words of a 24 year old Paul McCartney. I’m sure when he and John Lennon wrote the song, the subject seemed light years away. Well, it was 40 for them. Two nights later it became 12 for me.
“Will you still need me,
will you still feed me,
When I’m sixty-four?”
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