The doctor said I need a “good frame of mind” for the 37 radiation treatments I’m getting from a device that rotates like the International Space Station.
“I’m a pretty positive person,” I assured him. And it’s true, in so many ways.
I was positive Ricky Martin was straight. That UFOs exist. That Archie from Riverdale High couldn’t stay dead in comic book land. That my butt would hurt after a 6-hour trail ride on a Tennessee Walker named Ace.
I was positive Funky’s discotheque was the center of my universe in 1976. That “MacArthur Park” was the worst song ever written. That “Saving Private Ryan” couldn’t possibly lose the Oscar to “Shakespeare in Love.”
I was positive agents Mulder and Scully of “X-Files” would find the truth, perhaps even Trump’s tax returns. That someone would invent yellow highlighter that fades (the better to resell textbooks). That Mary Tyler Moore would toss her hat in heaven.
I was positive news would never be entertainment. That Dan Aykroyd’s “French Chef” parody of Julia Child was “Saturday Night Live” at its bloody best. That Geraldo Rivera would find treasures in Al Capone’s vault, not dusty wine bottles.
I was positive I’d never get prostate cancer. That tanning salons would be solar powered. That side effects — nausea, blurry vision, dry mouth — would accompany the glut of pharmaceutical ads on TV.
I was positive O.J. Simpson did it. That Monday newspapers would be entirely sports. That the President shouldn’t have touched that glowing orb in Saudi Arabia.
How am I batting? About .750?
I even managed to stay positive after a close call at home. I typically pay scant attention to the man in the bathroom mirror who could be my twin, but I caught him smirking after I nearly used hand sanitizer instead of eye drops.
This singleton must live in a parallel universe behind the glass — attending parties to which I’m not invited. Probably dislikes “Star Trek” and Dr Pepper.
For all I know, he may be among the 35 percent who think the President is doing a helluva job, like George W. Bush’s “Brownie” did during Hurricane Katrina.
Well, I dropped the hand sanitizer and yelped so loud the dog raised her head. Bella just wants affection and some assurance I won’t wear black socks with cargo shorts and drive a golf cart to the Dairy Queen — that in my haste for a “Guardians of the Galaxy” Blizzard I won’t forget to feed her.
I’m positive that won’t happen, not as long as I’m a dues-paying member of the Pepsi Generation, who was raised on madras, Mustangs and The Monkees; who grew up uttering “Hokey Smoke!” and singing “Na-na-na-naaa, hey, heeeeey, goodbye.”
Maybe I haven’t been attending high school for 75 years like Archie, but I’m still young at heart, even when I’m searching for a Captain Kirk Fan Club for Retirees or thinking about converting to vegan or Catholic. Bingo and wine? Hokey smoke!
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