When I’m sixty-four…: I was

When I’m sixty-four…
: I was driving by a senior citizens’ residence (or whatever you’re supposed to call them these days) and saw a sign out front touting a nostalgic neighborhood for the memory impaired. I’ve read about this: When you have Alzheimer’s, you tend to live in the memories you still have (see also recent frightening stories about Holocaust survivors who now relive that horror as if it were yesterday). In these homes, they put up a neighborhood of the sort that Pat Robertson would call the ideal America and the old folks are supposed to feel safe and comfortable there.

And so I was wondering what kinds of heighborhoods they will build for us when, God forbid, we live in the land of memories:

Woodstock? A bunch of old children of the ’60s in tie-dyes and flowers or — yech — topless groovin’ to Richie Havens and, if they’re lucky, think they’re on drugs.

Vietnam? Aged grunts take the point in the jungle and, if they’re lucky, think they’re on drugs.

Discos? Arthritic boogiers stand outside the old folks’ home trying to look cool so the bouncer lets them in and, if they’re lucky, they’ll think they’re on drugs.

Silicon Valley? Busted boomers sit on Aeron chairs and yell into cell phones and, if they’re lucky, believe they’re still rich.

It’s going to be hell getting old.