I just had a birthday- um, YAY- and I’ve now hit fifty-five. Double Nickels. That’s me: mid-life, middle-aged, teetering towards my twilight years. Because I came into this world in 1955, they tell me it’s my ‘Golden Birthday’. It’s just a number. Go figure.

It is not just a number. It is a culmination of all of the numbers which have brought me to this point, which is, like, kinda old. I don’t feel old, and a few of my nicer friends and co-workers have said I still look okay and don’t smell like an old guy.

That’s a relief, I guess.

One gentleman I vaguely know asked, ‘what’re ya bitchin’ ‘bout?’ because he assumed I was complaining, when in fact the opposite is true. This birthday has me in awe. I’m rejoicing. I never expected to live this long.

As Mark Twain so famously said, ‘If I knew this, I probably would’ve taken better care of myself’.

Thirty-five years of smoking, ten years of hardcore drinking, and enough Big Macs in my teens to assure at least five heart attacks before I hit fifty-six. Silly, stupid behavior which I could share but won’t. My good drinking buddies- strangers, mostly, rotated between prison and welfare. There were run-ins with the Law myself, though nothing as interesting as insider trading or heroin smuggling. My infractions were primarily D&D (drunk and disorderly) and once, ‘running an illegal house’ (for a brief moment in Chicago history, off-track betting was legal and I had the misfortune to work the back of a betting parlor as a bartender).

On top of that, half the guys I knew in the Seventies & Eighties died due to HIV/AIDS. We went to so many funerals, sometimes I’d forget who I was mourning.

I’m still here, as someone said, and the way I figure, as long as I’m taking up space on the planet it only makes sense to use it wisely. This finally happened in 2000 when I moved to Globe.

I finally slowed down and began to take a look at what’s important.

And I found the answers somewhat quickly: hard work, and other people.

In the grand scheme of things- the flood of oil onto our Gulf beaches, the fact that Rush Limbaugh even has a job let alone an audience, and the fact that NOT A SINGLE PERSON in Globe uses a turn signal- well, my birthday isn’t news.

What I try to remember is how many people are not here anymore, despite the fact that most of them weren’t ready to die. Lung cancer took my Mom at 61- my Dad died of cirrhosis at 53, and my first partner, a great guy named John, died from HIV/AIDS at the age of 34. It satisfies me to not only carry on, but to do so with gusto and aplomb and a very deep feeling of gratitude. And maybe a belief that we really are here for a reason, and those reasons are spelled out in the minutiae of daily work, relationships and quiet time.

‘Double Nickels’ is a great age so far, and I hope the next fifty-five years finds me learning and sharing and listening more. I also hope to find myself in a really nice retirement community, because at 110 years old I’ll need all the care I can get.

If you’re in your mid-fifties as I am, you may remember the old drug store calendars with the cute pictures: chimpanzees in pedal cars, little girls on the telephone, and my favorite- the shot of a little boy in a barber’s chair, tears streaming down his cheeks as he gets his first trim.

One last grasp- or gasp- at youth was all I asked. To let my hair grow long, the way it was in the late 60’s- wind waving it, spring rains wetting it- would somehow melt the years which separated me from the Summer of Love.

The LONG shot

The end result was worth it. After two years, a pelt of thick hair cascaded over my shoulders and down my back. This caused considerable comment, usually from short white middle-aged women wearing outdated turbans.

‘Ohmygawd, you have perfect hair. What a waste it’s on a man!’

Skater dudes gave me thumbs up, and at least twice a week someone wanted to either buy/sell/trade/share marijuana. Or worse.

Sometimes, the police looked at me funny.

Still, I felt like a ROCK STAR.

My sister once said to be careful for what you wished for. She was right. A slight breeze creates tangles worse than gym shoe knots, and any precipitation- or hint of it- plumps up normal hair into 70’s shag carpeting. The whole point was to grow it out in the first place, yet I wore it tied back all the time. Otherwise, it drove me barking insane when it fell across my face.

The CUT

One morning I sprinted across Broad Street, feeling groovy, and pulled the band from my hair. Immediately blinded, I plowed into a planter box which wasn’t there the week before. Damn those City Beautification People. In fact, damn the Beautiful People- I didn’t want to be one anymore. If I ever was.

I dialed up Monica, the owner of Blondie’s Beauty Parlour, and we agreed on a 1:00 appointment for the next day. I communed with the Hair God the night before, saying thanks for the flashback, but it’s time to roll.

The actual act was anticlimactic. First I had a full head of Boy Band hair, and then I looked like I was ready for the school photographer. My neck got cold and my face looked fuller. Charlize Theron called and asked me out for cocktails.

Driving home was terrific. I had the radio up, the windows down, and for the first time in a few years I could really see where I was going, which I’m sure myfellow drivers appreciated. Strands of hair no longer went up my nose or got caught in my Wrigley’d mouth.

The dogs still recognized me when I came through the door, which was a surprise. Or maybe it was that faint scent of lunch from El Ranchito that got their tails wagging.

It was the right decision, and the irony is the hair that I no longer want will be donated to someone who has no hair (a chemotherapy patient) during the Relay for Life event at Harbison Field.

Blondie’s Beauty Parlour is located at 140 West Oak Street in Globe. Monica Evans is my Salon Mistress of choice. You can reach her at (928) 425-8465.

While cruising in my station wagon a few weeks ago, I listened to a ‘teaser’ spot on National Public Radio for an upcoming show about food. The sound bites of dispassionate interviewees caught my attention. One claimed, ‘I never eat anything unless I know exactly who prepared it and how they did it’. The second gal mumbled something about not eating much of anything, especially meat, dairy, sugar, coffee or wheat, and the lone guy sounded upset at the thought of the green beans on his plate touching the potatoes touching his pork chops.

Now, I have a question: after the Revolution, or when part of our country is obliterated by a dirty bomb and food is scarce or nonexistent, what will these folks who worry so much about the provenance or placement of their food do? I don’t know about you, but if push came to shove, I’d gladly share a bowl of Alpo SSSizzling Sirloin with my Border Collie (‘move over, Velma!’) and if so, I want to be on her good side. That is, on the other side of her snapping jaws.

Why the unusual emphasis on food? Is it because we have so much of everything we can afford to be neurotic? Then again, maybe these people are as exacting while choosing light bulbs (‘Godammit,

Marie- I said 40 watts!’). To have such complex rules, to suffer self deprivation of something so simple and sometimes so joyful (usually in the company of others) is puzzling. It sounds like these folks just have too much free time- the promise of the past (‘…in the Future, foods will be prepared by microwaves!’) has met the present (‘I can eat whatever I want, so I’ll eat it all. Or devise mystical rules so, confused and exhausted, I’ll go to bed hungry’).

Back in the 50’s, when families actually shared at least one daily meal together without interruptions (no texttweetphonevideo options, thank you), sensible meals were consumed and a really, really big night featured a quivering dish of Jello.

Don’t get me wrong- I like food. I just don’t spend a lot of time thinking about it, unless it’s ice cream. That, my dear, is a story for another day. For now, I worry about this American preoccupation (as it does seem to be unique to the US). It’s a schizophrenic relationship with sustenance: on one hand, you’ve got folks who wouldn’t dream of touching a veal medallion (I agree- the poor creatures live in tiny pens their entire lives), yet slam on the brakes at the nearest O’Burger’s to chow down on something called Chicken O’Chunks (choking on my own fluids sounds like a better alternative). It is a Scientific Fact that if you eat more than one Smiley Meal in any six month period, you take fourteen years off your lifespan. There are women and young girls in this country who will pass on meat and potatoes, pasta and sauce- starve themselves- and then eat a sixteen ounce jar of powdered coffee creamer when everyone else has gone to bed. Really- I knew someone like that once. Some folks live on vitamins, supplements and Perrier and wonder if Botox injections count as protein. Then there was the guy I knew in 1983 who ate only orange food. Talk about monochromatic.

And the ads- oh my God, the ads for food. The television spots and newspaper circulars are not only filled with ravishing, famishing pix of mouthwatering tidbits, but the copywriters use the word ‘love’ so much, as a noun and a verb, it seems you’ll get more warm fuzzies from a box of doughnuts than you would a boyfriend…. Love means never having to say, “I’m stuffed”.

As summer is quickly approaching, like others I want to look my best in a bathing costume. At my age, I’ll soon worry about what I’ll look like in an adult diaper, let alone a snug Speedo. Exercise is out of the question, as I break out from perspiration. Ergo, I watch what I eat.

Perhaps you want to lose a few pounds, or maybe bulk up. You may be interested in the Triple D Reducing Plan (‘Darin’s De-Lite-Full Diet’) – it does it all! The Plan is versatile and easy- I lost twenty-five pounds on it, although ending a fourteen year relationship probably contributed to the drop . This Reducing Plan is loaded with minerals and roughage and is simple to prepare. It is also cheap.

EVENING

- Steamed fresh baby spinach with a black bean and white rice pilaf, sprinkled with   scallions and liberal amounts of Cuban pepper (No salt!)

- Wassa brand multigrain flatbread with hummus- optional fresh lime

- Pomegranate and seltzer over ice- optional fresh lemon

- Triple piece of chocolate layer cake with two scoops of Hagen Daas vanilla ice cream-   chocolate sauce optional

With the Triple D Reducing Plan, you skip all other meals but may drink as much coffee as you like, having the occasional nine or ten Ginger Snaps to boost your energy.

If you’re one of those who want to increase your weight, just double up on everything and throw in a couple sixers of Corona.

While I usually consider processed food product in packages as ‘toxic’ (love that word- it’s so New Millennium), ice cream and cookies are exempt. It’s my Diet Plan, so I can do whatever I want. I avoid the Cancer Aisle at my local market whenever possible, unless there’s a sale on biscotti. At 6’2” and 142 pounds, I weigh less than I did in high school and look really great in boxy sports jackets. All the gals tell me so.

Mark Twain once said, “If I knew I would live this long, I would have taken better care of myself.” Still another great writer (I read this in a scandal rag at the Safeway) wrote, “If it comes in a box, don’t eat it or you’ll go out in a box.” And then there are the immortal words of my Mother, circa 1958: “Honey, there are people starving in China. Please eat your lima beans.”

Maybe it’s really all about Balance: if you have to eat a Smiley Meal (because you’re a glamour gal/guy-on-the-go, tweeting and texting as you navigate Life’s superhighway), do twelve pushups and have a bowl of organic yogurt…

By Darin Lowery

Globe suffered a major setback in July 2005 when the Pioneer Hotel and the adjacent Globe Theater burned to the ground. Businesses were destroyed, valuable property was lost, and shock, despair and anger were expressed by everyone.

What remained was a heap of twisted metal which sat on the corner of Broad and Cedar Streets for four and a half years.

I moved to Globe the day after the fire.

After waiting all week, I finally have a night free to go to the pictures, and 2010 is showing. In my book, the best movies in the world are when the world ends.

The new theater (this projection room, one of four) is quiet, and maybe because it’s a Wednesday evening, almost empty. I arrive forty minutes early (I don’t want to miss a minute!) and I sit, popcorn in one hand, soda in the other, and watch the local ads being flashed on the giant screen. But I can’t sit still, so I check out the lobby, with its gorgeous mural (done by local artist Larry Brown: the design was picked up from the original theatre). Even the bathroom is swank, with colorful tile work.

A group arrives; three men, two women; thankfully, no kids. They nod- I smile, then say, ‘Wow, pretty cool, huh? I’ve been waiting for five years to do this’.

One of the women responds, ‘Oh, yes, we just love going to the movies- it’s so much fun’.

Now me, being me (as in Crazy Old Mister Lowery) am alarmed. ‘Fun?,’ I ask. ‘You guys aren’t gonna make a lot of noise, are you? I’ve been waiting all week to see this picture!’

The group ascends to the very top, not even bothering to dignify my remarks. I lean back as the lights dim, then extinguish, and the enveloping Dolby sound system ramps up. I, children, am in Heaven.

2012, for anyone not familiar, is a top-notch end-of-the-world picture- right up there with The Day After, On the Beach, and The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. The premise behind 2012 is a belief by the ancient Mayans that their calendar, and civilization, would end in 2012. Or maybe they just couldn’t count higher, and they assumed the world would implode. Hence the expression, ‘If I don’t ace this math quiz, it’s the end of the world’.

The projection room nearing completion in October 2009

The film, as you may’ve guessed, surpassed my expectations. The outstanding special effects and crashing soundtrack were overwhelming, and I went into shock.  I screamed, I cried, I clutched at my throat. It was a thrill a minute ride, and an hour after it all began, I was standing on my seat, howling.

My new friends in the back of the house kindly ignored me, and did not take the opportunity to call me names, like- oh, ‘hypocrite’ comes to mind.

At least I had turned my cell phone off.

The original marque was saved and re-furbished for the new theater

Three weeks later, I was much quieter while watching Avatar. This was due, in all ways, to being enthralled- enchanted- captivated. Use any hundred dollar word you can think of. It felt like First Love: when that girl in front of you in third grade shyly smiles at you- or at least in your direction. I was literally swept up in the saga and the drama. Not to mention the gargantuan flying birds and the exploding helicopters.

The popcorn forgotten this time, the cola going flat, I was one with the Blue Warrior and his cat-eyed girlfriend. The film is ethnic, tribal; it is gloriously us-against-them, in the way it never was with Cowboys and Indians. We are all on the other side now, and there was Unification, a melding of all cultures who believe in goodness and being as one with the world.

I can hardly wait to see the new Jackie Chan picture.

(Note:Hollis Cinemas is located at Broad & Cedar Street in downtown Globe. You can find movie listings on-line HERE)

By: Darin Lowery

As my Grandma used to say, there’s just too much fussin’ in the world today. Fussin’ about money and fightin’ about politics. The biggest uproar- and it’s gone on forever- is the argument about A Supreme Being. The Catholics and Muslims, the Jews and the Buddhists all have the answers- so do the Episcopalians and Baptists. Even the Agnostics and Atheists weigh in from time to time.

I’ll be the first to tell you that I do not have a religious background. My Mother was rabidly anti-Catholic, having been taught by the good nuns. She walked away with an abhorrence of basic black, though she did develop beautiful handwriting. My Dad considered himself an intellectual who was above the fray. My first visit to church was to attend a wedding in 1977; all I remember was how cold the church felt. After a couple of drinks at the reception, I warmed up and quickly forgot about it.

The arguments and hysteria over religious issues have largely passed over me. This pleases me, as pamphlet-toting Christians and suicide bombers aren’t folks I necessarily want to hang with. If you have to convince me how perfect your beliefs are, why hit me over the head?

Alcoholics Anonymous has a great take on this, and it’s called ‘attraction rather than promotion’. This means that because you see proof of someone’s life changing (your pal, formerly a hardcore boozer, hasn’t thrown up in the backseat of your car lately) you’ll want to learn more about the organization and how he was helped. If you’re a drunk and you’ve been through Hell already; you might not worry so much about going there later.

The mystical anagram that is GOD/DOG has been noted by many- mainly sixteen year old boys after smoking their first joint. Because I am first and foremost a pragmatist (seeing is believing, therefore it exists) dogs are my subject of worship. Let’s call it my own personal dogma. It makes as much sense as worshipping a deity.

We all need faith: it’s what gets us through the good times (they won’t last) and the bad times (this can’t go on forever). My personal faith relies on the basics: the sun will come up and go down; the moon will rise when it becomes dark. My dogs will bark at the mailman, even though they’ve seen him every morning for the past five years. And on the day of an unexpected windfall (“I found twenty bucks in the Safeway parking lot!”), my refrigerator (with sixty dollars worth of just-purchased groceries) will break down.

Life can be inconvenient, heartbreaking and just plain messy. Like anyone else, I’ve been in some tough situations. I have survived. My faith- it’s the only word I can use- has pulled me through. It is the faith- the belief- in the power and compassion of other people, of the abilities I never knew I possessed until I needed them, that got me safely to the other side. Luck didn’t hurt, either.

So if I want to focus my love and energy on a sweet Border Collie, if the test of my compassion comes down to how I treat an aging Labrador, and when I try- and sometimes, it is trying- to be a kind, concerned and loving human being in a sometimes hostile and all too often indifferent world, well- that’s my choice.

That’s my dogma.

By: Darin Lowery

Re-printed from Globe Miami Times: Fall ’09

Let me explain something: I am not a traveler, and as a tourist I’m a washout. Other folks want to board a tour bus and toast the Pacific or the Pyramids with regional varietals at midnight. Give me a few pots of coffee and a chance to ditch my companions and I’ll go junking, digging my way through boxes of old marbles, postcards and 1960’s publicity stills.

Keep the sunsets and give me the Salvation Army thrift store.

But hey- that’s just me.

Don’t get me wrong- I love a good vacation. But after the cabs and airports and security precautions- after being jammed into a jet with people who cough a lot- and then, having to endure the security precautions, airports and cabs again in a foreign locale… well, it’s just too much for a simple guy like me.

While a trip around the world can be Hell, a trip to Globe is more than manageable.

However, I’ve tried hiking at South Mountain. It doesn’t work. I cannot keep the ice cubes in a rock glass, and after years of smoking (and finally quitting), I can’t walk and wheeze at the same time. Rafting the Salt River, or swimming at Roosevelt? Fun, of course, until the skin grafts.

‘So what do you do for fun’, people ask, ‘here in Globe, Arizona?’

Recently, I had to drop off my vintage auto for repairs – it’s a white 2000 Ford DUV (Darin Utility Vehicle- actually a sleek n’ sporty station wagon). I last changed the oil around Christmas five years ago. My pals at McSpadden Ford try not to roll their eyes when I haul it in, and I love them for it.

I had a satisfying and lip-smacking repast at the downtown Mexican bistro El Ranchito. The enchiladas are muy bueno. Globe is known for serving the finest Mexican food north of our southern neighbor, and all of the Mexican restaurants here are terrific.

It took me awhile, but I’ve just now discovered the Globe Dog Park (this is in plain view out of my kitchen window, but I am often distracted). The Dog Park is an old baseball diamond near the Noftsger Hill Bed & Breakfast, a former grade school. My Border Collie Velma has lost ten pounds since we began meeting our new friends there. That’s because I pick up someone’s Chihuahua and chase her relentlessly.

One of the best spots in town is the blue iron Nob Hill footbridge which spans the canyon between Apache and Bailey. Linda Gross took a group of us during a Thanksgiving ‘let’s-walk-off-that-30-pound-turkey-dinner’ tour of Globe. The height is just right- no vertigo- though it has a sort of ‘Mission: Impossible’ feel to it.

The shopping in Globe is diverse and unexpected. Each shop has a distinct personality. Forget the ‘big box’ stores: I’ll take Molly’s White Porch, Shirley’s Gifts, Simply Sarah and Sam’s Good Junk every time. I’m partial to the Pickle Barrel Trading Post (not just because I work there) and Past-Times feels like Grandma’s house. You’ve really gotta visit the Blue Mule Gallery, too- the floor is like a giant jigsaw puzzle.

For an evening out, the Drift Inn Saloon is wild- the original tin ceilings look twenty feet high, and it’s the oldest tavern in Arizona. For dinner, we all go to DeMarco’s for fresh Italian and Hog Haven for mouthwatering BBQ.

Come the first week of November, our Copper Spike Railroad returns to the rails with a new 30’s coach in tow, behind the 1954 Domeliner and a ’47 Calumet Club Car. The train runs from the (recently and gorgeously renovated) Globe Depot, to the Apache Gold Casino and a bit beyond. It’s a lot of fun. The passengers talk and laugh like they’re long lost cousins. Nothing beats a good train ride.

Around the same time, the Globe Theatre reopens. The original was destroyed in a fire four years ago: this is the first building to be constructed in the Historic Downtown section in twenty years, and I expect a public weary of TV Land will flock to the flickers in droves.

When I’ve got some down time, I pick up my galpal Esther and we hit vida e caffe for coffee and, like, 17 pastries, which we split. The combo sugar/caffeine high is awesome, and sometimes I go home afterwards and vacuum the roof.

Want fun and cheap? Drive around and check out the little bungalows; the sprawling acreage; the funny little homes that cling to the sides of the hills. Some folks think the Valley is Heaven, and maybe that’s true if you’re into Neo-Tuscan Revival with plastic landscaping. Such élan, no charm. If you’re visiting Globe in February, leave the driving to us and take the Historic Globe Home Tour- always a treat, as is homemade cobbler at Joe’s Broad Street Grill afterwards.

There’s so much more- Apache Jii (a celebration of Apache culture and crafts), Pumpkin Carving and Pictures on the Porch at the Center for the Arts, and the Electric Light Parade at Christmastime. A major streetscape and signage improvement program for Broad Street and beyond commences shortly; by this time next year, the Belle of Broad Street will be…. Broad Street.

What is there to do in Globe? Start at the beginning, silly- there’s a map in the middle of this newspaper. (See Fall Edition’o9)