Vulture.

Waiting for God.

Well it appears the word is out. Do we have a rat in our ranks? Having reached a certain age, Vulture is suddenly a hot target for a new lifestyle pitch.

T’was a time, gentle reader, when that period between ages 40 and 55 was considered the peak of one’s existence – too old to be stupid, too young to be cranky. And I’m not talking ancient history. Nay, it was but half a century hence that many of our film, music and pop culture idols, possibly follicularly challenged – and perhaps not even the easiest on the eye – but, to a man or woman, were quick with the quip whilst sporting a knowing grin to their legions of fans.

I speak here of Mae West, yes, a sex goddess in her middle years when she muttered that immortal line: “is that a pistol in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” Then there was that macho machine William Holden who was pushing 40 when he was cast as the playboy brother of 50-something Humphrey Bogart’s leading man to Audrey Hepburn in Sabrina. Or what about a 53-year-old Bing Crosby romancing Grace Kelly in High Society? Hell, even Marilyn Monroe was in her early thirties when she melted all known thermometers in Some Like it Hot.

So why is 15 the new age of reason? How has it come to be that Miley’s nine-year-old sister Noah Cyrus is designing lingerie? What is the average age of the smouldering cast of the Twilight Vampire saga? 12?

And here I am in 2010 having batted a respectable half-century, with the promise not of a youthful conga line down the jellum jellem. Oh no, here I am up to my armpits in untold numbers of glossy brochures shoved in amongst all that other Australia Post detritus for: “Having the freedom to do what you want… that’s what better living is all about. [Insert groovy name here – anyone for Last Resort?] is centrally located in beautiful North Lakes within a safe and secure environment. Moments away from all the conveniences you could ever want.” And you only have to be 50 to get in. Well fuck yeah!

And I just love the names they give to these God’s waiting rooms – Halcyon Parks, Darcy’s Peak, Green Leaf Resort, The Oasis. Who do they think they’re kidding? How about calling a spade a spade. I’ve got it, what about Withering Gums? Or would that be Waste Away Acres?

Well bugger all that. In the immortal words of Oscar Wilde: “Youth is misspent on the young”. And so I embark on my quest to withstand all platitudes to a ‘youthful’ retirement and channel some of these latter day heroes in living large until my last gasp.

Many of my generational peers see a future ribboned with asphalt as they perambulate the width and breadth of this great brown land lugging their Chesneys to a caravan park near you. Others pluck up the courage to hoist sail and chase the setting sun. All very adventurous… but for me, I ask where’s the payoff? What’s the money shot? Joining the grey army seems to be an acknowledgement that you will only be comfortable mixing with your own kind, slapping each other on the back about the ‘good old days’ and comparing pension plans. I’d rather poke my eye out with their knitting needle!

Seeking greater wisdom, I plundered some zen-type thinking about what might constitute real happiness, as I sniffed the breeze of my second springtime.

Now, what did the Dalai Lama say about “having a purpose”? Right then, a purpose. Reflecting on life’s boxes already ticked, I tallied up a satisfying ledger of modest achievement. Roof and four walls? Check. Mateship, love and laughter? Tick. Half decent career trajectory? Yup. Kids, health and happiness? Tick, tick, and tick! Right then, what’s still left undone on this magnificent journey? I need a target…

Ambition – now isn’t that the great folly of the young and gormless? I mean, how many great leaders, craftspeople, artists and captains of industry seed their creative vision after they’ve been broken by the wheel of a good few decades of earnest toil? Surely dreaming the big dreams kinda fades to fitful greyish hauntings by the time you’ve hit 35. Well, as it happens – no.

Ipso facto: Colonel Harland Sanders, yup that Santa Claus looking dude on the side of the KFC bucket, didn’t start cooking finger lickin’ good chicken until he was well into middle age. Or what about Harrison Ford, who plied his trade as a carpenter until in his mid-thirties, when he scored that gig in Star Wars. Cripes, even Jesus didn’t start getting into the miracle business until he was thirty-something.

Right then, ambition locked and loaded. But what is there to be ambitious about? What great goal remains un-kicked? What burning desire remains unsated?

And there I spied, dear reader, sad and lonely in a darkened corner, my trusty guitar from the swinging seventies, unloved and unplucked for more than three decades. Dammit, that’s it! Unrequited stardom. And how cool is swinging an electric axe over your neck and cranking out some hot tones? But where do I begin?

I mean it’s not like I’m the ‘man that death forgot’. Keith Richards’ already got that title. And he’s been wielding some mean licks in an unbroken wail since 1964. I’ve got to get up to scratch. Fast!

Oh that new fangled internet is indeed a wondrous beast. A quick Google and I’m salivating about tertiary study in (drum roll please)… rock music! How cool is that? A course like this sure wasn’t around when I was leaving school, and I’m not wasting another minute! After all, as said Mark Twain: “Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.”

So what of Vulture the mature-aged student then? My beloved reader, this is to

be continued…