Last week I caught part of the 2019 Induction Ceremony for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Despite their onstage bravado and offstage antics, their plastic surgeries and hair transplants, the Great Ones can no longer hide the fact of their mortality.
The wisest among them seem to have accepted their fate with grace, but how difficult that must be under the constant glare of the spotlight. Among those trying hardest to flee that fate are their female partners, still basking in the reflected glory of their front men, and clinging to the vestiges of their beauty--the hair, the lips, the body--that got them into the winners' circle in the first place.
Meanwhile, I still have a full head of hair (which I am growing out for maximum star-making effect). But the fingers of my left hand keep going numb, my midsection packs on the pounds while I sleep, and I can't remember the words to my own songs! In such ways, I am comforted to realize that the gods have come down to us on earth and that I now stand, head held high, in the midst of them.
