Seventy years ago you smoked and talked at the same time. Seventy years ago you drank scotch and sherry and rye. Seventy years ago you flirted with every woman that crossed your path. Seventy years ago you were larger than life, transposed from page to screen. Seventy years ago you dished out repartee like so much small talk. Seventy years ago you moved fast, thought fast, dressed fast. Seventy years ago you always figured out what to do and why. Seventy years later I fall short, nearly every day. It doesn’t matter. Not as if you’re a person. But it’s still cause for thought, anyway.