NEWTON'S LAW: LIFE DOESN'T GET ANY BETTER: WELL, YOU SHOULD SURE HOPE SO

Nothing is certain but death and taxes. Yeah, well, those options stink.

Their redemption the only thing that gives them beauty is their steadfastness. Nothing keeps them from their course.

You can skip paying taxes, skirt the law and take your chances, but the obligation hangs like a hawk. You stand alone in your scam. Even fellow cheaters won't praise you; their sympathies are only with themselves. Tax renegades haven't been folk heroes since they dispensed with the Stamp Act.

While you're waiting for the tax police to come fetch what's due them, you can ponder the other belligerent aspect of certainty death. This makes for a happy afternoon.

Temper it somewhat and only somewhat by considering an interim step in this process. I have aged and not aged well. I don't care to be compared with the maturation of fine wine, anyway. But facets of growing older are starting to sneak up and annoy me.

For instance, I notice that after I have played catch with one of my sons, I'll get out of bed the next morning and my right arm won't. That gets my attention.

And, it has dawned on me that when I sit in a chair late in the evening, I will almost always emit a small, involuntary groan. This isn't a full-fledged grunt, the kind Jimmy Connors gives off when slugging a ground stroke, but it is audible and fairly consistent. It's like my feet are bored with their burden in life and are sending a protest to my lips.

Beyond that, there is a supplement to this development that is equally disturbing. It has to do not just with getting old, but getting old and dull.

Ideally, life's experiences should put you on a better footing as you get older. Your stories should take on the wisdom of age. Your appreciation of existence should increase. You have earned the opportunity to discount smart-alecky young folks as whippersnappers.

Still, there is this idea: old and dull. It's a horrifying prospect since I was never that interesting to begin with. The thought of becoming dull~er with years might put me into the red zone of the boredom meter, a total, dreary mess.

Maybe it's like Billy Crystal's yuppie lament in "City Slickers": You get to a point in life where you realize you'll never look or feel better than you do at that moment ... and you discover it's really not that great.

A portrait of aging gracelessly:

I've yet to see or take a position on "Thelma and Louise." Further, I'm indifferent to the passion it has stirred.

I've never ridden in a Mercedes or BMW. My prospects of doing so aren't good.

I'm moved to anger by the programs I see on television. I'm just not moved to turn them off.

I now have more years on this Earth than I do teeth in my mouth. Further, my waist size and age are roughly the same; to keep that balance, I either have to start eating more or kill myself.

When I see a picture of Madonna, I find myself wondering less about her physical qualities and more about her fiscal qualities.

I feel like a dim bulb when people I talked to yesterday greet me straight-faced with, "Long time no see."

As a youngster in the 1960s, I told my father we should let people live as they pleased. I recently asked one of my sons to count the number of major leaguers who wear earrings.

Light beer, diet soft drinks and low-cholesterol dinners now give me an unreasonable amount of comfort.

Suffer this as a bad day and a poor attitude. But the saying goes that life doesn't get any better than this ... and that's what I'm afraid of.