The Fifties, So Far

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I’ve never used Grecian Formula. OK, I did once a few years ago, but quit soon as I recognized the particular smell of it preceding me off Metro North and into Grand Central Terminal one morning. Twelve other guys on the train obviously were already slaves to this artificial age-resistance protest, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to be one of them. Wrinkle creams? Nope. Brand new Corvette—or worse, one of those Ferrari Testosterone Coupes? No way.

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