Your Aardvark is suffering from the predations of time, and he is learning to deal. The predilection of oldsters - and no, he does not think of himself in those terms - to long for "the good old days" is beginning to be understandable. Things that evoke fond memories are becoming more important. Old-school TV shows like Supercar are neat, and hearken back to more pleasant days, at least in memory; remembrance casts the past in a roseate glow that causes him to recall even the Cuban Missile Crisis with wistfulness.
Ahhhhh, the Cold War...good times.
Scent is a powerfully evocative agent. The Aardvark now eschews the sprays and scents proffered by the corporate media machines, body sprays that cause the wearer to smell like Bargain Night at a joy house*: Axe, Tag, and other such brands easily pronounced by the public schooled. He finds himself drawn to the classics: bay rum, Old Spice (that despite Hannibal Lecter's disparaging comments), and a new-old cologne called "Cigar" which the Aardvark heartily recommends, even though it is French, as it conjures tweeds and fragrant smoke, and Substance.
Your Aardvark still cannot bring himself to Moisturise...much.
He is currently working on a roadside ad campaign for a local deli (yes, a deli , one with meats and cheeses sliced whilst you wait, which sells a Philly Cheese Steak as good as one can find south of PA. NOT the self-styled gas-station sandwich counters that sell a baloney, mayo and American cheese on white and call themselves a "deli". Oy.
The signs will be done in the spirit of the venerable Burma Shave campaign. Pics to come.
* A line graciously lifted from Keith Laumer's Retief story "The Brass God". The Aardvark read this in the '70s, and found the phrasing to be the most evocative description of loathsome overdone perfumery ever penned.