What? A hearing aid that's invisible, works better than conventional models and can be worn for months at a time.

Wait, did you say $3000 PER YEAR???

According to the New York Times, the Lyric hearing aids are placed very close to the eardrum creating a more natural sound, and because they are so small, the batteries only need to be replaced once every four months. But there's a catch. You don't buy them. You subscribe to them - for $2900 - $3600 per year.

It simply had to happen - aging Baby Boomers trying to hold on to youth for as long as possible will have a myriad of products designed to prop up their sagging systems - as long as you can afford it.

And because we have such great healthcare in this country - most insurance companies won't pay for Lyric - or any other hearing device. Sigh.

Well, they won't pay for glasses either, but at least I can hold on to my old specs and learn sign language.

Many of you will remember that we lost our dog-friend, Max nearly two years ago. After a period of mourning and a rather lengthy time without a dog, we decided to "just see" if we could find another friend we could welcome into our home.

About a month ago we rescued a wonderful dog named Cole. He is everything we wanted in a dog - smart, active, affectionate and friendly. He's all that and more. Cole is a Whippet/Pointer mix and he has only the best characteristics of both breeds. He has no smell, is as fast as greased lightening and loves to lay round the house - mostly Whippet characteristics. As far as the pointer is concerned, he's tireless at checking the wind for game and will routinely point (with a leg up) to anything that moves.

The added benefit of Cole is his escapability - Max NEVER went through the electric fence. Cole on the other hand, is willing to take the hit provided there is sufficient distraction (read squirrel) on the other side. So he's gotten us up off the couch for three 30 minute walks a day.

We've really fallen for little Cole and a great big thank you to Keith and Stephanie of Rogers Rescue for their kind assistance.

Many of us Baby Boomer men have been collecting the things that define us for a lifetime. From tools to trains. We started with a little corner of the basement and somehow this collection obsession has evolved into the places we go to be - well, men.

I'm assuming here, but to many women, our spaces look disorganized, random and down right filthy. But pick up any random thing in my man-space and get a story (or an excuse about why I kept a broken thing-a-ma-bob). Frankly, it only looks like a mess to someone else. Need trumps order, nostalgia naturally gets dusty and whether or not I can actually find something is irrelevant.

Someone recently suggested that she could do wonders with my office helping organize, categorize, sanitize and de-randomize. Fine for her, but if I'm relegated to a single room, it's going to be the way I want it - and the way I want it is exactly the way it is. Free-form.

The pile of gravity-defying stuff at the door isn't there because I like stuff so much, it's a physical barrier. It says (very loudly) "you really have want to come in here." Besides, the element of risk adds a certain masculinity to the cave entrance, I think.

Which brings me to a book - written by James B. Twitchell called "Where Men Hide." Last Sunday, we attended the opening of an exhibition by the photographer who Illustrated the book - Ken Ross. Ken is a friend who's been a photographer and teacher (and by the way is retiring this year). While I connected with the words - the photographs had me nodding in appreciation for the various ways we men decorate our grottos.

I actually believe I have genetic disposition for this sort of thing. My father had his own space (at the farthest reaches of the basement) where he hoarded a collection of off-sized pieces of mahogany salvaged from the Chris Craft plant down the road. According to dad, the short cut ends of planks were piled so high in the factory yard it looked like one of those giant salt mounds at the DOT garage.

Dad saw the value in gluing up all those little pieces into bigger pieces - which supposedly were to become something grand one day. But looking back, I think it was the mere fact that he had those treasures - and not necessarily what he was going to do with them.

Then there was Mr. Draper, our next door neighbor. Mr. Draper (I don't know his first name because he will forever be "Mr. Draper" to a five-year-old) had what could only be described as the palace of men's spaces; called simply, "The Doghouse." He had a WWII Jeep that ceremoniously guarded the entrance, and the mother of all workbenches on the back wall.

He would let my brother and I sit in the Jeep, toot the horn, pretend to drive and occasionally turn on the wipers (individually controlled with their own tiny electric motors).

But to behold his workbench was to look upon heaven itself. Each tool (hundreds, I'm sure) had it's own space on the pegboard - represented by a painted outline. The bench had a HUGE vice that could crush a head (yeah, we tried). And lining the ceiling were at least 1000 baby food jars with their lids screwed to the ceiling joist. Each jar filled with a single-sized screw, nut or nail. It was the perfect solution - visible, out of the way and accessible. Brilliant.

I'm sure Mrs. Draper was proud of how organized and efficient Mr. Draper was. But somehow I'm not sure he cared. It was a reflection of himself and a monument to a lifetime of collecting. Bravo, Mr. Draper.

If you'd like to purchase Where Men Hide check it out on Amazon.