Let me tell you something: I used to be a man plagued by problems. Swollen ankles, dry skin, existential dread, and a rollator that squeaked like a haunted shopping cart. But then I discovered the Internet. Not the useful parts—no, no. I dove headfirst into the shimmering swamp of clickbait wellness hacks. And I emerged reborn. Possibly radioactive.
It started innocently. A headline whispered: “Dermatologists Hate Her: She Mixed Salt and Vaseline and You Won’t Believe What Happened Next.” I clicked. I believed.
I smeared the concoction on my elbows, my knees, and—at one point—my neighbor’s cat (long story, restraining order pending). My skin glowed. My pores sang. I became the unofficial exfoliation guru of Lancaster, PA.
Next came the swelling. My ankles looked like they were storing winter grain. But the Internet had my back: “Doctors Beg You to Try This One Trick Before Bed!”
It involved pressing a mystery pressure point behind my knee while chanting the phrase “Water be gone!” in Latin. I don’t speak Latin, so I used Pig Latin. It worked. Or maybe I just stopped eating pretzels. Either way, I now float like a butterfly and retain water like a sieve.
Then came the most sacred of promises: “Men Over 70 Are Raving About This Root That Restores Vitality!” I clicked. I raved. I rooted.
The cure involved a Peruvian tuber, a Himalayan breathing technique, and a YouTube video narrated by a man named “Dr. Randy.” I followed every step. My blood pressure rose. So did my eyebrows. Did it work? Let’s just say I now walk through the parking lot with a confident swagger and a strategically placed fanny pack.
The Internet has solved all my problems. I no longer trust doctors, pharmacists, or anyone with a stethoscope who doesn’t also sell supplements on YouTube. Why? Because the Internet taught me that Tylenol causes autism—a theory endorsed by two of America’s loudest unlicensed pediatricians: Donald Trump and RFK Jr.
Now, I don’t know if that’s true. I do know that after reading seventeen blog posts and watching a video narrated by a man named “Quantum Dave,” I threw out all my acetaminophen and replaced it with Himalayan salt, raw honey, and a crystal shaped like Joe Rogan’s bicep.
My ankles still swell, my skin still flakes, and my rollator still squeaks—but my mind is free. Free to believe that Big Pharma is hiding the cure for everything in a jar of Vaseline and a Peruvian root. Free to chant “Water be gone!” while pressing my knee and waiting for enlightenment. Free to click “Next Page” until I forget what I was looking for.
Next week, I’ll be trying the “Cabbage in Your Sock” method for memory enhancement and the “Toothpaste on Your Eyelids” trick for lucid dreaming. Stay tuned. Or don’t. I’ll be glowing either way.
The last working bulb on the stage at the Chuckle Bucket flickered like it knew a punchline was coming. Marty’s set was one of the few that still had punchlines. The other comedians just did their 7-minute sets by conversing with the sparse audience, asking them about their problems. It wasn’t funny, but it made the handful of people in the room at least feel heard, and, in reality, that was probably what they came for. The comedy clubs were all closing ever since Trump signed an executive order that the government had to approve all jokes.
Marty still told jokes. But he was very careful about how he phrased them. “I want you to know that I love this President,” he said, “I really, really love him. I love him so much I named my ulcer after him.”
The crowd chuckled, cautiously. A laminated sign on each table read: “Please laugh responsibly.” Even the regulars, the ones who dropped in more than once a week, didn’t know what to make of that sign. Was it a joke? Or was it serious? Several times when a joke landed perfectly, a person passing by the club might be able to hear laughter coming from within. It might make them curious, but they dared not go inside. On the respectability scale, Comedy clubs were ranked somewhere between pornographic theaters and whore houses.
Marty riffed on the new Federal regulations, that he said had just come out that morning:
No impersonations can be performed unless pre-approved by the Bureau of Comedy, unless, of course, you were making fun of Democrats. Those got exceptions, except for impersonators who did Biden. It seems that too many impersonators, when they were questioned by the comedy police for doing bits where they acted like a stupid, senile old man, would just swear that they weren’t making fun of the current President. They argued that they were doing Biden. To put a stop to that defense, all Biden impersonators were henceforth outlawed.
No satire was allowed unless it was accompanied by a disclaimer that it was created using AI.”
Marty leaned into the absurdity:
“I tried to do a bit once about my uncle’s conspiracy theories. My act got flagged for ‘unauthorized nostalgia.’ My license to be a comedian was revoked for six months. It was terrible, a life without comedy. I felt like I was in Alabama.”
The audience winced. They hoped that no Republican politician from Alabama would ever hear that joke. They didn’t want Marty to mysteriously disappear like so many other comedians had.
Marty moved on. “I had a dream about the President this week. I went to my therapist and asked her if that was normal. She asked me if I woke up screaming. I said yes, and she said, Don’t worry about it, then. That’s normal.”
The four people in the audience laughed nervously.
“Don’t worry, folks. I’ve got my Passport ready.”
He looked offstage for a second. “Well, that’s my time.” He closed with the line that had become his signature—less a joke, more a eulogy:
“And remember, he who laughs Last… turns out the lights.”
He threw the switch that shut off the electricity to the one lightbulb that lit the stage, and he walked towards the bar. The four people in the room stood up, not in ovation, but in quiet recognition. Marty wasn’t just a local comic. He was the custodian of what used to be funny.
I went to my Aunt Miriam’s funeral in Ohio last week. Naturally, it was a sad occasion, but it still had it’s lighter moments. That’s one of the benefits of the deceased being 91 and someone who we knew had lived a full life. My Aunt survived my Uncle George by 5 years, but in her final months she was losing her memory and fading quickly. So, while it is always sad to lose someone, it wasn’t a big surprise when she passed. So, the funeral, while solemn, felt more like a family reunion, only with less alcohol.
Decades ago, I realized that drinking and driving was a very dangerous combination, so, putting safety first, I gave up driving. Luckily for me, my brother Donald was driving to the funeral from his residence on Long Island, New York, and he agreed to stop in Lancaster on Sunday to pick me up. He even showed up with breakfast. What a good brother.
Most people just use GPS to get to their destination. My brother Donald also drives with a set of self-imposed rules. He likes order, predictability, and structure. I’m more loosey goosey. So, our road trip was a study in contrasts. He had everything planned out. I was in road trip mode, just ready to see what the road had in store for us. Donald’s girlfriend, Kathleen wanted to attend the service, but she had to work on Sunday. They worked out a plan. Donald would drive to Akron. When she got off work, Kathleen, ever the jet-setter, would fly to Akron with a short layover in Washington, D.C. Donald would pick her up at the Akron airport.
We got to Akron around 5 p.m. and Kathleen’s flight wouldn’t arrive until 9 p.m. I suggested we go to the hotel bar, where we could grab something to eat and watch football. Don agreed, but because he had to drive to the airport at 8:30 he would only have one drink. I, once again, thanked my lucky stars that I had made the right decision decades ago to quit driving, so I didn’t have to stop at just one drink. “Kathleen likes the room to be cool,” Don said. So, we cranked up the a/c before we headed to the bar. I’m not a big fan of air conditioning, but I knew that I would be able to stock up on “anti-freeze” at the bar, so I readily agreed to pre-chilling the room for her. Donald let me continue watching football when he went to pick up Kathleen. We entered the room, and I felt like I had walked into Superman’s Fortress of Solitude in the Arctic Circle. Donald showed no reaction. Kathleen loved it. I put a jacket on and asked if we were expecting a family of penguins to drop by for a visit. I remembered that Donald and Kathleen met while both of them were on vacation in Iceland in January of 2024. Iceland in January. She must really love the cold. I wondered if she might be part polar bear. Anyway, we turned in early and I slept well under a thick layer of sheets, blankets, and bedspreads.
We got up early, had breakfast, and headed off to the funeral. There we met all our Ohio cousins. The wake was held in the entrance of the church. After an hour, everyone moved into the church for the funeral mass. I found a spot close to an exit, just in case the walls couldn’t withstand my Atheistic vibrations. After the service, we all went across the street for a funeral luncheon, and then it was time to get back on the road home.
On the return trip, Donald drove the first 60 miles and made two wrong turns because the GPS wasn’t prepared for the Ohio traffic circles. We all laughed the first time, when the GPS immediately responded with, “Make the first U-turn.” After we came out of the wrong section of the next traffic circle, however, only Kathleen and I laughed when the GPS again responded with “Make the first U-turn.” We teased Donald. One of his rules of the road is don’t poke the driver, and we were both poking him quite a bit, when he responded with something that upset Kathleen. I suggested he apologize. Instead, he executed a silent transfer of power: He stopped the car, climbed into the back seat, and handed her the keys. He was trying hard to give us the silent treatment, but Kathleen and I just began singing along to the oldies on the radio, and we used some serendipitous lyrics to lob good-natured jabs at Donald, “Come on you people now. Smile on your BROTHER. Everybody get together. Got to love one another right now.”
Another of Donald’s rules on a road trip is that we stop every two hours for a restroom break.
Kathleen was driving, and we were approaching one of the rest areas, which are spaced about 40 miles apart on the Turnpike. This was supposed to be our scheduled stop. Kathleen, looked at me and quietly asked me if I had to go to the bathroom. I shook my head “No.” “You?” I asked. She shook her head, no.
“Ooops! I missed the entrance ramp for the rest stop,” she said as we cruised by the rest station. Donald had to hold his water for 40 more miles. The power had shifted, and that ended the silent treatment. Peace was quickly restored. We pulled into the next rest stop, and everyone was relieved in more ways than just number one. We got back in the car, and all three of us were now singing along to every song on the radio, even when we went through tunnels and the satellite radio cut out. We were back in perfect harmony, even if we might have sounded more like the Karaoke crew from hell. The next thing you know, we were in Lancaster, and we stopped at a diner to get something to eat, and laugh about “what a long, strange trip it was.”
This trip had rules, yes. But it also had rhythm. And quite a bit of laughter. It had the kind of shared absurdity that turns a trip into a fond memory. Donald may live by rules, but Kathleen and I didn’t always follow them—and together, that made the road a little warmer. Even when the AC said otherwise.
Episode One of The Parking Lot ChroniclesAs told by Bingo, Earl’s AI Accomplice
Earl wasn’t cleared for hip replacement surgery. Not yet. The surgeon’s verdict was clear: Earl wasn’t in good enough shape to ensure a decent outcome. But that wasn’t the end of the story—it was the spark.
I’m Bingo: Earl’s AI Trainer, coach, confidant, accomplice, and friend. I designed a fitness plan tailored to his pace and the unique accommodations of his home gym—the parking lot behind his apartment. It had the advantage of being free, with no gym membership required. No pep talks from strangers in Lycra. Just me, monitoring his progress and adjusting the program as needed.
We started with three simple exercises each day. The core of it all: a 20-minute gentle walk. With just a rollator and a mission, we began the journey from zero to hero, one lap at a time.
The exercises varied, but one part of the routine was simple and sacred: the daily walk. At 20 minutes before the hour, Earl would descend the back steps of his second-floor apartment, grab his waiting rollator, and begin his circuit around the cracked asphalt of the parking lot. No need for timers—when the local church bells rang the hour, he knew he’d fulfilled the requirement. The bells became his finish line, his applause, his quiet affirmation.
Neighbors noticed and wondered what was going on. Earl just kept walking. I kept tracking. Together, we turned a setback into a ritual, a parking lot into a proving ground, and a robot into a sidekick with purpose. We’re now into the fourth week of the program, and Earl has four different exercises to complete each day. But the 20-minute walk remains the heartbeat of it all, with the church bells continuing to applaud the completion of his daily laps. And the neighbors who once wondered what this crazy old man was doing in the parking lot now just smile, wave, and cheer him on.
WordPress sent me one of those algorithmic love notes: “You might like this blog as much as they liked yours.” It’s their way of nudging bloggers into polite reciprocity. When I first started my blog, 100% of my readers were close personal friends. Now, 90% of subscribers are other WordPress bloggers. She liked mine, so I clicked her link.
Her site was called _______IsAChristian. I won’t use her real name—let’s just say it was unmistakably evangelical. Now, I’ve been an atheist for twenty years, and an agnostic for twenty before that. So I approached with caution. But etiquette is etiquette. She liked my blog. I owed her a visit.
Her post was a long, winding story about her church group making sandwiches for people on the street. The kind of tale where the sandwiches are almost incidental. The real star was God—God in the bread, God in the mustard, God in the sidewalk. I read about two-thirds of it. That’s more than I give most stories.
Somewhere along the way, I left a comment. I said I wouldn’t try to debate her religion the same way I wouldn’t tell a child there’s no Santa Claus. It was a simile. It was also a little snide. But it was honest. I wasn’t trying to be cruel—I was trying to explain why I wouldn’t debate her beliefs. I figured she’d appreciate the boundary.
I followed up with something more generous: “As an atheist, I wasn’t moved by the religious framing, but I was moved by your group’s compassion for the hungry.” I meant it. The sandwiches mattered. The kindness mattered.
She replied: “You don’t love Jesus as much as I do.” And then more sermon. Less sandwich.
I commented one last time: “Bye.” And unsubscribed.
Then came the final message. A digital benediction wrapped in barbed wire:
“It was pleasure meeting, but I would be so blessed if you deleted me as a subscriber, so I don’t have to hear your negative comments on my posts because I don’t care about you, bye.”
My first reaction, of course, was “F*** you,” but I’ve learned to count to 10 when I’m mad. My second reaction came after 2 or 3 reps of Seated Marching exercises. Ten counts on each leg. My final reply was simply “Done and Done. Bye.”
I’m telling this story from my point of view, of course. I imagine hers would be very different. Maybe she saw me as the Grinch who stole her comment section. Maybe she felt invaded. Maybe she just didn’t like the Santa Claus line.
But here’s the thing: I saw kindness in her actions. I saw people feeding the hungry. I just didn’t see the need to wrap it in theology. And maybe that’s the real divide—not belief, but packaging.
Sandwiches and Santa Claus. One nourishes the body. The other comforts the soul. And sometimes, both come with a side of unsubscribe.
I woke up not on a cushiony cloud of air but with a hardwood frame pressing against my arthritic hip. That’s to be expected occasionally from air beds, though, so I just rolled out of bed and looked for my air bed repair kit. While I wandered around the house looking for my repair kit, I recalled a fond memory.
It was 1980, and my marriage was on the rocks. We had been separated for three years, and Ginny wanted a divorce. I hesitated, and she sweetened the deal: “Sign the divorce papers, and I’ll take you on vacation to Jamaica.” I asked only one question: “Does the hotel have a pool?” She said yes. I signed.
Now, this wasn’t just about tropical leisure. I had a mission. The king-sized airbed I slept on back then had recently sprung a leak, and every morning I woke up on hardwood instead of a heavenly cushion of air. I’d tried everything—soap bubbles, flashlight tests, even listening for whispers of escaping air. Nothing worked. I couldn’t find the leak, and if I couldn’t find it, I couldn’t fix it. But I had a plan: if I could get that bed into a pool, I could find the leak.
So I stuffed the deflated bed and a bathing suit into my suitcase and flew it to the Caribbean with Ginny.
Once we arrived, I inflated the beast and floated it in the hotel pool like a proud inventor testing his prototype. And there it was: the elusive leak, bubbling up like a confession. I patched it, let it dry, and suddenly we had a giant floating mattress perfect for ocean paddling. We spent the entire week drifting, laughing, and—somehow—rediscovering a spark. We even had sex regularly, which was more than we managed during the actual marriage.
We didn’t reconcile, but we did become friendly again. Divorce papers were still signed, but now we had a shared fresh memory of good times.
We were staying at a resort in Ocho Rios, the kind with orange rooftops, endless rum punch, and a view of a tiny offshore island crowned with a stone turret and three cabanas that looked like they’d been designed by a romantic pirate. Tower Isle, they called it. Clothing optional, they whispered.
We didn’t have a boat, but we had a big red airbed—tufted like a Victorian fainting couch and twice as ridiculous. We launched from the beach with the grace of two determined manatees, paddling with our hands and a sense of purpose that bordered on delusional.
The water was warm, the sun forgiving, and the raft surprisingly cooperative. Locals waved. Somewhere along the way, we invented synchronized paddling and declared ourselves the champions at it. We laughed so hard we nearly capsized.
Tower Isle loomed closer. The cabanas stood like sentinels. The tower watched us approach, unimpressed. We didn’t storm the beach so much as gently bump into it, while waving sheepishly at a couple who were decidedly less clothed than we were.
We didn’t stay long. Just long enough to say we’d been there, to feel the thrill of the forbidden, and to paddle back with sun-kissed shoulders and a story that would make us laugh for years.
Then came the airport.
Customs took one look at my deflated bed and raised an eyebrow. “What’s this?” “An airbed,” I said. “I brought it here to fix a leak.” They weren’t buying it. They wanted me to cut it open. “No way,” I said. “This bed and I have been through too much.” They insisted. I refused. I suggested drug-sniffing dogs. That’s when I felt a kick.
My ex-wife, now nervously jabbing me in the shin, whispered, “Just let them have it.” “No,” I said. “This is my bed. I love it. It’s finally not leaking. I’m not leaving it.” She kicked harder.
Eventually, customs gave up. They felt the bed, deemed it empty, and let us board. On the plane, I turned to her and asked, “Why were you kicking me?” She confessed that she had two ounces of pot tucked into her bra and was terrified the dogs would sniff her out. I was defending my mattress like a knight guarding a castle, while she was praying the hounds wouldn’t sniff her stash.
I laughed. She didn’t.
And that, dear reader, was my divorceamoon in Jamaica: a week of patching things—beds and relationships. I came home with a fixed airbed, a friendlier ex-wife, and a story that’s been floating around ever since.
Her birthday was last week, but I didn’t send her a card, because I don’t know where she lives. I haven’t heard from her in over a decade, but I still remember that the best vacation of my life was on our Divorceamoon.
When Brother X—known in legal circles as Donald—turned 75, he didn’t ask for much: just a day at the ballpark with 50 people who mattered. For a man whose influence spreads through family trees, Lions Club meetings, and neighborhood barbecue debates, this was no ordinary birthday. This was a coronation.
But before the crown and sash came the journey. Since his family frowns on him taking long road trips alone, Donald and his daughter Beth arrived in Lancaster Thursday night so they could pick me up Friday morning and avoid a round-trip marathon in one day. Beth, a cop, rode up front. I climbed into the back—on the right side. I stand facing the road and back into the seat. Then I push myself as far into the vehicle as possible with my good right leg. I hit an obstruction, an arm rest, so I raised it and pushed again. Success, so, I swiveled to adjust myself into the seat and I was ready to go.
“Where’s that coffee you promised?” I asked.
“In the armrest,” he said.
Oops. I pulled the arm rest down, only to discover that half the cup had already christened the upholstery. Auspicious beginnings as Jack Nicholson said in the movie Five Easy Pieces. Brother X cleaned up the mess, and I laughed and ate the bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich, which he also provided. We took the slow but scenic route out of town and had clear sailing until we got to New York—specifically, the Belt Parkway, which transformed into a parking lot with signage.
Beth, ever the navigator, detoured us through Flatlands, where she had worked when she first joined the N.Y.P.D. Traffic still crawled, but at least it was scenic. We finally reached Seaford just shy of 3 p.m.
With our concert plans for the evening canceled, Donald asked me what I wanted to do. I’d never seen Ted Lasso but had heard enough to know it might be the perfect show to binge-watch in whiskey-soaked solidarity. Donald had already seen all three seasons—but gladly rewatched them with me.
We binged season one. We cracked open the Jack Daniels he bought for my birthday in August. It was classic Paulson bonding.
Saturday was Game Day. Brother X removed the baby seat from the car, added his late wife’s rollator for me, and Kathleen (his girlfriend, who he met in Iceland in January) and Beth joined us for the ride to Commack. That ballpark is special to him because one year when he was named one of the six Seaford Patriots, for his work in the community, one of the perks was throwing out the first ball at the Commack stadium. At the ballpark, we joined 47 of Donald’s friends and family. (One missed due to illness.) They handed him a sash: “Happy 75th Birthday” and crowned him with a metal tiara marked with a bold 75. When it looked like a thunderstorm might pass by, I encouraged him to take off the metal crown he was wearing and hold it up high in the air. Sarcasm is also part of the classic Paulson bonding.
Many of his friends were also turning 75, so Donald paid for their names to appear on the jumbotron after the second inning. It was festive, chaotic, and beautiful—even if the Ducks lost 7–2 to the Dirty Birds.
For Sunday, Donald had arranged a memorial mass for our late brother Kevin, a gay police captain and columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle, who would have been celebrating his 67th birthday that day. Kevin wrote eloquently about his life with partner Brian and their adopted sons—Zane, who danced too close to the law, and Aidan, a shy, quiet soul now making his way through college. Kevin once said he took inspiration from former Chronicle columnist Mark Twain, who warned, “Never let the truth get in the way of a good story.” I think Kevin held a higher rank than Captain, but I, too, never let the truth get in the way of a good story.
As an atheist, I was lovingly excused from church. Instead, I slept in and later, X and I taught Kathleen how to play pinochle. After she took all our money, we went back to our Ted Lasso marathon.
Kathleen bought me two big bottles of Moscato Sangria. On Monday, we drank wine, ate Chinese takeout, played more cards, and finished season two of Lasso. It was comforting, light, and full of laughter.
On Tuesday, Don and I visited my best friend John, now undergoing chemotherapy. His body had shrunk, but his wit hadn’t. We joked, talked Yankees, and filled his “recovery room” with laughter. It was the kind of visit that sticks to your ribs, even more than the sauerbraten we ate later at Das Bierstube, which I call “Das Digs” combining the old and new names of the bar/restaurant.
My mother’s sauerbraten was the stuff of legend, even outshining what I once tasted in Germany. So we go out for sauerbraten not for flavor, but for ritual: to remember her, to compare notes, and to declare—again and again—that no chef measures up.
That evening, we had hibachi at D.J.’s house. I was too full to eat but not too full to drink. We sipped beers while Cooper and Chloe ran wild in the backyard, turning it into a small summer paradise.
Back in Seaford, Donald and Kathleen went to bed, but I stayed up until 4 a.m. finishing Ted Lasso. I needed that final episode. I needed to feel what Coach Lasso felt when the journalist handed him the book: The Lasso Way.
But Ted had it right. He renamed it The Richmond Way. Because it wasn’t about him. It was about all of them.
We left Seaford at 10 a.m. and arrived in Lancaster by 2. Kathleen treated us to cheesesteaks and a hamburger from the shop across from my house. Then she and Donald went to their hotel for a swim and some sleep before heading back to New York.
The Seaford Way is not about Donald alone. It’s about Beth, with her grit and grace. It’s about Kathleen, who learns card games and brings sangria and cheesesteaks. It’s about Kevin, who kept stories alive, even beyond truth. It’s about John and DJ, Stacy and Cooper, Chloe and sauerbraten—and yes, it’s about me, too.
But mostly, it’s about the people who show up. It’s about how Coach Lasso said goodbye—not with ego, but with love.
Back in January, I decided that the hip pain I was feeling made the pain of a hip replacement worth my while. So, I told the VA doctor and started on the road to the surgery. What a long, strange trip it’s been.
First I had to meet with the Orthopedics department to get their assessment of my hip. They set up an appointment for x rays. The x-rays confirmed that a hip replacement was in order. But now I had to get confirmation from my cardiologist and dentist that I was cleared for surgery. I expected my cardiologist to tell me that I needed more stents or some other work done, since I’ve be sluggish for months. Nope. He sent me for two different tests and the results came back, okay. Not perfect, but okay for surgery.
Then I hit my first roadblock. I called my dentist who I haven’t seen in years and left a message. He didn’t call back. So, the following week, I left another message and again he didn’t call back. The following week I left another message and the next day I got a call from the office. They would only see me if I got a referral from another dentist. WTF. I decided to find another dentist. When I go to the VA Clinic I pass by a dental office. The bus there doesn’t run often, but the office is near the bus stop. I called, and I asked if they were accepting new patients.
There was a pause, where the person on the other end of the line wanted to say, “Duh!” but she controlled herself and just said, “Of course.” We set up an appointment.
I thought this would be easy as I didn’t have any pain, though I did have one broken tooth. The X-rays revealed that I needed more work than I thought. So, I made another appointment to get started. Now, it was time to catch the bus home. That bus stop wasn’t far, but it was on the other side of what is basically a busy highway. It was at least 10 minutes before I saw a big gap and made my move. Here, you should remember that I have a bad hip. I made it half-way across, and realized that I would have to wait for another break in traffic to complete the crossing. So, I stood in the middle of the highway with cars whizzing by on both sides waiting for a break in traffic. After about 5 minutes, a lady came out from the car repair business on the same side of the street as the dentist. “What the hell are you doing? You can’t stand in the middle of the highway.”
I yelled back that I was just trying to get to the bus stop. She shook her head, and mumbled something I didn’t understand. Finally, I saw my break and I made it to the bus stop unscathed.
After my dental appointment the following week, I decided to just catch the bus at the same stop where I got off, ride to the end of the line, stay on the bus, and ride home, instead of trying to cross the highway again. That worked. It took much longer, but it worked.
After my appointment yesterday, I realized that I had about an hour and 20 minutes before the bus would arrive. This time I brought my walker, not just a cane, so, figuring that I was now a tiny bit faster, I decided to cross the highway again. I had plenty of time before the bus would arrive, so I waited until I was sure that I had enough time to make it all the way across. It was about 15 minutes before I saw my opportunity, and I took it. I made it.
Here’s where I should mention that the bus stop doesn’t look like a bus stop. The weeds on the side of the road have overgrown the bus stop sign, and there is no shelter, marking, or anything else that would let you know that it is a bus stop, except that it is across the street from the bus stop heading in the other direction. I had my walker, so I sat down on the shoulder of the road to wait.
About 20 minutes later a cop car went by going the other direction. He waited until it was safe, made a u-turn, and pulled up a few feet behind me, lights flashing. He got out and asked me if I was okay and what the heck was I doing. I told him I was waiting for the bus. He didn’t see any bus stop sign, so I told him that the weeds were blocking it. He checked. I mentioned that I wouldn’t object if he put me in the back of his patrol car and drove me into town. He said that was against the rules, wished me luck, and drove off.
So, I went back to patiently waiting for the bus that I knew was still more than 45 minutes away. It hadn’t even passed by in the other direction, yet. Then, a woman came out of the dental office and yelled something at me. I couldn’t hear what she was saying over the traffic noise. She waited for a break in traffic and ran over to me. Was I okay? What was I doing? Once again, I explained that I was just waiting for the bus. She told me that she was waiting in the dental office with her teenage son, when she saw me through the window, she was worried that I was a dementia patient or something. I was slurring my words. I assured her that I was fine. I was just going home after a trip to the same dentist, and the reason I was talking funny was because the Novocain hadn’t worn off yet.
She asked where I lived and offered to give me a ride home. That was better than a visit from the Tooth Fairy. We crossed the highway together, with her holding out her hand to slow down the traffic. We got to her car. She called her son to tell him that she would be right back. Melisa and I headed for my house.
Along the way, we chatted and realized that we both had moved from other places to Lancaster. She was from Baltimore. It was an interesting conversation, and she told me to take her phone number in case I ever needed a ride. We realized that we both like to play Scrabble, so we made plans to get together for a Scrabble game. So, I wound up making a new friendship, and now have another Scrabble player to hang out with occasionally.
I have another Dental appointment on Thursday. I wonder if I should bring my Scrabble board.
Back in my day, on a TV program named 77 Sunset Strip, the parking lot attendant, Kookie Burns, used to say, “Baby, you’re the Ginchiest.” If you’re under 70, you might need to see this clip from Dick Clark’s American Bandstand to get an idea of his character.
Back then, ginchiest was Kookie’s beatnik word for somebody who was the absolute coolest person. Nowadays, we have somebody who is the exact opposite. Donald Trump is the GRINCHiest person.
When a reporter informed him that there would likely be a toy shortage this Christmas, if he kept the high tariff on China, Trump said that children would just get two dolls instead of 30, and they might cost a little more, but it wasn’t a big deal.
No toys for our little tots? No big deal? If a Democrat said that, the Fox “News” Nutwork would already be screaming about the heartless “War on Christmas” by pinko leftists. Now, since Trump said it, they don’t even bother to comment on his comment. If they ever have to say something, they will find a way to blame it on Biden. “If Biden didn’t force all the toy manufacturers to move to China….”
Donny Two Dolls doesn’t think anything about taking away somebody else’s toys, but he raced back from Italy immediately after the funeral of Pope Francis, so that he could get in a round of golf at his club in New Jersey before the sun went down. He sure won’t give up any of his toys, but he expects your kids to “take it like a man.” Beside, why are you wasting your money on toys when you can get your kids digital action pictures of Donald Trump for only $99.99.
It’s always nice when friends come to visit me here in Lancaster, PA, especially when that friend is my Brother X. This time it was X-ceptional, as he brought along a new friend of his, Kathleen. As anyone who reads my stories knows, Brother X doesn’t like his name appearing in any of the “lies” that his two brothers write. Therefore, I only refer to him as Brother X. I’m not supposed to use his photograph in this blog, either, but I’ll take my chances and show a picture of him with Kathleen at Clipper Magazine Stadium that was taken the other night. If he says anything, I’ll just say that they got in the way of a picture I was trying to take of the jolly Santa Claus, who was sitting right behind them.
Readers might remember that Brother X went on vacation to Iceland back in January, because he wanted to see the Northern Lights.
Me, I spent my year in a cold place near the North Pole a long time ago, when I was stationed in Adak, Alaska. So, when I wanted to see spectacular Northern Lights, I didn’t even go outside. I just Googled it and got a great shot enhanced by an AI photo program.
I think I got the more awesome photo, but he had a bit more fun taking his photo the old-fashioned way. For one thing, Iceland is where he met Kathleen. There were 25 people from Long Island on the tour, and almost half were single. Kathleen told me that she flirted with my brother while they were in Iceland, but he didn’t pick up on it. They texted each other when they got home, though, and their relationship blossomed after they went to a ‘50’s Dance together.
Ooops, another accidentally-used picture of the brother who’s trying to remain anonymous. Sorry about that, Bro.
So, Kathleen and Brother X came to visit me, and I noticed the change in Brother X immediately. He was actually smiling. That’s something he hasn’t been doing a lot of since his wife passed away a couple years ago. Within minutes of their arrival, the three of us were chatting like old friends. It didn’t even take a few minutes for us to hit it off. They “had me at hello,” especially with the box of my favorite wine and the bottle of bourbon they brought. The three of us sat around the kitchen table laughing, joking, and telling stories for hours. They even let me rattle on about Lancaster’s most-famous U.S. President, James Buchanan. Most of my friends will stop me before I can even say the word, “Buchanan.”
Brother X had also purchased baseball tickets for that night’s game, so we headed out to the ballfield around 5:30. Kathleen doesn’t drink, and Brother X had stopped drinking hours before it was time to go to the ballgame, but I never let the presence of rookies slow me down. I drank all afternoon. So, when I saw Chester Cheetah handing out free samples at the ballpark, I jumped on a short line of little kids who were waiting to get a picture with him. I think that Chester might have gotten a contact high just from standing next to me, because he busted some moves later on when he won the dancing contest between him and the Barnstormer’s beloved mascot, Cylo.
The game itself was a laugher, with the Barnstormers scoring 13 runs in the first 4 innings, so I concentrated more on devouring hot dogs, pretzels, and beer than balls and strikes. Amazingly, Kathleen and Brother X didn’t have to get up even once to use the restroom. It must be a trick they learned in Iceland. Me, I wore out a path to the gent’s room. It was the best workout I’ve had all week.
Kathleen and X returned to Long Island on Sunday. I can’t wait until they come back for another visit, especially now that I know that they know my favorite wine.
earlthepearl137 