Tomorrow is No Kings Day, and I will be attending the demonstration at Reservoir Park here in Lancaster. I’ll be handing out colorful paperclips and this flyer:
đ WEAR A PAPERCLIP ON NO KINGS DAY
A small symbol with a big story
On No Kings Day, we remind ourselves that no leader â past, present, or future â should be treated like royalty. Democracy works best when we stay grounded, skeptical of myths, and committed to truth over heroâworship.
Thatâs why today, I invite you to wear a paperclip.
Why a paperclip?
Because the humble paperclip has one of the funniest and most revealing stories in modern history.
During World War II, Norwegians wore paperclips on their lapels as a quiet symbol of unity and resistance against authoritarian rule. The clip stood for binding together, staying connected, and refusing to be intimidated.
After the war, a national myth grew that Norway had invented the paperclip â a story repeated so often that it became accepted truth, even though the familiar âGemâ clip was actually British. They actually erected a monument to the paperclip in Oslo. The myth wasnât malicious; it was comforting. It felt good. It made a simple object seem heroic.
But it wasnât true.
Why it matters today
The paperclip reminds us how easily myths form â how quickly a simple idea can be inflated into legend, and how tempting it is to rewrite history to flatter those in power.
Wearing a paperclip today says:
We choose facts over flattering stories
We resist the urge to crown heroes or kings
We stand together as citizens, not subjects
We remember that simple ideas donât make someone a genius â they make them human
Join us
Clip one to your shirt, jacket, or bag. Wear it proudly. Let it say what needs saying:
No kings.No myths.No coronations.Just democracy â held together by all of us.
My brother Kevin was not athletic as a child. Let me be more precise: the neighborhood girls got picked before him when we chose up teams for softball. And thatâs not because the girls were that good. It was because Kevin threw not like a girl, but like an alien, someone who had absolutely no idea how to throw a baseball.
He knew nothing about sports. Nothing. So, you can imagine my shock when I heard years later that he was living in San Francisco and coaching a soccer team. Not a professional team, but, still, Coaching. A sport. With rules. And balls. And a team depending upon him. But thatâs another story.
This is a baseball story.
Back then, the rest of us were obsessed with batting averages, RBIs, and who could hit the ball over the telephone wires. Kevin, meanwhile, treated the entire enterprise like a field trip. Heâd stand in the outfield â usually right field, the traditional home of the unskilled â and watch the game as if he were waiting for subtitles to appear.
When a ball finally did come his way, he reacted like someone being handed a live ferret. Arms flailing, feet unsure, eyes wide with the realization that physics had betrayed him once again.
And yet â and this is the part I love â he kept showing up. Every game. Every summer. Every humiliation. He showed up because thatâs who he was long before he became a writer, a father, a deputy, or a man brave enough to tell the world who he really was.
He showed up even when the world didnât quite know what to do with him.
And maybe thatâs the real story â not the baseball, not the throwing, not the picking of teams. Itâs the persistence. The quiet courage. The willingness to stand in right field, waiting for a ball he knew he couldnât catch, simply because the rest of us were there and he wanted to belong.
No. Thatâs another story.
This is a baseball story.
My brother Donald, or the artist formerly known as Brother X, is a big baseball fan. The kind of fan who can quote batting averages the way some people quote Scripture. So, when Donald heard that Barry Bonds was going to be making an appearance at San Franciscoâs City Hall, he got excited. At the time, our brother Kevin was head of security at San Franciscoâs City Hall.
âGet me his autograph,â Donald said. Simple mission. Clear objective. No ambiguity.
Except for one small problem: Kevin didnât even know who Barry Bonds was.
Donald had to give him a crash course. Home run king. Giants legend. A name spoken with reverence in San Francisco.
Kevin listened politely, filed the information away, and went back to running security for one of the busiest municipal buildings in America.
A couple days later, Donald called him.
âDid you get me the Barry Bonds autograph?â âNo,â Kevin said. âHe didnât show up. He sent his Godfather instead.â âWell, did you get his autograph?â âNo. Why should I?â
Donaldâs voice went up an octave. âHis Godfather is Willie Mays!â
Silence. Then Kevin, genuinely puzzled: âSo⌠whoâs Willie Mays?â
Like I said earlier: Kevin knew nothing about sports. Donald nearly had a stroke.
âYou didnât get Willie Maysâ autographâŚâ Donald screamed until the phone lines melted.
In our family, competitiveness is practically a sacrament. And Kevin â who hated being outdone â decided that if he had just committed a baseball error, he was going to atone for it. Somehow.
He dove into learning everything he could about Willie Mays. Stats. Stories. The basket catch. The Catch. The Say Hey Kid. He studied like he was preparing for a final exam in Willieâology.
One day, Gavin Newsom was scheduled to say a few words at an event honoring Willie Mays. Kevin, who once was a speechwriter for Vice-President Dan Quayle, volunteered to draft the remarks.
And he nailed it.
After the event, Gavin showed Willie a copy of the speech and told him Kevin wrote it.
Willie Mays, the man Kevin once couldnât identify in a lineup of two, decided he wanted to thank him. He signed a baseball and gave it to Gavin to pass along to Kevin.
Once he got it, Kevin didnât hesitate. He sent it straight to Donald.
It took him a lifetime, but Kevin finally hit a home run.
Iâm 77 years old and the only benefit of old age that I have noticed is perspective. Old people have seen enough stuff to be able to put things into proper perspective.
For example, the biggest horror of my teenage years was Viet Nam. More than 40,000 Americans died in Viet Nam. More than 5,000 subsequently died from wounds they received in Viet Nam. More than 1,000 were missing in action, captured, or declared dead. In total, at least 50,000 young Americans died as a direct result of that war. Thousands of Americans protested the war, but it still kept raging on year after year.
Then, on May 4th 1970 the National Guard shot and killed four students who were protesting the war at Kent State University. Their tragic deaths caused protests to grow much louder, as the once quiet average American now joined in the protest. It wasnât just the hippies protesting the war, anymore. The average American got involved and pretty soon, America got out of Viet Nam.
The average American is a lot more powerful than they think. They just donât stop to think about just how many of them there are, and the strength they have in numbers.
On January 7th, an I.C.E. agent murdered Renee Nichole Good. It looks, to me, like that is going to be the spark that will once again unite the awesome power of the average American. I sure hope so. It would be a fitting tribute to an average American who selflessly put herself in harmâs way to try to protect the rights of her neighbors.  Renee Good gave all. Letâs all give what we can to honor her, and someday, when weâre successful, we will have a holiday to celebrate her life.
Yes, we the people are still talking about Jeffrey Epstein. We know from his trial and your trial with E. Jean Carroll that you and your beastie bestie were both sexual predators. How were you, or people you know, involved in his sex trafficking? Weâd also like to know why Ghislane Maxwell was transferred to a country club prison after meeting with your personal lawyer, B. Todd Blanche. Will you pardon her if she keeps her mouth shut about you and Jeffrey Epstein? How many times was your name redacted from those Epstein files?
Weâre wondering why our government, which used to only kill foreign nationals in secrecy through CIA covert black operations, is now openly committing War Crimes and atrocities against Venezuela and putting the incidents on television for the whole world to see. Of course, we will probably never see the video of the second drone attack on September 2, 2025, the strike that was ordered to kill two survivors in the water. Does âKill Them Allâ also mean Leave no witnesses? Have you ever read the Geneva Convention? When push comes to shove, who will you throw under the bus to save yourself, Pete Hegseth or fat generals?
People are also talking about the Venezuelan Oil Tankers that were pirated, not by Somolli pirates, but by U.S. armed forces. Is this about oil, or are you trying to start a war with Venezuela? Weâve noticed that you are cozying up to the idea of calling illegal drugs “Weapons of Mass Destruction.” Donald Rumsfeld would be proud of you.Â
Weâd also like to know why youâre more interested in helping Russia than Ukraine. Do you want to do to Greenland, what Russia is trying to do to Ukraine? You tried to force Ukraine to sign a peace deal that was written exclusively by the Russians without any input at all from Ukraine. Whose side are you on?
What incriminating evidence does Russia have on you? The Mueller Findings resulted in the arrest of many of your associates. Is that why you closed those and other investigations?
Why, at the 2018 Helsinki summit, did you publicly side with Russian President Vladimir Putin over U.S. intelligence agencies regarding Russian interference in the 2016 election? Does it have anything to do with your multiple Casino Bankruptcies and subsequent financial recovery thanks to the help of Russian Oligarchs? Will you give U.S. citizenship to any Russian with $5 million dollars, while deporting actual American citizens and sending them to brutal prisons in foreign countries, even after numerous court decisions have barred you from doing this?
Why are you purposely driving us away from NATO and the rest of our democracy-loving allies around the world, while you praise dictators like Vladimir Putin and Kim Jong Un?
Weâll also talking about the skyrocketing cost of living for the average person, while Billionaires get huge tax breaks.Â
Why wonât you admit that your Tariffs are basically a sales tax that is forcing American Consumers to pay higher prices, while you still try to peddle the lie that China is paying the Tariff?
Weâd like to have answers on why American Math scores rank 36th in the world, and why even you, a college graduate, are so mathematically ignorant that you repeatedly claim to lower drug prices by 500%, 600%, 700% 800% or more, when everybody with a rudimentary knowledge of math knows that lowering a price by 100% makes it free. We know that you were already convicted of 34 counts of Felony Fraud in New York. Was that bad math, or just another con like Trump University, which defrauded students and the Trump Foundation that robbed charities?
Why do you continue to annoy and threaten Canada and Greenland?
Why did you pardon violent Insurrectionists who attacked police officers and pardon people who defrauded Americans of millions of dollars, and even pardon the former President of Honduras who was convicted of smuggling tons of drugs into the U.S.? Maybe you just donât like the idea of former Presidents going to prison for their crimes.
What was your involvement in the January 6th insurrection? You called the people who were arrested, heroes and patriots, so you must have been in favor of it.
What about the Fake Electors you used to try to nullify the election you lost? Who was behind that?
How about the Georgia phone call where you tried to pressure Brad Raffensberger to give you the election? How many votes did you want him to add to your total?
We have questions about why foreign tourists no longer wish to visit and spend their money in the United States. We also would like to know why youâre trying to turn the United States into a police state, sending armed troops into states where they are not needed or wanted.
We still have questions about the Classified Documents you stored in your guest bathroom and shared with others at Mar-a-Lago who did not have security clearances.
Why did you destroy the East Wing of the White House? Was it so that you could have a fancy ballroom to entertain the billionaires who have donated to your campaign for Kingship of the United States? Why are you giving billionaires big tax breaks while shutting off American humanitarian aid that saved the lives of thousands of impoverished people worldwide, mostly children?
Why do Cabinet meeting always have to start with a full round of ass kissing?
Why do you insist on defying court orders and the Constitution, which you swore under oath to uphold?
We know all about the Hush Money Case you tried to deny, but we have questions about what quid pro quo you plan to give the Billionaires who are contributing to your campaign and funneling money to you? How much outside money have you gotten as President. How much did you grift on the hats, t-shirts, watches, coins, mug-shot mugs, phony AI action cards, etc.? Where, for that matter, are the tax returns you vowed to release once the IRS cases were settled? Are they tucked away in the same safety deposit box as the Health plan youâve been promising to release for over a decade?
We also have plenty of Emoluments Questions that weâd like answered. What was the quid pro quo in the $400 million aircraft presented by the Qatari royal family and the U.S. and Qatar finalized aviation and defense agreements totaling over $243 billion, including Qatar Airwaysâ purchase of up to 210 Boeing aircraft? Will that plane be going to your Presidential Library? We know you don’t like to read. Will there be any books besides Mein Kampf in your library?
Have you tried on the ceremonial gold crown you got from South Korean President Lee Jae Myung? This preceded expanded U.S.âSouth Korea security cooperation and trade adjustments.
Do you really believe that a made up FIFA Peace Prize qualifies you for a Nobel Peace Prize?
You also got gold bars and ancient artifacts from several Middle Eastern nations, some of which are estimated to be worth tens of millions. These were presented during diplomatic visits that coincided with defense procurement and energy deals. How big a bribe does a country have to make to get a deal with the United States nowadays? How much has your familyâs net worth grown since youâve been in office? How many golf courses have you opened around the world?
You accused President Biden of weaponizing the Justice Department, but youâre the one who has turned it loose on your political rivals and political enemies such as James Comey and Letitia James. How do you explain that? How do you explain your campaign against Freedom of Speech for comedians like Jimmy Kimmel, Stephen Colbert, Seth Meyers, and others?
Whose idea was it to put up the ridiculous picture of an autopen for Joe Biden on the Presidential Walk of Fame? Are you really claiming that you never used the autopen, even though there are so many people who you claim not to know who have been given pardons by you? Who added the disgusting plaques which mock the other Presidents? Did you write those yourself? They look like some of the revolting middle-of-the-night tweets that you post on your mendacious social media site.
If you are still alive, will you run for an illegal 3rd term in 2028? In a follow-up question, do you think youâll still be alive in 2028? What medical problems are you covering up with bandages and make-up? Why did your doctors order an MRI test? Do you take medical advice from Robert Kennedy, Jr.?
Speaking of the Kennedys, where do you come off putting your name on the Kennedy Center?
And Trump Class Battleships??? You know that “Trump Class” is an oxymoron don’t you?
Do you really think that all that orange make-up you pour on makes you look better than Zohran Mamdani?
Will you ever apologize to the Central Park Five, who you tried to have put to death for a crime they didnât commit?
Tell me, Mr. President â what exactly should we be done talking about, and which news stories are too inconvenient to revisit in 2026?
The tragedy of Artificial Intelligence (AI) is that it is treated as a gold rush â a way to get rich quickly. The real treasure of AI, however, lies in using AI to extend our senses, to make us all smarter and the world safer, healthier, and more connected. Imagine a society where âsuperhuman perceptionâ isnât hoarded for profit, but rather shared for the common good.
I recently bingeâwatched several Jesse Stone movies starring Tom Selleck. One of the most memorable characters in that series isnât human at all â itâs Reggie, the Labrador Jesse finds at a crime scene and quietly adopts. Reggie is enigmatic: his previous owner was killed, and he was found lingering beside the body, carrying a sadness that never quite lifts. He isnât the typical funâloving Labrador we expect. Jesse often wonders whatâs going through Reggieâs mind, and I did, too.
This is where AI could open extraordinary doors. AI could help us glimpse the inner world of dogs like Reggie â their grief, loyalty, or quiet resilience. Understanding animals at that level wouldnât just be fascinating; it would deepen our empathy and remind us of our shared vulnerability. AI, incorporated with certain animal senses, which are far superior to our own five senses, would also have amazing benefits.
AIâpowered âelectronic nosesâ can detect cancer from a patientâs breath, sniff out explosives, and monitor food safety. Algorithms can process ultrasonic frequencies, giving drones and sensors batâlike echolocation for navigation and searchâandârescue. AI cameras see in infrared and ultraviolet, spotting crop pests or hidden defects invisible to human eyes. Neuromorphic tactile sensors mimic whiskers, allowing robots to delicately handle surgery tools or navigate rubble. Machine learning is currently decoding animal signals â from whale songs to bee dances â opening new channels of ecological cooperation. Each of these breakthroughs shows how AI can help us borrow natureâs best tricks, not to dominate, but to collaborate.
Animals have been perfecting their senses for millions of years. AI gives us a chance to learn from them, not just to mimic, but to surpass. If we choose to use it to aim higher than greed, that would truly be batshit amazing. It would give us something this Thanksgiving Day to make us truly thankful for the vast number of species who share the planet with us, not just the turkeys.
I havenât written a blog since my best friend John passed away a few weeks ago. Itâs hard to find the right words when the silence left behind feels louder than anything I could write. I always considered John to be my best friend, and I tried to be his best friend. There was plenty of competition, thoughâhe treated all his friends as best friends. That was John. He didnât ration affection. He didnât play favorites. He made you feel like the center of the room, even when the room was full. And somehow, you believed itâbecause with John, it was true.
John lived in Long Beach, Long Island with his wife Margaret. In a twist worthy of a song lyric, he met his wife Margaret one night while we were out celebrating my birthday. They raised three remarkable childrenâEileen, Andrea, and Johnnyâeach carrying forward a piece of his spirit. Eileen, who illustrated my childrenâs book, lives upstate with her husband Christopher and their two children, Jack and Nora. Andrea is a scientist, married to Mark, and together theyâre devoted Phish fans. Johnny works behind the scenes on television stages and at Lincoln Center, a quiet craftsman in the world of performance.
John and I met in 1971 at the N.Y. Telephone Co. We bonded over music, mischief, and the kind of friendship that doesnât need explaining. We played on the same Telephone Company softball team, The Newtown Suns. He loved Family and Friends, Baseball, Music, and Long Beach.  One year, Eileen gave him a birthday gift that lit him upâa guest DJ spot on a radio station in Woodstock, NY. That was one of his best days. He was in his element, spinning tracks and stories like heâd been born for it.
We had plenty of great times together. I went to all his parties, and after I moved to Lancaster, he came out here a few times a year to cheer on the Lancaster Barnstormers with me.
I have dozens of CDs he made for me. I can listen to them and think about him, but nothing can replace him. John loved Baseball, especially the Yankees. So, now that he joins Willie, Mickey, and the Duke in a Field of Dreams somewhere, Iâll play this song for him.
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 partsâno, no. I dove headfirst into the shimmering swamp of clickbait wellness hacks. And I emerged reborn. Possibly radioactive.
It started innocently. A headline whispered: âDermatologists Hate Her: She Mixed Salt and Vaseline and You Wonât Believe What Happened Next.â I clicked. I believed.
I smeared the concoction on my elbows, my knees, andâat one pointâmy neighborâs 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: âDoctors Beg You to Try This One Trick Before Bed!â
It involved pressing a mystery pressure point behind my knee while chanting the phrase âWater be gone!â in Latin. I donât 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: âMen Over 70 Are Raving About This Root That Restores Vitality!â 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 âDr. Randy.â I followed every step. My blood pressure rose. So did my eyebrows. Did it work? Letâs 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 doesnât also sell supplements on YouTube. Why? Because the Internet taught me that Tylenol causes autismâa theory endorsed by two of Americaâs loudest unlicensed pediatricians: Donald Trump and RFK Jr.
Now, I donât know if thatâs true. I do know that after reading seventeen blog posts and watching a video narrated by a man named âQuantum Dave,â I threw out all my acetaminophen and replaced it with Himalayan salt, raw honey, and a crystal shaped like Joe Roganâs bicep.
My ankles still swell, my skin still flakes, and my rollator still squeaksâbut 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 âWater be gone!â while pressing my knee and waiting for enlightenment. Free to click âNext Pageâ until I forget what I was looking for.
Next week, Iâll be trying the âCabbage in Your Sockâ method for memory enhancement and the âToothpaste on Your Eyelidsâ trick for lucid dreaming. Stay tuned. Or donât. Iâll be glowing either way.
It happened just after dusk. I was halfway through reheating last nightâs chili when the knock came â firm, rhythmic, and suspiciously polite. I figured it was U.P.S. with my Bourbon order. I opened the door to find two masked men, dressed like extras from a dystopian reboot of The Blues Brothers, holding a ribboned box and wearing jackets labeled âI.C.E.â
âCandygram for Earlthepearl137,â one of them said, eyes wide with bureaucratic innocence.
I blinked. Â I wasnât surprised â Iâd just published a blog post titled The End of Free Speech: A Love Letter to Monitored Comedy. Â I knew the drill. Say something morally clear, challenge selective outrage, and suddenly youâre on the compliance radar. Â Satire, when done right, makes some people nervous.
In my latest post, I questioned the double standards of speech policing â how moral clarity gets labeled âaggressive,â while actual harm gets a pass if itâs wrapped in patriotism or profit. I used examples from club signage, media pivots, and the way certain phrases get flagged not for content, but for whoâs saying them.
Apparently, that was enough to trigger a âcourtesy check.â
The I.C.E. agents didnât arrest me, though. They didnât even enter. They just stood there, box in hand, waiting for me to acknowledge the delivery. It was performance art â a compliance ritual dressed as concern. And like all good satire, it left me wondering: whoâs really afraid of free speech?
I reached for the candygram, and the masked man winked. Not a friendly wink. The kind that says, We know where you live.
And then I woke up.
I wonder if it was a dream or a premonition.
“No Kings Day” â October 18th. Be there and bring a friend.
The last working bulb on the stage at the Chuckle Bucket flickered like it knew a punchline was coming.  Martyâs 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 wasnât 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. âI want you to know that I love this President,â he said, âI really, really love him. I love him so much I named my ulcer after him.â
The crowd chuckled, cautiously. A laminated sign on each table read: âPlease laugh responsibly.â Even the regulars, the ones who dropped in more than once a week, didnât 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 werenât 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.â
Marty leaned into the absurdity:
âI tried to do a bit once about my uncleâs conspiracy theories. My act got flagged for âunauthorized nostalgia.â  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.â
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. âI 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, Donât worry about it, then. Thatâs normal.âÂ
The four people in the audience laughed nervously.
âDonât worry, folks. Iâve got my Passport ready.â
He looked offstage for a second. âWell, thatâs my time.â He closed with the line that had become his signatureâless a joke, more a eulogy:
âAnd remember, he who laughs Last⌠turns out the lights.â
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 wasnât just a local comic. He was the custodian of what used to be funny.
I went to my Aunt Miriamâs funeral in Ohio last week. Naturally, it was a sad occasion, but it still had itâs lighter moments. Thatâs 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 wasnât 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. Iâm 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. Donaldâs 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 Kathleenâs flight wouldnât 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 didnât have to stop at just one drink. âKathleen likes the room to be cool,â Don said. So, we cranked up the a/c before we headed to the bar. Iâm not a big fan of air conditioning, but I knew that I would be able to stock up on âanti-freezeâ 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 Supermanâs 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.Â
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 couldnât 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.Â
On the return trip, Donald drove the first 60 miles and made two wrong turns because the GPS wasnât prepared for the Ohio traffic circles. We all laughed the first time, when the GPS immediately responded with, âMake the first U-turn.â 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 donât 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, âCome on you people now. Smile on your BROTHER. Everybody get together. Got to love one another right now.â
Another of Donaldâs 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 âNo.â âYou?â I asked. She shook her head, no.
âOoops! I missed the entrance ramp for the rest stop,â 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 âwhat a long, strange trip it was.â
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 didnât always follow themâand together, that made the road a little warmer. Even when the AC said otherwise.
earlthepearl137 