Lessons Learned 2018

As 2018 draws to a close and 2019 rears its ugly head beautiful visage, it’s high time that I reflect on the many personal lessons I learned over the past twelve months. In honor of the upcoming New Year’s Eve countdown, I will start at lesson 10 and work my way down to lesson 1, which means when you finish reading the final lesson you need to throw confetti in the air and awkwardly kiss the person standing next to you. So without further ado, let the countdown begin…

10) Amazon Prime and Netflix are conspiring against me – It may sound paranoiac, but it’s clearly true. You would think between the two most popular streaming services, you would be able to view any movie you want to without having to pay extra, seeing as how you are already paying a monthly fee to subscribe to these platforms. Yet 90% of the time if I have a hankering for a specific film, I end up having to pay extra on Prime to watch it. Where the conspiracy comes in is the seemingly random (but clearly not) comings and goings of available movies on these separate services. On more than one occasion over the past year I’ve spent money renting or buying a film on Prime that magically appears on Netflix days later. Yes, Jeff Bezos and Reed Hastings are secretly watching me and doing everything they can to drive me insane.

9) Cats don’t like portion control – Our cat, Muffin, enjoys food. In fact, she enjoys it so much she will bully our other cat, Ping, out of the way in order to get to it. After almost a year of this behavior we started to notice Muffin getting wider and Ping getting narrower, so we decided to take action. Rather than leaving a large amount of food out at all times, we started putting a small amount of food out several times a day and feeding the cats in separate rooms. Muffin does not like this new procedure at all and has taken to incessant meowing whenever I walk within ten feet of her food dish. As an aspiring feline linguist I can tell you her meowing roughly translates to: “Hey moron, now that you’re in the kitchen are you going to feed me already??? I’ve been waiting at least nine minutes since the last time you fed me and I still gots nothing! Maybe you need a claw to the eye you simpering buffoon!” But I haven’t caved yet and the protective eyewear has been helpful.

8) Bluetooth serves a real purpose besides making people look pretentious – Nothing makes me roll my eyes faster than seeing someone walking down the street seemingly talking to themselves, before I notice they have a small electronic device dangling on the side of their face. I always wonder if these folks secretly want to be air traffic controllers but are just too lazy to get the proper training. But then one day, a couple of months ago, I needed to be on a phone meeting at the same time I had to pick my kids up from school. “Gee I wonder if there is a way I can take this call without having to hold my phone up to my ear while driving,” I thought. So I reluctantly borrowed my wife’s Bluetooth device and my eyes were opened to a whole new reality, when I realized that the advantage of this technology is that it’s convenient! Who knew? And it didn’t even bother me that everyone who drove by while I was using the Bluetooth looked at me like I was pretentious.

7) I love bibimbap! – No, I didn’t just have a seizure and hit random keys while I was typing—“bibimbap” is an actual word. (FYI – the last part of the word is pronounced “bop,” not “bap.”) It is the name of a common Korean dish, which I tried for the first time in 2018. My wife, who is Korean by birth, but was adopted by an American family when she was one, has been exploring her ancestral roots, including the food of her homeland. As it turns out, there is a Korean restaurant less than a mile from our house, which she has been frequenting and giving rave reviews. In particular, she was singing the praises of a dish called “bibimbap.” Eventually my curiosity was piqued enough for me to join her on one of her excursions and when I tasted the weirdly named entree, my mind was blown. The visually stunning dish consisted of sizzling vegetables and tofu (don’t worry carnivores, they make meat-centric bibimbap, too) on a bed of rice with a fried egg strategically placed on top. While it seemed like an odd combination of foods, causing me to insert my fork with a bit of trepidation, it turned out to be outrageously delicious. Yes, bibimbap looks great, tastes great, and is a lot of fun to say! 

6) If you miss David Bowie, check out Arctic Monkeys – Or at least check out their song Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino, which sounds like they are channeling David Bowie. While I had vaguely heard of this band, I knew nothing about them until earlier this year when a young coworker and I were chatting about music and he suggested I check out the aforementioned song. I did and was glad to do so, because I very much enjoyed the ethereal, Bowie-esque sound to the tune. As a confirmed music curmudgeon who prefers stuff from the old days, I rarely go out of my way to listen to new artists, but in this case, it was the right move. Besides, how fun is it to say “Arctic Monkeys?” Almost as fun as saying “bibimbap!” (And if I ever saw an arctic monkey eating bibimbap, it would make my day.)

5) My 12-year old son has a crazy amount of knowledge about European sports cars – I’m not a car guy and never have been. If a cool looking car drives by me, the chances are excellent I will not know the make or model and would only be able to describe it with words like “blue” or “fast.” Yet in the last couple of months my older son has been constantly talking about Ferraris and Lamborghinis and Bugattis (which I had never even heard of until he mentioned it.) How in the world did he know about these cars when his dad couldn’t tell you the difference between a Toyota and a Schwinn? Video games, of course. Turns out he plays an online game where you can earn “money” to “buy” these various vehicles. Now he thinks he might one day buy a Bugatti in real life, but I looked up the price and I’m fairly sure if he attempted such a purchase he’d go “bankrupt.”

4) My 9-year-old son knows the word “DYSENTERY” – While I am rarely surprised anymore by my younger son’s extensive vocabulary, I was taken aback when he played the word “DYSENTERY” during a game of Bananagrams. I became aware that he played this word when I heard him giggling, so I looked away from my own words to see what he had played. I was initially very impressed when I saw he had played a 9-letter word, but was a bit less proud when I noticed the words he connected to it were “FARTED” and “TOILET.” Apparently he was playing a themed version of Bananagrams. 

3) The kid who played the lead in A Christmas Story went on to play Ming-Ming in Elf – My wife turned me on to this interesting factoid. It turns out that Peter Billingsley, who played the lead in arguably the most beloved Christmas movie of the 1980s, also played the elf who managed Santa’s workshop in arguably the most beloved Christmas movie of the 2000s. I’ve seen both movies many times but would never have made that connection without the guidance of my loving spouse. See, marriage really does pay off in the end!

2) The best way to unclog a toilet is through unmitigated rage – One of my sons (who shall remain nameless) has a tendency to clog our toilets. Several times a month he comes out of the bathroom and announces that the toilet is backed up, yet again. This usually causes mild irritation on my part (is the kid using a tree’s worth of toilet paper?) but I plunge away and 90% of the time clear the clog on the first try. Sometimes it takes two or three attempts, but I still finish the job without having to break much of a sweat. That is until about a month ago. Our nameless son came into the living room and made his predictable announcement, so I rolled up my sleeves, entered the bathroom and commenced plunging. Once…twice…three times—no progress. I ended up wrestling with the toilet off and on all night and even got out the auger that we had purchased years earlier, but never used before. (Turns out operating an auger is equal parts grueling and disgusting, and, in my case, completely unsuccessful.) The clog persisted into the next day when I purchased a toilet plunger (apparently I was just using a generic plunger—who knew?) specially built to tackle such clogs. New tool in hand, I continued to plunge away and still had no luck. Conversations about hiring a plumber started to occur that evening and deep down in my soul, a simmering rage began to develop, as my manhood was challenged. I slept poorly that night, contemplating having to spend $100 an hour to hire someone for a job I should be able to do on my own. The next morning, I woke up muttering to myself, grabbed the toilet plunger, and had at the clog with a furor hitherto unseen in the Schwartzberg household. Hot anger coursing through my veins, I thrust the plunger repeatedly into the bowl like a raving madman…and amazingly, the clog cleared! I ripped off my shirt and started flexing my biceps, while grunting at the toilet, as though I were the featured performer at Wrestlemania. As I calmed down I realized that I defeated the clog, not with a plunger, or an auger, or a toilet plunger, but with unmitigated rage. I recommend it highly for all your plumbing needs.

1) If I don’t blog monthly there won’t be rioting in the streets – When I started this blog in 2012, I originally thought I would write an entry weekly. After all, I had written a weekly column for the Arizona Republic for the better part of four years, so why couldn’t I continue to write weekly for my blog? Well, it turns out the answer to that question is that I don’t have a deadline and nobody is paying me, which were pretty significant motivators during my Republic days. So my weekly blog soon turned to biweekly, which soon turned to monthly. When I got to monthly, I thought I’d found the right pace, and I kept it up pretty consistently for a few years. But this year, the monthly blog somehow got away from me, and I went without an entry in February, September, and November. When I first skipped a month I thought, “Oh crap, what’s going to happen? Will I get angry letters from readers? Will people picket outside my house? Will I find a dead hedgehog in my mailbox?” But none of those things happened and life kept on clicking along. The same lack of outrage occurred when I skipped months later on in the year and I finally realized that I don’t have to put pressure on myself to write monthly. Indeed, I should only blog when I have something to say. So in 2019, I may have one blog entry or I may have 50. And I won’t stress out about the frequency of my entries. That’s right—my New Year’s resolution is to do less, not more!

The Horror of Unexpected Moisture

There is a time and a place for everything. And more often than not, one’s intrinsic appreciation of a thing is directly tied to whether or not they are experiencing it in the time and place in which they are expecting it. For example, if you go to a Def Leppard concert and it ends with the song “Pour Some Sugar on Me,” you would probably be excited. If, on the other hand, you went to a funeral and it ended with the same song, you may well be upset. Similarly, if you go to the zoo and see a tiger—happy! If you go to your hotel bathroom and see a tiger—terrified! (Just ask Zach Galifianakis.)

But of all the things that one might run into unexpectedly, the one that has vexed me the most over the course of a lifetime is moisture. Sure, moisture is great when you’re trying to improve the texture of your skin or the consistency of your homemade brownies, but when you stumble across it in most other situations it can be disappointing, unpleasant or downright horrifying.

Disappointing moisture- It’s early morning. You are sleeping peacefully. You don’t have to wake up for another 30 minutes. You turn your head on your pillow and your cheek is suddenly wet. Yes, you have just planted your face in a night’s worth of your own drool and now you are awake before you need to be. Welcome to the disappointment of morning saliva.

Unpleasant moisture- It’s time for lunch and you are going to make a sandwich. You grab the package of bread out of the pantry and toss it on the kitchen counter. You grab your supplies out of the fridge put them down and go back to the sack of bread, which is now somehow moist. Apparently the counter was wet without your realizing it and now the sack of bread is, too. It’s only the bottom of the bread that picked up the moisture, but—yuck. Guess it’s going to be a salad instead.

Downright horrifying moisture- You wake up (not from drool, but from natural causes) and start walking barefoot toward the living room. About eight steps later your left foot hits something wet and you slide, barely catching yourself before you fall. In the darkness you don’t know yet what you’ve just stepped in and panic quickly sets in. Is it a leak? A flood? Cat puke? A pool of blood? Your mind quickly plays tricks on you in the early morning darkness. You hop on your right foot to the nearest light switch and turn it on. Yup, it’s cat puke. This should come as no surprise.

There are countless other examples of times when you simply don’t want to feel moisture—when reaching into your pocket, when pulling on a pair of socks, when sitting on Santa’s lap, and so much more.

But don’t let the horror of unexpected moisture paralyze your daily life; just watch where you step, sit and place your hands. And per the advice of legendary sci-fi author Douglas Adams, always have a towel with you at all times. 

Do Largemouth Bass Like Provolone?

A couple of months ago, in an effort to help my nine-year-old son earn one of his Cub Scout badges, I took him fishing. Were it not for the fact that I wanted to be a good dad and help my son in his scouting endeavors, this is not an activity that I ever would have initiated, as these days, my desire to catch a fish is only a smidgen higher than my desire to catch influenza.

As a youth, catching a fish was something that I longed to do, but failed attempt after failed attempt left me bitter and scarred. There was the time when I was about 12 that I went fishing with my dad. I have the image of the lake we went to permanently etched in my brain. We got there, walked to the end of the pier, put our small plastic baggie of bait and hooks down and a strong gust of wind promptly blew the baggie into the lake. Within moments the lake’s current took the baggie containing all of our supplies too far out for us to retrieve it. The fishing trip was over before it ever really began. I cried.

Then there was the time when I was about 13 that my parents enrolled me in a four-week fishing class for kids at Kingsborough Community College, conveniently located right on the water in Manhattan Beach. The class was held every Saturday morning throughout November. The first week there was no fishing—only instruction on how to use all of your fishing equipment. The second week I had a nasty cold and had to stay home. The third week my mom said it was too chilly out for a frail boy like me to stand on a blustery pier for an hour considering I just got over a nasty cold the week before. The fourth week my mom said it was still too frigid out for a lad such as me, but I pleaded and pointed out this was my final opportunity to catch a fish. My mom finally relented and after ensuring I was insulated by layer after layer of thermal underwear, woolen sweaters, and burlap sacks, she had me put on my parka and took me to the class. Unfortunately, I had missed two weeks of sea-worthy tips from my instructor and ended up catching nothing while I watched my classmates reel in enough sea life to stock the Fulton Fish Market for a month. I cried.

Then there was the time when I was 14 that I went fishing with my brother Steve in the deepest reaches of Long Island. I have told this sad tale before, so I will not rehash the gory details again, but you can read about it here if you are so inclined. As you might imagine, at the very end I cried.

So while my history with fishing was not a pleasant one, I sucked it up to take my son for the sake of his development as a Cub Scout. His scout leader had already done all the pre-work with the boys—learning about types of fish, understanding fishing regulations, and even making a rudimentary fishing pole—so all that was left to do was actually go fishing. His leader—probably sensing I was not exactly Captain Ahab—said all we had to do was go to a nearby fishing pond, put some cheese on his hook, let him cast his line into the water and stand there for 20 minutes. If he did this, he would earn his “A Bear Goes Fishing” award.

The morning of our fishing trip I looked in the fridge for some cheese. My choices were cheddar, Swiss or provolone. I wondered which kind the fish would more often encounter in the wild and I realized that in general it was unlikely that fish would have good access to dairy. I was sad for them, as I’m a big fan of cheese. I settled on provolone, figuring it was the mildest of the three and would be a good introductory cheese for them. When I told my son we would use the provolone, he got a big kick out of this.

“Provolone,” he said, stretching out the final “O” and chuckling to himself.

We went to Desert Breeze Park, a few miles from our house. We had been to this park several times before, but never for the fishing. According to the sign we read when we got there, the park contained rainbow trout, channel catfish, largemouth bass, sunfish, and grass carp. Great! Lots of options. I was hoping one of these fish would be a fan of provolone.

We walked around the lake until we found a good spot. I opened up our bait box, which contained nothing more than two slices of provolone. I ripped off a small piece and put it on the hook. Excitedly, my son cast his line and stood there with a wide grin on his face.

I didn’t have high hopes that my son would catch anything and I braced myself for the very real possibility of ending this trip empty handed and in tears like all of the fishing excursions of my youth. After about ten minutes of standing there, my son pulled his line out and we watched as the provolone slipped off the hook into the lake. My son immediately started laughing and said, “Provolone,” with that drawn out final “O.” He shook his head amusedly as we rebaited the hook with the cheese.

He cast his line again and we stood there pleasantly chatting about this and that.

“Would you be surprised if I caught a fish wearing a collar? Like some kid lost his pet fish,” he joked.

“Yeah, that would be a surprise,” I said.

“This is fun,” he said, staring happily into the lake.

As I stood there watching my son contentedly holding his fishing pole, I thought maybe I should temper his expectations about catching a fish. I’m no marine biologist, but the more I contemplated it, the less convinced I was that there might be a largemouth bass lurking in this lake who happened to have a hankering for provolone.

“I’m glad you’re having a good time,” I said. “Just don’t be too disappointed if you don’t end up catching a fish.”

“I don’t want to catch a fish,” he said.

“Wait—what? Why not?” I asked, taken aback.

“Because if I catch it, I’ll have to touch it to take it off the hook and that’s just gross,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Good point. So you’d be perfectly happy if none of the fish go for your provolone?” I asked, somewhat relieved.

“Yes. Besides, I don’t think fish would really eat provolone,” he said, laughing.

We ended up hanging out at the lake for close to an hour, casually chatting while my son went through the motions of fishing. Every ten minutes or so he would pull his line out of the water so we could put a fresh piece of provolone on his fishing hook. Finally, when there was only a little bit of cheese left, my son said, “Let’s feed the ducks.” About 20 yards away there were a few ducks in the lake, so we strolled over and my son ripped off bits of cheese and tossed it toward the water fowl. Every time he did it, he would say “provolone,” and chuckle. The ducks were much keener on the provolone than the fish seemed to be. Once all our cheese was gone we headed back to the car.

“This was really fun,” my son said. “We should do it again. But next time, let’s use cheddar.”

I laughed so hard, I cried. Fishing trip complete.

Taking Work Breaks to New Heights

In the early 1990s, when I worked at MAD Magazine, there were days when I felt I simply had to get out of the office and do something different for 30 minutes to clear my head. I would imagine that people of all professions feel this way at times, whether they be editors, accountants or demonologists. Fortunately for me, the MAD offices, located at the time on Madison Avenue and 52^nd Street in the heart of Manhattan, were within easy walking distance of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the Museum of Modern Art and Central Park, so I had lots of options of where to go when I needed a mental break.

These days, working at an office on Camelback Road and 32^nd Street in Phoenix, my easy walking distance options are limited to a strip mall and another strip mall. True, one of the strip malls contains a gelato shop, which is a nice feature, but if I treat myself to that in the middle of the day, there is an excellent chance I would fall asleep at my desk by mid-afternoon.

Sometimes, to clear my head, I simply walk out onto one of the balconies attached to our office suite and gaze at the impressive nearby mountains. The desert mountains, awash with cactus, are a majestic sight. At times they seem so close I can practically reach out and touch them. Why then, it took me three-and-a-half years of working at this location to realize it would be less than a three minute drive to immerse myself in the same mountains I’d been gazing at, I have no idea; but today this lightbulb finally went off, and I took the plunge.

The decision to drive into the mountains at 12:30 pm on a Friday really came out of nowhere. One minute I had gotten up after eating my lunch to stretch my legs and the next, I found myself driving north on 32^nd Street toward the mountains I often spy from the balcony.

I had no specific plan other than—drive into them thar hills! I took a left on Lincoln Drive and soon saw the sign for Piestewa Peak. I took a right at the sign and started up the steep, bumpy road. I wasn’t really sure what I was doing, other than soaking in the incredible view. When I saw a sign that read “Caution – Active Bee Area,” I considered turning around, because I much prefer my bees inactive, but I decided to suck it up and keep driving.

Soon I came across a parking lot with a sign that said “Summit,” so I turned in and parked. There were about a dozen cars in the lot, but no people around. Presumably they were off somewhere hiking or fending off active bees. I walked to the trailhead and looked up. The peak looked impossibly high. I had hiked to the top once about 20 years earlier when I had much younger legs and was in much better shape. Now I was pushing 50, it was 100-degrees and I hadn’t thought to bring water, given the spontaneous decision to come there in the first place. As if to drive home the situation, I glanced over at the trailhead signage and saw this:

Should I throw caution to the wind? No, I’m not a moron, so the story doesn’t get more exciting than this. The view of Phoenix from the trailhead was spectacular enough. No reason to risk life and limb to get a better vantage point. I spent about ten minutes at the base of the mountain taking in the gorgeous vista before deciding to head back to the office, lest I pass out from heat exhaustion.

I made it back to my desk by 12:59, less than a half hour after I embarked upon my impromptu adventure. My head was cleared (albeit hot) and I was ready for the drudgery of responding to emails once again. And the best part is, I now know where to go when I need a quick respite from work. Yep, I’ll definitely be doing this again…although probably not until December.

Webster's EXTREMELY Abridged Dictionary

Growing up, I kept a Random House dictionary next to my bed. It called itself a “pocket” dictionary, but unless you had a pocket the size of a kangaroo’s pouch, you would not be able to carry it around in your clothing. It was a paperback, true, but it was an extremely thick volume. From elementary school through college, I used it whenever I came across a new word in whatever book I was reading at the time. Sometimes, when I was bored, I would just flip through it to learn new words. I, of course, looked up naughty words, but this dictionary didn’t have the really bad ones. The naughtiest word I found in there was “gamete.”

These days, hard copies of dictionaries are very uncommon. With that new-fangled thing called the internet, definitions can be looked up instantly via computer or one’s handheld telephonic device. Actual paperbound dictionaries are somewhat of a novelty now, but recently my 9-year-old son decided he wanted one.

He, like his older brother, is an avid reader, but despite having a robust vocabulary for a tot of his age, there are certainly still words he comes across, for which he does not know the definition. And, since he has terribly mean parents who have not given him his own computer or handheld telephonic device, he cannot always find out word meanings instantly whilst reading. So a dictionary seemed the perfect solution.

When my son mentioned his interest in purchasing a dictionary with his own money, my wife pointed out that she had seen one at the dollar store, so perhaps he could get one the next time we go. As fortune would have it, I had occasion to go the very next day to purchase some paper goods, so I brought the lad with me. It took some searching, but sure enough, tucked away in the party supplies aisle was “Webster’s Large Print Dictionary.” (Not sure what kind of celebration would constitute using dictionaries as party favors, but is sounds like a wild one.) In any event, my son happily purchased his very first dictionary.

As we drove home I heard my son flipping through the pages of his new book in the back seat. A few moments later he said, “Dad, there’s something wrong with this dictionary.”

“What do you mean? What’s wrong with it?” I asked, bemused.

“It doesn’t have the word FORMAT in here,” he said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, on the cover it says, ‘Easy to read format,’ so I decided to look up the word FORMAT and it’s not in here.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. That’s a pretty basic word. I’m sure it’s in there,” I said, pulling over. “Hand me that book.”

My son handed me the dictionary and I feverishly paged through it. I ran my finger down the “F-O-R” entries and sure enough, it went from FORLORN to FORMER.

“I’ll be darned,” I said. “It doesn’t have the word FORMAT, or the word FORM, for that matter,” I said, handing the book back to him.

“I wonder what other words it doesn’t have,” he said, laughing. I was glad to see he found this more amusing than disappointing.

“Look up MUFFIN,” I said, which is the name of one of our cats.

“Nope, it’s not in here,” he chuckled, a few seconds later.

“How about CAT?” I suggested, as he excitedly turned pages.

“No, that’s not in here either. This is a horrible dictionary!” He was becoming giddy with laughter.

“Maybe they just don’t like nouns,” I said. “Look up the word NOUN,” I said.

“No, not here!” he shouted.

“Give me the book back. I want to look up some words,” I said, getting into the complete and utter failure of a dictionary we had in our possession.

“Okay, what word do you want me to look up?” I asked.

“HORSEPOWER,” he said, for reasons known only to him. I quickly turned to the corresponding page.

“Well, they don’t have the word HORSEPOWER or even HORSE, but, oddly, they do have the word HORSEMAN. And while I’m on this page, I can’t help but notice they have the word HORRIBLE, but not HORROR, which is really funny since they use the word HORROR in the definition of HORRIBLE,” I said.

At this point we were both laughing hysterically. We drove home and when we got there, went to my son’s room and spent the next half hour randomly looking up words in this monstrosity of a dictionary. Lest we think it was just nouns that were omitted from this volume, we looked up lots of adjectives and verbs, with intermittent success. For example, while the word WALK was in there, the word JUMP was not. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to which words appeared in this mystery book. (Note: Neither RHYME nor REASON appears in this dictionary, but MYSTERY does.)

Ultimately, while “Webster’s Large Print Dictionary” turned out to be a bust as a reference source, it’s worth every penny of the dollar my son spent on it as a humor volume, and now makes it perfectly clear why they had this book in the party favors section of the store. Next time he’s looking to purchase a dictionary, though, I’ll advise him to spend at least twice as much and perhaps he’ll get twice as many words.

50 Looms on the Horizon

Tonight I will attend the third different 50^th birthday party for a good friend of mine in just about a year. These are not only friends, but also “peers.” Yes, I am faced with the reality that some of my peers are starting to hit the half century mark, which makes it crystal clear that the big 5-0 is starting to come into view for me, too. Granted, I am still one year, two months and 17 days away from that daunting number, but its place on the horizon is definitely in my sights.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that 50 is old (despite the fact that AARP membership starts at age 50, which doesn’t make a lot of sense, considering I know literally no one who has managed to retire at that age), but there is something about that number, when it comes to age, that carries a higher level of seriousness with it. There is no question that by age 50 you are supposed to be an adult, but considering that a couple months shy of 49, I’m not quite there yet, I think I have my work cut out for me.

The good news is, I have already accomplished some of the things that are expected by age 50, like taking daily blood pressure medication, having toenail fungus, and sporting more white hair than black. (Actually that last one I accomplished by age 40, ‘cause I’m a go-getter!) On the flipside, there are still a wide variety of things one would expect someone to have accomplished by age 50 that I have yet to get to, including: maintaining a diverse portfolio of long term investments to ensure my post-retirement financial stability, learning how to poach an egg, and seeing the movie Shane. Hopefully, over the next year or so, I will at least get to Shane and the egg.

Fortunately, the intimidation factor of 50 is diminished a bit when I think about the party I am going to tonight. It is for a friend who is one of the most youthful, fun-loving, and silly people that I know; “old” is probably the last word I would use to describe her. She reminds me of the fact that 50 is really just an arbitrary number and approaching it should not make me feel old.

No, the thing that makes me feel old is that a longtime friend became a grandfather last week and he is one month YOUNGER than me! Yup, one of my high school buddies is now a grand pappy. Quick, someone get me a shawl and a walker!

Blogger Still Able To Use A Pen

This blog post was originally written by hand. I know it sounds barbaric in 2018 to write anything longer than a shopping list without the aid of a computer, but I did it, just to see if I was even capable of such a thing anymore.

Well, really I did out of necessity. My computer was occupied by my 11-year-old son, who was playing an online game called Wizards 101, which is essentially Harry Potter minus the copy-written characters; and my television was occupied by my 9-year-old son, who was watching “Garfield” on Netflix, which is essentially a cartoon minus any wit. My wife was asleep in the bedroom and I didn’t want to disturb her by going in there to get the book I’m reading (okay, really I was just too lazy to walk the 17 steps to that part of the house) so I needed to find something to do in the front part of the house.

I could have emptied the dishwasher, but that would have required a level of responsibility I wasn’t quite feeling yet.

I could have played with the cats, but one of them was quietly snoozing in her cat bed and the other was…well I don’t know where he was and frankly, I didn’t have the ambition to find out.

Of course, there was always my phone—that dreaded modern, mindless time suck of a tool that I could spend hours staring at while scrolling through Twitter feeds, sports scores, and previously Shazammed songs. But I felt like I’d done enough of that in the previous…you know, seven years, so I thought it was high time I moved on.

I saw an unused notebook sitting on my desk and I thought, “Hmmm…I wonder if I can still write complete sentences by hand. I picked up the notebook and a pen and sat at the dining room table.

But what should I write? My first thought was that I would write a letter to someone. But who? I tried to think of someone close to me who I don’t currently communicate with via email, text or Facebook. I pondered this for a bit and suddenly realized that there is literally no one I know who I don’t communicate with using one of those three methods. That’s not to say I couldn’t write a letter to one of those folks anyway, but I wondered if someone receiving a letter from me in the mail would think I’d gone insane for having undertaken such an antiquated form of communication.

So, if I wasn’t going to write a letter, what should I write? A novel? I didn’t think I’d have the stamina. A poem? I stopped writing those back in the 90s.

Then it occurred to me—why not write a blog post? Everyone always writes their blog posts via computer, but I could be the first person in the history of the world to write one with pen and paper.

Of course, this presented a bit of a logistics problem. If I blogged by hand, how would it be seen? These days, my blog is read by about 150 people. I figured I could rewrite the blog post by hand 150 times, find out the addresses of my readers, go to their homes and tape the paper to their computer screens. But then I thought there was the possibility that someone might think that was more insane than getting a letter in the mail from me.

It occurred to me that the reality was that after taking the time to handwrite this post (about two hours) I was going to have to retype it anyway in order for it to be seen. And that is exactly what I’ve done. (Retyping this took about 20 minutes.)

So, while I’m proud I proved to myself that I still have the requisite hand-eye coordination and attention span to handwrite something more than a personal check, I have to admit that word processing programs are horribly convenient and infinitely less tedious than writing by hand. Of course, if it weren’t for writing by hand, I wouldn’t have had a blog topic for today. Take that, modern technology!