When we’re younger, we get all kinds of cuts and bruises. We cut our finger slicing a bagel, or suffer a contusion sliding into second base. We accept it, we keep going, we heal up.

My friends, I’m here today to discuss the unkindest cut of all — the “old folks’ injury.” What is the “old folks’ injury,” you ask. Well, I define it as the kind of an injury you never see young people get. Young people accidentally stub a toe, or get a burn touching a hot plate. Old people get cuts and bruises on their FACES! You hardly ever see a young person with a bandage on his face. Old people? You see it all the time. Did you see the recent picture of former President Jimmy Carter, working on a Habitat for Humanity project with a black eye and a bandage on his head? Brave, courageous and old!

I recently suffered an “old folks’ injury,” where I got a gash on my forehead between my eyebrow and my nose, and suffered a small bruise below my eye. (See picture above.) As if that were bad enough, how about that skin tag on my eyelid? I mean, what?? And I don’t know WHAT the fuck that thing on the end of my nose is — but they only add to the list of reasons that I’ll be the only person in the nursing home without an STD!

Worse than suffering this kind of humiliating injury is having to explain how it happened. I mean, it’s right there, plain as the, er, cut on my face!

At work: ‘How’d that happen, Dave?’
Me: ‘Cut myself shaving.’
Work: ‘You shave your eyebrows??’
Me: ‘Yes.. yes, all the time.’
Work: ‘You’re weird.’

The reason I can’t explain it is because I’m not exactly sure myself what happened. I don’t know if I was dreaming, or actually choking on the fucking CPAP cord wrapped around my neck, or what … but one second I was sleeping, the next I was sitting on the floor, holding my eye into its socket (even though there proved to be no actual reason for me to have been doing so), and — I’ll man up here — I whimpered like a little girl whose kitten had run away. This, of course, woke Carrie up with a start, and she ran to get me ice.

‘What did you do,’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. “One second I was sleeping, and the next .. well, I’m here.’
‘But what did you do,’ she insisted.
‘I think I smashed my eyeball into that fucking nightstand. I THINK I TORE MY RETINA!!’
‘Let me see,’ she said, and as I moved my hand from my eye, she fainted. (Just kidding. But if you know her, you know that was a distinct possibility!)
She actually said, ‘You asshole, you got blood on the sheets and I JUST CHANGED THEM!’ (Just kidding again. But … well, ibid.)

What had happened was this. Again, not sure the cause, but for whatever reason, I rolled off my bed — in my sleep — and smashed my face into the southeast corner of the night table beside me.

I wanted to have a better story to tell, I really did. But you know what? This is me. (Coincidentally, exactly half of Carrie’s favorite show on TV.)

Most of you know that I’ve wasted the best years of my life editing newspapers and magazines.

And through those years, I’ve been pitched countless story ideas from zealous public relations professionals (others use a less kind word for them). I would say the majority of the pitches are sent by folks who know what we do, and their pitches are mostly on-topic, which, in my current life, is software development. There are, though, the outliers, who simply get names of editors into their contact lists and fire when ready, regardless of the pitch. Today, I got an offer from a PR pro to apply for a media credential for … wait for it.. the upcoming, 2020, MISS AMERICA PAGEANT! Why of course, that makes perfect sense, I thought. It’s just SO completely relevant to my work and my readers … so long as one of the girls’ talents is COMPUTER PROGRAMMING!!!

Why am I telling you this? Because, most of you who know me know that I’m married to a woman OBSESSED with the Miss America Pageant! All pageants, in fact. Miss Universe, Miss Teen USA, Miss World (I dunno, is that one? And what’s that joke about the Miss Universe pageant? ‘If it’s truly a pageant for the entire universe, how come only humans from Earth enter?’) But whatever the pageant, wherever it is, Carrie’s in her PJs, with her pimple cream (her joke!), watching on TV and scoring at home.

All of which brings me back to the early fall of 1991. We were three years into married life and proud new parents when I surprised Carrie with tickets to the pageant. Not just the last night of the event, mind you, but all four days of “competition” — proving just how tuned in I am to her interests! And, by the way, who was watching 2-year-old Alexa while we were in Atlantic City?? #notgreatparenting

We stood on the boardwalk and waved as the girls were driven by in convertible Cadillacs, sitting atop the back seats and showing off their crazy shoes during the introductory parade. We watched as 50 girls, night after night, were whittled down, down, down, until… Saturday night! That’s when Bert Parks (or was it Bert Convy? Regis Philbin??) came out to host the show, and the excitement was at a fever pitch! We sat amid a family rooting for one of the contestants, who sang a beautiful rendition of “Amazing Grace” as the crowd went crazy! The audience was made up mostly of family and friends of the contestants, in the old Atlantic City Convention Center, and they waved signs and whooped it up when their Miss (fill in the state) crossed the stage. It was quite surreal.

Finally, the moment of truth. “Your Miss America 1992.. Miss Hawaii.. Carolyn Sapp!” She was beautiful. Carolyn cried, waving her hand rapidly in front of her face to, I guess, dry her tears? Does that even work? Meanwhile, I passed Carrie a box of Kleenex, because she was crying like she had just won (without the hand-fluttering)!

Two months later, it was revealed that Carolyn Sapp had been nearly beaten to death years earlier by her boyfriend, former J-E-T-S (Jets! Jets! Jets!) running back Nuu Faaola — pronounced syllable by distinct syllable by the great sports commentator Marv Albert as Nu-oo Fa-ah-OH-la! The two (Carolyn and Nuu, not Marv) had been in an abusive relationship before Sapp ended it, and made a TV movie about her life. I passed another box of Kleenex to Carrie.

You know, for years now, when I think of that time, I often get Sapp confused with the 1988 Miss America (which absolutely drives Carrie crazy!), the lovely Kaye Lani Rae Rafko, Miss Michigan of 1987, pictured above. Why? I have no idea. Perhaps it’s because the name Kaye Lani Rae sounds Hawaiian. Perhaps it’s the fact that I really couldn’t care less about Miss America. But she, too, has another side to her story.

The film documentarian Michael Moore, also from Michigan, was telling the story of how General Motors — and chairman Roger Smith — fucked over the city of Flint, Michigan (years before the water authority stuck it to ’em again!) by closing their plant there. Moore wanted answers, but couldn’t find Smith. While filming in 2017, Moore, who’s from Flint, went home to see what was happening in town and caught a parade at which Kaye Lani Rae — the then-reigning Miss Michigan — was the grand marshal. A piece of their conversation from the film went like this:

Michael Moore: How does it feel driving through Flint Michigan today and so many people being laid off…so many plants being shut down?

KLRR: How does it feel? I feel like a big supporter. That’s how. Does it matter of what?

But he pressed on, and finally, displaying extreme discomfort at being dragged into a situation she clearly wanted no part of — and had no part in — she said, “I’m trying to stay neutral here. I’m going to Miss America in two weeks. . . . Just keep your fingers crossed for me as I go for the gold. . . . ”

And, world peace!

So, maybe I’ll take that forward-thinking PR pro up on the Miss America credential offer after all. I could sell the crazy stories coming out of the pageant to The National Enquirer, but, naah, even they probably wouldn’t believe them.