Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.
— John Lennon

I had planned — nay, resolved — to write more in 2020. But then some family issues cropped up that required attention, as did my work. Now, though, things appear to have righted themselves, so I poured myself a glass of wine (and a bowl of Ruffles potato chips … love those ridges!), and here I am.

Just last weekend, Carrie and I had the privilege to attend the wedding of the daughter of our dear friends, Steve and Merrill. Yes, that’s the Steve from the golf outings, if you’ve been following along. Plus, we had the additional honor of being seated at their table.

As great as that was — and it was — I’ll admit here and now that I felt a little pressure. You see, Merrill and Steve are what we call “party people.” And man, as we get older, nothing makes you feel your age so much as being at a six-hour dance party!

Of course, you have to get up and dance. You don’t want to be the old people sitting at their table while the rest of the party, well, parties!
“Look at that cute old couple. Why are they even here?”
“They could have left after the cocktail hour, and no one would have cared.”
“They’re not adding ANYTHING to this party!”

But Carrie and I are nothing if not troupers, so we joined the crowd on the dance floor. Not a minute into our first dance, young people were pinballing off me like I was the side rail of a billiards table. First, an elbow to the back of my head. Then a hip to my ass. I could hear the imaginary party referee: “OVERZEALOUS MOVEMENT.. 10 YARDS FROM THE SPOT OF THE INFRACTION.. REPEAT THE PLAY!”

And so, we were dancing.
“It’s so crowded, and LOUD!” I said to Carrie.
“WHAT?”
“I SAID, IT’S SO CROWDED AND LOUD,” leaning an inch away from her ear.
“DO YOU WANT TO SIT DOWN?”
“YES, BUT THERE’S NO WAY I’M GOING TO!”
“WHAT??”
“FORGET IT… LET’S DANCE.”

I scanned the tables, to see if there were any couples seated, who could give us some cover if I decided to sit. No such luck. It was a great party, and EVERYONE was up and having a good time. So good, in fact, that there was literally no line at the bar! Unheard of!!

We soldiered on, starting to feel like Jane Fonda in “They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?” (Google it, kids.)

“WHY ARE YOU DANCING LIKE THAT?” Carrie asked me.
“MY FOOT HURTS FROM THESE DAMNED TUXEDO SHOES AND MY BACK IS SPASM-ING!”
“BUT YOU LOOK GOOD!”
“THANKS.. ARE YOU DANCE-LIMPING?”
“YEAH, MY KNEE IS KILLING ME!”
“WANT TO SIT DOWN?” I ask.
“NO FUCKING WAY!”

Weird thing about this wedding (or my wife). I would get a drink, put it down on the table, dance, and when I returned for refreshment, the drink was gone. Either they had an overly aggressive table-busing policy, or Carrie was up to something. She denied it. So, I’ll blame the venue for the disappearing bourbons.

Suddenly, the obligatory Motown set. “I know you want to leave me…” I sang. Carrie said, “I DO want to leave you!” She’s such a kidder. We (I) had a chuckle and limped/stooped back onto the dance floor.

Looked at my watch. Ten o’clock. Another two hours, then the after-party. Lord, give me strength.

Long story shorter, we survived the night, had a truly fun time, and were so over-the-moon thrilled to be a part of their big night. We actually stayed to the end of the after-party, and I gave Carrie the honor of driving us home. Don’t know why she didn’t see it that way.

I tore off the tux and collapsed into the bed. I could have been asleep in five seconds, except…

“Don’t forget to put your sleep mask on.”

To quote Charlie Brown… AAARGHH!!!!

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.

“You know, you’re not as young as you used to be. You can’t eat like you did when you were younger, you can’t drink like you did when you were younger. So, just don’t do anything stupid, David.” Those were the final words from my beautiful wife, Carrie, as I headed off on a golf weekend with my fellas — Jay, Mike and Steve.

I’m assuming she meant the term as defined in the third use in the Merriam-Webster dictionary — not ‘slow in thinking,’ and not ‘dulled in feeling or sensation’ as resulting from a sedative. No, the third usage defines stupid as ‘given to unintelligent decisions or acts.’

So, with that in my golf bag, we drove up toward the picturesque Catskill Mountains and a lake house as our base of operations. Day one, Wallkill Golf Club in Orange County. The ground was so wet from the persistent rain the region has received that we literally were walking through bogs and swamps to complete the round. My golf shoes were soaked, my pants muddy and wet. I asked the guys if they thought that’s what Carrie meant about doing something stupid. I had to wait for their answer as they passed around a flask of scotch and a vape pen while standing in mud in the rain between holes.
“I don’t think so,” Jay said. “Could be,” Mike said. “Who really cares?” Steve chimed in.

That’s where my murky definition of ‘stupid’ comes in. I don’t FEEL like I can’t do what I’ve always done, yet I know it’s not sustainable, especially with four stents reminding me of past ‘unintelligent decisions or acts.’

But that’s not what I was thinking about as we slogged through our round of golf and got ready to set up the house. We needed supplies, and stopped at Shoprite of Liberty to pick some up. A little more vape pen before shopping. Eggs, butter, English muffins were on the list. Not on the list, but in the cart, were breakfast sausages, Keebler chocolate chip cookies, Ridgies potato chips, Tostito chips, a half-gallon of Moose Tracks ice cream and those vanilla cream cookies with the waffle-looking wafers — to go along with the three bottles of scotch and two bottles of bourbon we brought up. After all, we were going to be there for 36 hours!! A man’s got to survive!! “Hey guys, do you think this is what Carrie meant?” The guys didn’t understand the question. We were grocery shopping. What’s stupid about that??

We traipsed though Lochmoor Golf Course on Saturday — golf shoes and pants now ruined and trashed. Saturday night, the dinner that you see above, at Hurleyville’s fabulous Frankie and Johnny’s. Two dozen baked clams, a couple salads, two pastas, veal parmigiana Sicilian style, chicken scarpiello.. but we were smart about it. No drinks, and no dessert!

“Guys, is this what Ca-..”
“Shut the fuck up already with the questions!”

Later that night, we were sitting out on the deck, sipping bourbons and scotches, and just talking… like a scene out of that yet-to-be-filmed movie classic, “The Fellowship of the Bong.” I said I remembered summer nights as a kid, lying on the grass with the other kids, looking up at the stars, and asking questions like, “What do you think we’ll be like when we’re 60?” So there we were, Jay and I in our 60s, Mike and Steve closing in, and Jay said, “And now we sit around and say, remember how great life was when we were 13?” Circle of life, my friends. Circle of life.

But oh, those days of bar mitzvah glory, when we chanted in temple as sopranos in the morning, then partied in our rented tuxes among the adults at night, brazenly drinking the scotch our Dads slipped us and puffing on cigars. Dancing with girls.. We were KINGS!! The Doors song, “Light my Fire,” came on the radio, and I said, “Wow.. I remember dancing to this song with Bonnie Pesacov at her bat mitzvah!” The guys had their own stories to tell, but I was already checked out, thinking about how the story of the trip should be told.

We arose the next morning and I was introduced to what is called “wake and bake.” And I’m not talking about breakfast pastries.

So, is that what Carrie meant by doing something stupid? I’m really, honestly not clear on the whole concept. But I am certain I can’t wait to do it again next year!

Hello friends! Sorry I’ve been radio silent; I’ve been catching up on my AARP magazines. And, I’m happy to report that after months of struggle and some personal trauma, Cloris Leachman has successfully transitioned to soft foods! “Giving up my beloved Crunchy Cheetos was the hardest part,” the 92-year-old actress best known for her role as Frau Blucher in 1974’s ‘Young Frankenstein’ said, after telling readers in lurid detail about how her teeth rotted and fell out of her head. “But if I can do it, by gum, so can you!”

The AARP is a wonderful resource for all things old — especially their members! Where else can you get tips like: ‘Dementia: A Figment of your Imagination?’ ‘Walkers … not just for walking anymore!’ ‘Such Senior Bargains!’ That last one caught my eye. But the first money-saving tip, regarding house cleaning, is ‘do it yourself.’ Sorry, but that’s not a bargain in my book. A bargain would be a wife who cleaned without eating your kishkas out! (Tip for AARP publishers: ‘Where to find a wife who’ll clean for you without eating your kishkas out’ … that’ll boost the old click rates! That’s a computer thing, not bad dentures!)

I kid the AARP, mostly because they can’t see or hear me. Literally. I could be in a room with the AARP, screaming while strobe lights … er, strobe … and there’d be absolutely no reaction.

Anyway, another of their recent articles was titled, “The Future of Hearing: In-ear devices will do more than improve sound.” Now, I don’t require a hearing aid just yet, but I”m almost certain the in-ear kind will work a lot better than the kind you stick up your ASS! Just sayin’…

How about some REAL advice that readers can use, like “How to Find Your Car Keys 60 Seconds After You Put Them Down Someplace,” or “Leftovers again? How to Tell Your Wife That You’re Sick of Boiled Chicken!”

Incidentally, along with the AARP Magazine in my mailbox, I received a letter from a law firm, advising me that I’d better make out a living will. (TBH, before this mailing, I thought wills only took effect when you were dead!) But clearly, that’s not the case. It’s about how, if you get too sick to tell the doctors how to treat you, you can designate your spouse as the conveyor of your final wishes. Spouse, eh? No other choices there?

I can already see it, and it’s not going well.

Doctor: “Mrs. Rosenberg, I’m sorry to say your husband is in a coma, and it’s possible he won’t come out of it. Did he have a living will?”

Carrie: It’s RUBINSTEIN.

Doctor: I’m so sorry, Mrs. Rosenberg. Mr. RUBINSTEIN is in a coma, and it’s possible he won’t come out of it. Did he have a living will?”

Carrie: He may have.

Doctor: Well, we’ll need to see it so we know how to treat him.

Carrie: You don’t need to see it. I’ll tell you how to treat him. DO NOT RESUSCITATE.

Doctor: But it’s only a coma. Ninety-nine percent of the time, people come out of them fine.

Carrie: Well, he always wanted to be a 1-percenter. Maybe you didn’t understand me. What, do you have one of those hearing aids stuck up your ass?? I said, DO NOT RESUSCITATE.

Me: ___________________________________

I woke up in a cold sweat, trying frantically to extract myself from the CPAP hose. I looked over, and saw Carrie sleeping, so peacefully, with just a hint of a smile. My bet is that she was having the exact same dream!

Having a teenager in college, I watch with amusement as she tries to figure out how to get her hands on some liquor. The kids have some tricks we didn’t have, like pouring vodka from Dad’s liquor cabinet into an empty Poland Springs bottle. But I feel for them. When we were in college, 18 was the legal drinking age, so freshmen and seniors alike could all enjoy a rollicking keg party, and puke and pass out with impunity!

It made me think of the first time I tried to buy alcohol as an underage teen.

Corporate America must have known the park near the Seaford train station was a hangout for smoking pot, because directly across Sunrise Highway were a Burger King and an Arthur Treacher’s Fish and Chips.

My friend Victor and I were going to hang out there one summer night, because rumor had it that cool girls would hang out there. Since we knew going in that the cool girls — actually, ANY girls — wanted no part of us, we decided we’d need alcohol. But this was around 1970 or ’71, and we were 16, and visibly underage. “You got a fake ID?” Victor asked. “No. But you know what? My brother’s 18. I’ll ask him if I can borrow his ID to buy some beer.” Which, looking back, was interesting, because Victor has a brother who was into his 20s at that time, and we knew he was a big drinker, among other chemical pursuits. Why we didn’t just ask him to get us some beer remains an unsolved mystery to this day.

Anyway, I don’t have the patience to retell the entire conversation with my brother Alan over the ID right now, but suffice it to say, I got his birth certificate. HOME RUN! I mean, is there any more concrete proof of your age than your birth certificate? (Apparently there is, but I’m getting ahead of myself.) I gave Victor the news, and we met later on at this house to walk to the train station. Along the way, I received quite clear instructions: “Budweiser. Get nothing else. Budweiser.” The rest of the conversation is recreated here to the best of my recollection. “Got it, bud,” I replied. “Wait,” Victor said. “Are you saying ‘Got it .. Bud,’ meaning you get that you’re buying Bud, or are you saying ‘Got it, bud,’ meaning ‘I understand, friend.'” (We had done what the kids today call ‘pre-gaming.’) “Isn’t it the same thing either way?” I asked. We continued on in silence after that.

I’ll admit I was quite a bit scared that I’d get caught buying beer illegally, and taken away by the cops. But I had the birth certificate! We approached the beer distributor across Washington Avenue from Burger King and the train station, and my heart was kind of racing. Though there weren’t many people in the store as I went in, I clearly recall each of their heads turning to look at me. The music had stopped, those there were suddenly silent. Now in full panic, I moved quickly toward the beer section and grabbed a six pack.

I strode boldly to the counter. “You got ID?” the clerk asked. He was a man of about 25 … or 52, I really can’t remember. I was avoiding eye contact at all costs. But I do remember pulling the document out of my pocket and flipping it so very cavalierly onto the counter, like I just laid down a royal flush to steal the pot from a four-of-a-kind.

“How do I know this is you?” he asked.
“What?” I hadn’t thought of that. Struggling to find something to say, this is what I came up with: “It’s me.”
“I can’t sell you beer without a photo ID.” (There’s that better proof of age thing.)
“Listen, man, it’s me.. I don’t have driver’s license, my draft card didn’t come yet, and my social security card doesn’t have my birthday on it. So this is what I have.”

Looking back, again, trying to buy beer with that should have gotten me smacked in the face by the cashier. I mean, nothing screams ‘You’re under the legal age’ quite like the concrete proof of a birth certificate.

The rest was a blur, but suffice it to say, I left with the beer. I ran to the train station, found Victor easily (it turns out the park there was NOT a big hangout, as we had heard. And, no girls of any kind.) Still, I had a six-pack on me, so at least the night would not be a total loss.

I reached into the bag and handed Victor a beer. “What am I holding?” he asked.
“A beer?”
“What KIND of beer?”

I looked at the can. “Rheingold?” In my panic, I grabbed the first six of red and white cans, as I knew the Bud label to be. If the expression “You had ONE JOB” had been around then, I’m sure Victor would have used it on me. I felt stupid for a minute. But you know what? We were 16. We were outside. We had beer.

The night would most definitely NOT be a total loss.

I know, I know .. ‘I don’t call.. I don’t write.’ Sorry, but I’ve been out in the field, doing research for this blog. I’ll tell you all about it, but first, Carrie wants me to wash ‘the field’ off me.

Back. So listen…
You’re familiar with the law of attraction, right? I’m not talking about what you felt when you first met your significant other (that still a thing?). I’m talking about how you never see, say, a certain car on the road until you might want to buy one, and then it seems that every other car is that exact make and model.

So it was during Christmas vacation, where at the airport, I was attracted to a line of guys who had to be patted down because the X-ray machine would trigger their pacemakers! Prior to my own surgery in March, I didn’t know ANYONE who had a pacemaker!

Then, at breakfast one morning, we ran into a former neighbor that we hadn’t seen in years, only to find out that he and I had our implants done THE SAME WEEK! I put down my bacon, egg and cheese sandwich, opting for the fruit Carrie was ‘suggesting’ I eat instead.

On vacation, the law of attraction lets us find ‘our people’ around the hotel. This was never more apparent than during the beach chaise reservation competition, which began at 6 each morning. That’s where I learned: Don’t turn in your towels at the end of the day, take them to your room. That way, you can feel your way in the pre-dawn darkness to find and save the 11 perfect lounges you won’t actually come back down to until noon — pissing off literally every other guest at the hotel. (Guilty as charged.)

HOW TO SAVE 11 LOUNGE CHAIRS*:
1) left flip-flop
2) right flip-flop
3) chapstick
4) suntan lotion
5) book
6) ear buds
7) Uhhh. yesterday’s bathing suit? (A real conversation starter!)
8) empty coffee cup
9) lid from empty coffee cup
10) stirrer and sugar packets
11) shells

*assumes two towels per chaise

I mentioned to one of the other seat-savers one morning how crazy it was with the lounge chairs. “It’s not that bad here. We were at the Ritz-Carlton in February, and you had to give the guy so much money every day to even get a seat.” I asked if his name was Richard, and if so, if it would be OK for me to call him ‘Dick.’ Later, Carrie and I met an older woman on the beach looking at some pieces of coral that had washed up. “Ooh, I like that one, and that one,” she said. Me: “You like them? Five bucks each.” She: “You’re selling these?” Me: “No.” She: “Oh, I just came off a cruise ship. My husband died last month.”

I was aghast (and agape!) that she would say that to someone she had met all of 40 seconds earlier, and responded with the only thing I could think of… “No charge for the coral.”

And so too does the law of attraction impact this blog. Since I’ve started writing about what it’s like to be getting old, that is all people are talking about.

I happened over the long New Year’s weekend to be lying on the couch, channel-surfing (THAT still a thing??), when I came upon a TV special by the comedian Sinbad. Remember him? He’s still going strong, and as sharp as ever. And what was he talking about? Getting old. He explained why old people need to be with partners their own age; why men shouldn’t date younger women. The reason? Because a younger woman will ask an older man why he’s making faces at her, while an older woman will instantly recognize that as a stroke! She’ll save his life, while the younger woman might visit once in a while at the rehab facility, primarily to ask if she can have his house, since he’s not using it anymore! Funny stuff.

Dec. 31, 2018. Our getting older group had New Year’s dinner reservations. I was thinking that I was chilly, and the music was loud, but I didn’t say anything, because hey, I didn’t want to seem like an old guy! And besides … drinks! The fun began when the folks older than us got up to dance. They weren’t actually dancing, more like the lurching of someone who’s been tasered. We ate, we partied, we wore hats and blew into horns, and best of all, we were sitting down… watched over by the ghosts of crazy New Years past while recognizing this is what New Year present has become.

As an aside, I’d like to point out that my brother, who is older, was at my even older cousin’s house, and if I know Alan (my brother, not my cousin), here’s how his night went: Should auld acquain… “Well, we made it,” he’d say. “It’s late. Happy new year, everyone, and goodbye! Gotta get up at 5 because I’m… retired?? And it’s a… holiday???”

Compare that to how Alan and I celebrated New Year’s Eve in 1976. I was 20. Alan wasn’t. He was plain and simply, just older than me. Well, we were in Times Square, in a time when you could leave to find a bathroom and come back to your spot with nary a cavity search! We drank a lot, the ball fell, we screamed, we drank a lot, and fell back to the luxurious (ahem!) Hotel Collingwood, where we had booked one room for about 18 college friends from Maryland — and we drank a lot more. When one by one we began to crash on top of each other, I think it was Alan who struck gold by finding a nice empty space on the floor — of the closet. Next morning, we went to a bar to watch the mighty Terrapins fall to the Cougars of the University of Houston in the 1977 Cotton Bowl.

I recall that as being one of the great nights of my life. Now that I see it in writing, I’m thinking that this New Year’s Eve was SO much better!!

I’ve been asked so many times if I’ve made any resolutions. I don’t make resolutions, as I have never seen one through. Can I be a better person in 2019? Honestly? I don’t think so. 🙂 Can I lose weight? Probably… though I’ve done it so many times, I don’t see the need to prove it again. My beautiful daughter Lindsey baked a beautiful chocolate cake over that weekend, and I could have walked away from it, easy. But that would have been rude, and a cold dismissal of the all the work she put into it. So I ate it heartily, savoring every moist, delicious bite. I chased it with a coffee, and then chased that with the anti-reflux drug Pantoprazole — which, I must point out, was not at all a reflection on the cake.

Anyway, another year passes into history. I wish you a great 2019!