My Life As A Hobby

I’ve never been shushed at a concert in my life, that is, until a couple of days ago. A lady in front of us turned around and said we were talking too loud and she couldn’t hear the blaring music. I had merely asked the guy next to me if he wanted my extra bottle of water. At an outdoor concert, no less. The couple to the left of us just shook their heads.  My wife said, “What’s wrong with her?” “I don’t know. I don’t think it’s PMS - she was way past the “M.” “Maybe it’s IBS.”  But really, it was the law of averages. I suppose when there are When you have a boatload of old people, a few crabby ones are inevitable. And when I say boatload, I’m not kidding - because we were on a cruise, aptly named the Flower Power Cruise. If I had to describe it, I’d call it “Woodstock on the Water.” Only with better plumbing, significantly more food, and legal prescription medication. This cruise is a floating jukebox. Over the course of a seven-day trip through the Caribbean, nearly 50 vinta...

  Two Dogs, One Bed, No Dignity I woke up at three AM, which is not unusual. At my age, the bladder rules. It was time to take a bathroom break, return to bed, and then think of something boring until I conk out again. That’s normal. What is not normal, however, is what I saw when I turned over and opened my eyes. Once they focused, there it was, no more than six inches away. I was staring at the business end of my dog, Roscoe. He was lying between me and my wife - and believe me, she had a much better view than I did. I felt like a puppy proctologist. Properly startled and disgusted, I quickly got up and made my pit stop. Upon returning to the bed, I discovered that Roscoe had moved, claiming my cherished sleeping territory. I suppose he thought that possession is nine-tenths of the law. However, since he doesn’t pay the mortgage, I whispered in my library voice, “Roscoe, move over.” He lifted his head, looked at me like I had just suggested rearranging the furniture during a...

  I was two days out of knee surgery, lying on my bed in a Loratab-induced fog, when I sat up and uttered a sentence to my wife that I never imagined would come out of my mouth. “Hey, I’m going to get my walker, go to the kitchen, and take a Flomax.” The instant it passed my lips, I thought, “Sweet Moses…what did I just say?” “I don’t say things like that,” I told myself. “Old people say things like that - real old people.” Then the thought struck me like a geriatric thunderbolt.  I am 72.  And folks…that is old. For example, if I was involved in a car accident right now, the local news anchor wouldn’t say, “A man was injured.” No. They’d say, “An elderly man was transported to the hospital.” Operative word:  Elderly. That hits a little different when it’s aimed directly at you. I’ve also noticed something else lately. Fifty-year-old people say “yes sir” to me now. “Yes sir.” When did that start happening? I still remember being the guy who said “yes sir” to people w...

  “ You ought to write a book ,” is something I’ve heard most of my adult life.  It seems like at every get-together when someone hears one of the stories I’ve told for years, that suggestion eventually pops up.  And it’s something I’ve considered, as I began writing slices of my life which I posted on line, in newspapers and magazines.  And now, a few years later, I hit “print” and our printer came to life.  Within seconds it whirred,  churned, and flashed, then began slurping up blank sheets the way a kid eats spaghetti. Soon, printed pages began stacking in the tray. In 20 minutes, I had a complete manuscript of my first book - nearly 200 pages long.  I took it off the machine and tapped it repeatedly on the kitchen table to square the stack. It felt heavy, substantial - after all, it was almost half a ream of 8 1/2” x 11” paper . Each sheet, every single one, was full of…me - musings that came out of my brain, traveled into my fingers, and o...