My Life As A Hobby

I was talking to a friend‘s daughter at a high school football game.  When I asked her if they had any special Homecoming activities on tap after the final whistle blew, she said sweetly, “We are going to roll some yards. It’s a tradition.” I smiled and nodded.  Rolling yards was a regular part of my teen years too. I’m still quite immature, but I gave up rolling yards a while back. Besides, after my shoulder surgery, I just don’t have the arm strength anymore.  The interesting thing about rolling yards and other forms of relatively harmless teen-age mischief, is that it was usually reserved for people we liked. I read an article about the psychology behind pranks, and some learned people  believe that their purpose is to socially connect and strengthen bonds with others. I can believe that. If someone rolls your yard, they are interested enough in you to take the time, energy, and risk to one-up you. The more destructive forms of tomfoolery, such as putting cherry bombs in mailbo

  When my cell phone rang, the name on the screen flashed Paul Finebaum. This wasn't an unusual occurrence because I had been writing jokes for Paul to use at his many speaking engagements.   We also occasionally ate lunch together.   No death threats please - I like Paul. While I don’t always care for his schtick, I know he’s not like his radio persona.  For example, once during a conversation, I told him how much I liked Pat Conroy, the great southern author. A few weeks later, Paul called me and said, “I’ve got Conroy on the show tomorrow. Why don’t you come up and meet him?  You can talk to him during the commercial breaks.”  An act of kindness I’ve never forgotten.   I digress. Unusual call or not, my curiosity was piqued. I picked up my cell, and after some chit-chat, Finebaum told me why he phoned.  “You know about that charity roast of me coming up in a couple of weeks?”  Of course I knew. The airwaves had been hawking it for over a month.  “Well, I just got just got

  Decisions decisions. What was I going to eat for supper? That’s always an important question for me, but today is a special day. Today was the first day that my taste has come back since I had Covid. In addition, my wife’s out of town for a few days, so I have a wide latitude on what to pick for my celebratory meal. After a moment of thought, it came to me: I wanted a Chef Boyardee Pizza. I know most of you are thinking, “I still don’t think he has any taste. Pick a steak or a piece of fish, you idiot. Go out and buy something good.” Nope -  I want a Chef Boyardee pizza that I make in my own  kitchen.  As you might’ve guessed, something more than taste is in play here.  You see young ‘uns, there was a time in America when Dominoes was a game you played on the kitchen table, and Little Caesar was a Roman emperor. Back then, a Calzone sounded like the name of a new Ford sedan. Keep in mind that in the early to mid-sixties, outside of New York and Chicago, pizza places were few and

     It was a horrible, sickening phone call.  Within a few seconds, my hopes and dreams were crushed like someone stepping on a Coke can. And to think my mom did it. My own mom!   Let me elaborate. Growing up, I was a comic book kid. Beginning about the age of 8, I began to make monthly pilgrimages to a couple of nearby drug stores. There I would spend my allowance in 12 cent increments to follow the escapades of Superman, Batman, Green Lantern,  Green Arrow, and Aquaman.  I  especially loved Batman because of his gadgets, his secret Bat-cave, and his sidekick Robin.  A teen-aged superhero was something I could relate to. So I got my crayons, and began coloring an old T-shirt until I had a poor facsimile Robin’s uniform.  An old piece of cloth became a mask, and an unfinished bathroom in our basement became my Bat-cave.  I became a pre-puberty superhero, who’s job was to patrol our neighborhood and stop any crime that I saw - of which there was none. And it’s a good thing, because wit