Annoying Things

Anything about life in America you find annoying? Here’s a partial list I spent all afternoon organizing. Small, un-backlit keyboards are so annoying.

Why would anyone care what Brigitte Bardot looks like, now? Or the cast of Happy Days? Or a breathy headline: “Where are they now?” about the Monkees? A new rule: if you give us these updates after a certain length of time, you–whoever you are—should update your article on a regular basis. Tell us about the cast of All in The Family every 5 years, or until you, the writer, pass away. And if you’re going to show us what Brigitte looks like now, make sure you put a “before” picture alongside the Now.

So many on-line news articles are about what somebody said about someone else. Example from today, March 31, 2026, from InStyle magazine: “Prince Charles Asked a Friend This Heartbreaking Question Before He Married Princess Diana.” Let’s not talk about how old this subject is, and let’s not talk about who the pronoun (He) is referring to, (see next paragraph), but let’s try and assume the target audience of this article. Or, let’s not and just agree it wasn’t me. So why did it come across my AOL news screen?

America has a problem with pronouns and preceding nouns. First, we’re lucky, these days, if there even IS a preceding noun. “He went out the door” without context might mean God went out the door, for example. A pronoun takes the place of a preceding person, place, or thing that has already been mentioned. And to avoid confusion, we should endeavor* to keep our pronouns and their partner preceding nouns as close as possible. Our choices in the headline above are Prince Charles or The Friend. Those of you with knowledge of Diana’s wedding can extrapolate* the correct noun, but those of us who don’t care are entirely within our rights to blame The Friend, especially just before The Friend married Charles and Diana.

Puzzles. Who needs them? Actually, brain teasers are the real problem. What’s black and white and red (read?) all over? See the problem? What makes it worse is the breathy headline: “You’re a genius if you can solve this problem,” printed next to a picture of a wild-haired Einstein.

There is an educational quality to a good puzzle however, which makes my confession annoying. Get this one: Can you draw a square with three straight lines? This oxymoronic brain buster reveals an important glitch in our lives. If you get the answer, you are in the top 1% of Americans, even though the answer was on the national news this week. Ai it for some fun.

Old Man’s Memory is annoying as hell. It took me 10 minutes to remember Einstein’s first name. No, I did not look it up. Memory is a waiting game, now. Things I knew yesterday I may not know today, but they may come to me tomorrow. Older friends tell me I’m lucky they come back at all. And there is that European Study about memories not being accurate, just gangs of electrical impulses…

Forgot where this was headed, but The Matrix concept is being revisited if I could remember where I saw the article.

Feck it. I got my blinds fixed today. Hallelujah!

*What a great, big word!

The Blinds, An Epic Saga, and Other Things

Coming to this space sometime soon…maybe. The Righteous Crusade to replace two 1-inch slat, cordless, vinyl mini-blinds, 27-inches wide by 64-inches long, is frustrated…but still on-going. Imagine, if you will*, a feat so simple, so mundane, it defies the Herculean efforts of the bravest and smartest of men.

The Blind Fiasco has lead me to essay** about all the weird things crossing my path and ending up in The Things Unwanted File. Modern detritus, if you will, or mental flotsam. If I can get myself to stop Ai-ing everything, take a gander at the following modern nuggets.

I recently spent two weeks in North Carolina. Weeks before I left I contacted old friends and let everyone know. Jim, one friend, acknowledged my trip. But in NC he was always busy, and his last text said: “I was busy. Come back after tax time.” NC is 12 hours and 700 miles away. I am upset he didn’t say personal tax time or corporate tax time.

So many people have mentioned they are okay with things “at this point in time going forward.” Since I’ve retired my shield as a Grammar Policeman, I whole-heatedly and full throatedly(sic)*** agree…at this point. In case you’re glossing over this issue, try to imagine a point in time. Not now, but after you’re done reading.

A recurring ad for a simple exercise machine repeatedly touts the machine’s exercise-related benefits but can’t the resist the “sales tag” line: “It’s so easy it does all the work for you.”

If you’re lonely and in a multi-level building, elevators are a great way to meet people. It’s amazing how surprised people are there is someone on an arriving elevator wanting to get off, or there is someone outside the elevator waiting to get on. An adept conversationalist could expand, the “Oops. Sorry” into something more substantial with very little effort. Of note, this morning I had my chance with an attractive woman with two arms full of groceries, but I deferred to the possibility she’d purchased frozen foods and let the chance slip through my metaphorical fingers as the doors closed. But next time…also, if you are that woman and you are reading this…knock on Apt 208’s door, please? I did push her buttons. On the elevator.

Lots of people are “planning on utilizing” things. In innocent conversation an inquiry is often made for clarification but a satisfactory response has not yet been made at this point in time, forcing the listener to utilize his or her imagination. Ask Ai about this. It’s funny. Ever hear the phrase “Utilize it or lose it?”

An oddity: Voxpop, the NPR station show mentioned last essay, did a show on plants. I have a lifelong aversion to vegetables, but after 45 minutes of fresh spinach munching by show participants, I plan on utilizing my car tomorrow to get some fresh spinach and give it a fair shake. May use my teeth to try kale, too. Such is the power of good entertainment. And good grammar.

Another strange occurrence: as an often anarchistic conversationalist, I have for years responded to this question “Can I ask you a question?” with this answer: “Seven.” Explaining why would take too much time, but after 60 years of puzzled looks, the bit is now retired. In fairness, at least one time in the 60 years of answering “Seven”, it should have been the answer to their next question. At least one time. Imagine the look on the questioner’s face. Dreams die hard.

*Google it. Better yet, Ai the phrase. You’re welcome.

**From the French “essayer”, which means “to try”.  “An essay was originally considered a trial or an attempt at expressing an idea, rather than a final, definitive word on a subject.” Perfect use above, then.

***Where did “sic” come from? If you’ve got ten minutes of free time, Ai it.

Blind Finding the Blinds?

God, through His subscription streaming service, Life, has interesting ideas about human existence and the years we spend on earth. For our senior years, for example, He has instructed the powers that be at Life to make our last years as challenging as possible. The point is to test us seniors and see which side of The River Styx* we end up on, and how high up in Heaven or how low in Dantes Circles we go. An example of this late-in-life testing is simply getting dressed. All of us remember jumping out of bed, throwing on some clothes. and heading off to work, play or party…when we were young. It might have been ten minutes from awake to turning the ignition key.**

If we tried doing the same thing this late in life, we’d eventually make a call to a close relative or friend to come get us up off the floor. And—because we get stubborn as we age–it would be a lot longer than ten minutes before we surrender all pride and get to a phone, even if we planned ahead and left it near us. Damn socks. Invent slip-ons, like shoes, dammit.

Senior life then becomes a life of leisure and disregard for the world’s major events, but with a close, annoying, aggravating, non-symbiotic relationship surrounding the Activities of Daily Living (ADL***).

As a younger old man****, my patience was lost on nearly every test thrown my way in my new Old Man career, with the resulting invective stream: “Dammit! WTF! Why me? Why now?” You may have read about some of these adventures in very old essays.

But a simple reading of the room—”commonly called paying attention” –revealed while annoying things were happening, they weren’t just happening to me. The pain is cohort-wide.

Now, with understanding and patience firmly tucked into the frontal lobe, I aspired to get replacement blinds for my apartment windows. This was going to be a long story, but the preface appears to have taken up most of today’s available space. The incongruous but—sadly–modern twists and turns of the War for The Mini Blinds will have to be delineated and explicated in a future essay. It’ll tug at your heart strings, whatever the hell they are.

But a warning, here, for anyone who thinks senior life is all napping, streaming, and ranting: It is, mostly, but we do face a life of paper cuts no younger person can imagine or would have the will to endure. We achieve patience by knowing it happens to everyone who gets the privilege of being “Aged”. We view it as a blessing. Ask any senior and they will tell you how happy they are to be so old. Ask, I dare you.

There isn’t much room left for anything but a quick joke. If I’ve told it before, sue me. And if you are offended, good. Its nice to finally get credit for doing something. Of note, my ancestors–and therefore moi–are citizens of the butt of this joke and do not mind you laughing, as long as its with us and not at us. We’ve come a long way as an Ethnic Group and are proud to be part of making someone else’s life a little brighter.

A Polish man locked his keys in his car.

It took him an hour and a half to get his family out.

Tomorrow, we pick on Italians! Another robust branch of the family tree.

*Yes, I know. I am Unitarian Universalist. Deal with it. Think “Literary License” aka “Poetic License”. Qualified immunity.

**We didn’t have push button start in those days.

***Real thing. Google it, especially young people. Best to learn about it, now, and be ready.

****You get that, right?

Ai, Ai, Oh No…

Apologies to those who know the story and song of Old Macdonald’s Farm. He had all sorts of animals, but we never know if he is happy about it*. How could he be happy with all those animals to feed? He must have been a billionaire. Ai says there is no real ending to the Old McDonald’s Farm song, it can go on until the singer gets bored or tired or runs out of animals.

Life kind of feels like the song, now. Except for a new animal every verse substitute a new trouble, war, or unhappy event. As an essayist, it is harder and harder to come here and write something happy, something peppy, something uplifting. It is so easy to write WTF essays, “why is this happening essays”, and warning essays. Probably shouldn’t use the word easy, because writing about what is wrong in the world (in my opinion), is not easy, it’s annoying, and seems pointless. It’s not even cathartic anymore. There is a sense the turbulence of this world is not necessary, and that my golden years should be full of—at least—apathy, and not despair, unhappiness, anger, resentment.

I tried to sign up for DirectTv, yesterday but their website wouldn’t approve any of the 5 credit cards I tried. “Oops! There is a problem. Please try later.” The Ai chat bot took all my information, guided me to the website, and walked me though every step to get me to where I already was and then Ai asked: “And what does your screen say?” Oops. I asked for an agent and after a 5-minute wait one came into the chat and typed: “So how can I help you?” I typed “Oops! There is a problem. Please try later.” And the rep started by typing the same questions the Ai bot did. Hey! This is progress? This is better?

See how easy it is to complain?

 This essay will be an effort to not complain. I vow to find more positive things to write about, more good news to share, more ideas to inform or uplift, not brow beat or spotlight anger. Yes, most of the usual space has been used up already with the normal bleating, but there is still room for a few paragraphs of light.

The Rich have taken over the United States and will soon take over the world. And they don’t give a crap about anyone Not Rich. How can they be stopped?

Sorry. Old habit. As a retired person my days are my own to shape and one of my favorite times of those days is 2pm to 3pm. I recline on my favorite couch, put my tablet on my chest, and listen to NPR. The hour begins with 15 minutes of news and then the VoxPop show cuts in and a gentleman named Ray Graf opens his mouth. This only happens Mondays through Fridays, but VoxPop is enough to make a day better, and have that “better” last for at least the hours until VoxPop comes back on the airwaves. Ray has a way of yakking that is not only entertaining, but informative, and…bright. Happy. Content. Unhurried. Almost therapeutic. No more will be said except he is not available in all NPR areas. Wait, maybe VoxPop is, and can be heard over the wonderfully cluttered Internet of Ideas and Chaos. The station broadcasting Ray Graf’s VoxPop is WAMC, out of Albany NY. It’s unclear if anyone outside New York State can get his show, but try, and get back to me, will you? Google or Ai “VoxPop with Ray Graf” and see what happens in your area. I’ve not said much about the actual show, hoping the mystery will pique your curiosity and get to you look for it, so…do it. Now. It might get you off the snide** of current life and back into the gentle but challenging currents of real life. Real normal life, not Rich and Powerful Life.

Sorry. Old habits die hard.

*Or what tense of verb to use. Is Old McDonald alive? Dead? Mythical? The song does say he “had” a farm. Did it get repossessed? Fall into ruin? Or does he and the farm come back to life every time we sing about him? And where is this “farm”? And why the hell should we care?

**The Internet of Ideas and Chaos is often what we make it. Google snide, for example, and enjoy.

Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah

Is that enough blahs for you?

When there is some dead space in my overactive life*, I Watch television. Sorry. Hope this doesn’t affect your vision of me as a hand-on-the-chin Rodin thinker, but television/media is the Window to the World.

Sidebar: Auguste Rodin’s “The Thinker” was meant to be a clothed, self-portrait of the sculptor sitting atop the Gates of Hell, admiring the Circles of Hell and pondering Dante’s poem. Rodin, to his credit, noticed the figure had a more powerful message and purposely stripped it naked. It is thought to be the first artistic expression of an intellectual with muscles. It was publicly unveiled in 1904. Yet, to this day we still think of brainy people as nerds and weaklings. Since intellectuals are so smart, how did they let that image proliferate? Or…is it an image they prefer, so they get underestimated? We all know, now, we can’t trust those intellectual types and their woke ideas, but are they playing us, leading us around by the nose? Take your clothes off, sit on an uncomfortable granite slab, and give it some thought.

I left Upstate New York and traveled south by car a few weeks ago. The trip began with long pants, solid shoes for walking in the snow, two layers of clothes, and gloves. 24 hour later—after an overnight rest—I was in shorts and sandals and cranking up the AC. Durham, NC is going to set a record today of over 90 degrees. When I drive home in a few days the weather in NY will be snow, sleet, and freezing rain. The range of climate is not the impressive part. What is impressive as hell is how easily we can move between these varying climates. We take it for granted. If it was Gunsmoke days, it might take weeks, even months to find a different biome. It is a wonderful world.

But not for News, and Information is slowly rotting, as well. The first problem with our news and information disseminating systems, is Capitalism. The ever-present need for profit means, these days, commercial time in our media centers is paramount, content be damned. Forget the need for a commercial every three seconds and note the timing, when something neat is about to happen or be revealed, your media cuts to an advertisement. We see you, you capitalist shites. We know what you’re doing. But can we do anything about it? The Window to the World is covered over with bumper stickers.

But hold on, what about that damned “content”? It is apparent** there is a lot of money to be made by…talking. Blah blah blahing. Spitting words. Mangling sentences. Mouthing opinions either believed or tailored for certain information silo consumption. News is now 5 seconds of fact and 23 hours and 55 seconds of talking heads, each with his own ass-inine(sic) take on some ass-inine(sic) subject. News  head: “America dropped $10 million dollars worth of bombs on the Middle East, today. Here to discuss it is our Talking Head Panel (THP) of experts.” Of note, there is always at least one female with the flowing tresses of modern fashion, and at least one man with a beard hiding his wattle. (Don’t pretend you know what a wattle is. Look it up.)

With our information silos, you can find any THP discussing any subject you want and offering any opinion you agree with or would like to argue against from the safety of your living room, you troll. And how about CNN actually including on-line comments in their news reporting, now? Should anyone care about the opinion of one lazy, partially informed, but supercilious listener/watcher/critic/snark? (For full effect google “supercilious.)

Thank, God, this essay ran out of room before something stupid got printed.

I’m going to watch me some Gunsmoke on Grit*** and hope the world goes on without me.

            *”Dead” is probably not a good word for a senior to use, but you all know what I mean.

**”At this point in time going forward to the future.” Ha.

***Or Rich Steves travel show on PBS. A true Window to the World.

Some Senior Things

These aren’t complaints, just observations. If you’re old, they can help, and if you’re young, they can both inform you about what it means to be old* and give you a glimpse of your future…if you’re lucky.

Months ago, I recommended Dollar Store reading glasses strategically** placed all over the house and your car so you’d always have a pair at hand. My personal record is 10 pair. Of note, they are now $1.25 apiece. Damn you, Biden***. The Dollar Store has not changed their name, by the way.  They ought to. As a new hint, do the same with magnifying glasses. Not sure what they cost, now, but most corporations are run by perfectly sighted young people who seem intent on making important product information on labels as small as possible. A recent bout with a room air freshener concerned small black type over a dark red background. It was so hard to read I needed my Jewelers’ Loupe. Look it up, they are invaluable but won’t be found in the Dollar Store. Also, you won’t need 10 of them, two or three will do unless you do a lot of package content reading in the bathroom. And you certainly won’t need one while you’re driving.

To all of us, stop trying to tell everyone else about how bad our life is. I’ve noticed a disturbing trait, lately, among us old people: Condition Competition. As a veteran of malady management, myself, it’s hard to not want everyone to know how well you did, if you did well, and how bad you’re doing if you didn’t. Since young people never listen to us, we seem to be using each other for these reports. And as we solemnly detail our struggles, it hurts to hear back from the listener a litany of troubles worse than our own. Trust me. As I recently began regaling a conversational partner about winning skirmishes against cancer, AMD, and arthritis, he countered with a double-lung transplant at age 18, followed by the loss of both parents in an accident a year later. Well played, sir. My options were to lie or retreat to complain another day, and hope for someone less well-off. Remember, seniors: sonder.****

The Loss of Things is a never-ending affliction which can be managed if one remembers it is the natural way of life. I’ve been fortunate to lose things slowly and incrementally, the best way to lose them since you never really know they are gone until you sit down and write about it. See? This is healthy, right? Vision is the obvious thing to illustrate this phenomenon. As noted in the first paragraph, my vision is slowly and incrementally (SI) fading into the sunset. It’s hard to imagine going blind in one fell, swoop, so thank your lucky stars if SI is the way your best traits go. SI effects everything: hair, libido, athletic ability, mental acuity.  Everything except toenails. Note to young entrepreneurs: invent a way to stop toenails from growing or a liquid that makes them fall off. A liquid preferably applied with a long stick.

Always look for flat, level, ground. This is a hard one, especially with bad vision, but no fall is worse than the one you do in public simply because a small incline or decline suddenly appeared under your feet. Sad to admit it, but “Training Wheels” for seniors might not be a bad idea, if we could get seniors to admit–and commit– to using them. So far, my only concession to a sudden change in position is a google watch with a built-in fall sensor. If I drop and can respond in 15 seconds, there’s still a chance to regain some dignity. If I don’t answer in 15 seconds, it calls 911 and all bets are off. This is also helpful if you live alone and die. My apartment property maintenance man said this when asked how he would know if someone was dead in my beautiful but one bedroom apartment: “It would smell. Eventually.”

Maybe seniors shouldn’t buy any more air fresheners.

And make sure your google watches are fully charged.

            *Be nice to your Grandparents!

            **As opposed to haphazardly placed. Or willy-nilly placed

            ***And Trump, and Musk, and Bezos, and everyone else responsible.

            ****Ai it.

Bidets and Bemusements

Mark Twain wrote in 1869: “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow mindedness, and many of our people need it solely on these accounts. Good, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime.”

It’s easy to read this quote and understand its practical, real-life application but it works metaphorically as well. Read on.

We have 232 American Athletes in Milan, Italy, for the 2026 Winter Olympics. Reports are that some of them don’t know what to do with an oval-shaped, probably porcelain, floor mounted, water spitting “accessory” on the floor of their Italian lodgings. Wonder how many of you readers know what a bidet is and what it is used for, mostly.

As with any device designed for one activity, it is never guaranteed the device will not find an alternate use.  In the case of the bidet and young people, especially young men, contemplating the alternate uses of the bidet will not happen, here. Do it on your own time.

Imagine the prejudice, bigotry, and narrow mindedness being “wiped away” (Pun. Hope you get it.) by our athletes’ exposure (Another pun?) to this device. Keep in mind it might not be a learning moment if they aren’t instructed in the original intent of the bidet, and enjoyed its alternate uses, only. Let’s hope there is one responsible, experienced adult somewhere near the athletes.

There is an ongoing controversy about whether Hip-Hop* belongs in The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Let’s forget for this discussion Hip Hope has its own Hall of Fame and ask: what is “Rock and Roll”? For once, AI has a great description: “It is a high-energy collision of cultures that defined the 20th Century.” It is a surprising remark from the usually staid and stuffy Ai but captures what this old man knew about Rock and Roll from its beginning’s way back in the 1950s: it’s a “Screw You, World” movement. Rock and Roll told us to have a good time while you can because the world is going to start trying to make sure you don’t. Fight it. Feck them all. We didn’t trust anyone over 30 and never imagined we would ever be that old. Until we were. Sigh.

What about Twain’s quote and the Hall of Fame Controversy? Hip Hop is an indirect descendant of Rock and Roll attitudes and the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is correct in offering the Hall to anyone who wants to upend the world’s status quo.

But some old rock stars are disagreeing, hoping to exclude Hip Hop, and keep the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame just…rock? No Roll? One 70 year old rocker said: “Hip Hop doesn’t speak to me. I’m not from there. I don’t understand its language.”** He essentially was saying because he didn’t have the same life experiences, he didn’t “get” Hip Hop. One has to wonder if he had travelled to the urban areas, the inner cities, and outer cities where Hip Hop happened, would it have made the Rocker think differently?

Twain was informing us just because something isn’t part of your life, doesn’t mean it has to be bad, dangerous, or unworthy. Once you get to know someone or something, your mind may change. Even better, do not let YOUR ignorance*** of a “thing” get in the way of knowing the truth about it.

Sounds a lot like the 2026 Super Bowl Halftime Drama.

*If you don’t know what it is, google it. Add The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame to your search.

**Cherry-picked paraphrase, not a word for word quote, so no attribute. I like the guy who said it and feel he may see things differently, eventually.

***The good, “accidental” Ignorance we all suffer from before we know or learn. Not the bad, purposeful ignorance of not caring enough or being curious enough to learn.

A Word About Writing the Words

I am a writer. It doesn’t matter if anyone reads this or if the whole world reads it. It was written by me, at my desk, typing away and the whole world can go feck off.

Well…not really. But what exactly IS this?

In the modern world this is called blogging, and this is a blog and you’d call me a blogger. It is an attempt to…hold on. Let’s call this new work an essay. That makes me an essayist. What is an essayist? A blogger who wants to be called a fancier name and not be confused with someone who carries an axe.

An essay (nee “blog”) is a short form work that tries to make a point using facts, embellished facts, truths, half-truths, hearsay, and copied reference material, often generated by Ai, with one of two original ideas added to the mix. Basically, it’s a written rant yielding a huge helping of mental relief.

I write fiction, too, with two books of short stories languishing in the public domain while hundreds more hide in digital closets waiting to see if anyone will find them. A good writer writes for him/her/their self and hopes to be discovered. A successful writer does the same but then finds a way to promote themselves, like raising their hand and yelling in a crowded, quiet library.

Since you’re really into this essay, is there a question you’re thinking about? Like, what is the difference between an essay and a work of fiction? Hm. Good question. (Picture the scratching of the head and a light bulb.) Short stories and essays are a lot alike, but the audience is different.

Short stories can be about anything, using anything, to tell a story about anything, tailored to an audience who might be interested. (Key word: Might.)

Essays are focused more on a personal point trying to be clarified, and often hope to reach an audience of the entire population of humankind.

The audience’s inspiration is the most important driver of either work. A writer may want you to know about how his Uncle Carl’s hatred of vegetables influenced the writer’s digestive life. Who would be interested in that besides relatives, dietitians, and the occasional crazy person?

But if a writer wants all of you to know why money doesn’t grow on trees, the essay is The Thing.

Since this is the morning after the Super Bowl and the room is still spinning, let’s get back to the first paragraph of this essay. I’ll give you a second.

There is an aspect of writing more profound than any point or story, whether read or unread by everyone or no one: writing is good for mental health. Everyone should be doing it. For over 60 years writing has been a constant friend, companion, shoulder-to-cry-on, and unjudging(sic) confidant. There is no secret, no shame, no remorse, no regret you can’t share with writing. When you sit with yourself and write about your problems they transfer from you to this white, unspoiled page, and something happens to those troubles. They may go away, they may not, but they will be easier to live with, and here are some extra words so I don’t end a sentence with a preposition.*

Let’s end with a proposition: You write and see what happens. Use crayons and construction paper. A computer and Calibri font. Anything.** And remember this when you do it: no one has to see it if you don’t want them to, so don’t leave your masterpiece lying*** around on the floor.

Maybe the next essay will be about poetry, iambic pentameter, and rhythm…the only birth control method with no vowels.

*Ai says ending with a preposition has become normal. I resist.

**But DO NOT USE speech to text. The time it takes for your brain to think of something and your fingers to type it accurately are magical moments. Don’t short-change yourself and not feel them.

***Grammar nuts: you thinking it should be “laying”?

              What To Do With Old Memories

Years ago, when mom died, you all read about the 20 plastic totes of memories in the basement of her house. Pictures, articles, obituaries, birth announcements, first communions, wakes, and simple stuff like when the girls were photographed jumping rope in 1973 and the picture was printed in the paper. IN THE PAPER! In 1973! The old paper stuff feels important, historic, even if it is just two little girls and a rope on Embargo Street in Rome, NY…in 1973.*

The “Sorting of The Totes”, a family tradition since the Middle Ages**, resulted in mountains of memories and momentos being distributed to each totes’ primary focus. Each child, grandchild or miscellaneous stranger had their own tote. Mom made two for me, her favorite.  At the time of the distribution, we all probably did the same thing: took a quick look and put the tote(s) up on a shelf.

Eight years later, in 2024, in preparations to move to NY and recovery, both my totes were front and center in the back of the car. In April 2024, the totes were picked up, carried to the door of the apartment house, set down in the elevator to the second floor, picked up and carried into the apartment, and put on a closet shelf. For two years. I can’t remember the reason for recently pulling them down and going through them, but the event was mind-boggling. The totes are both a Pandora’s Box*** of—

Ai says opening Pandor’s Box “released all of the worlds’ sorrows: disease, old age, famine, jealousy, and death.” They came flowing out and spread all over the world. Mom’s totes aren’t like that, are they? Maybe. Looking at photos of people from The Past, with most being complete strangers, can cause sorrow, and most of the subjects of the photos and articles are dead, so, there’s that, too. Look how happy they were, how joyous, how young, and how invincible…jealousy? Envy? Relief? Foretelling future deaths? Even seeing my 3-year-old myself bundled up for an afternoon of roiling in the snow inspired the question of why we have to grow old, can’t we stay young, forever? Then there’s the journal mom kept when she visited Switzerland, lamenting the cold while admiring the beauty. Her words in her time, now in mine.

Bet you don’t know the end of the Pandora’s Box legend. I didn’t, until Ai recited the entire story. After “The Sorrows of The World” poured out and spread across the globe, there was one thing left in the box. Ai says it was trapped in the bottom, under everything else, and Pandora didn’t see it, at first: One last gift from the gods.

It was hope.

When you look at photos of generations of relatives and friends and strangers who are no longer on this plane of existence, when you see how bright and alive they were, you begin to wonder, to imagine how much of your life will be in a plastic tote, and how soon will it happen. The existential question is normal, human, and helped a great deal by the The Hope stuck in the box, but it is still a question.

Unlike the original sorrows flitting away into the world, what do I do, what do WE do with the totes and their contents?  The Memories. What happens if we burn them, throw them away, or cut them up? Does it affect those no longer here? Does it make them “more gone”?

Screw it. Lunchtime. Everything back in the totes and back to the shelf. Life will take care of them somehow, sometime. Sorry kids, it’s your problem, now.

            *Yes. Repeated for emphasis. Please get the point.

            **Not really. But it should be.

***Really a ceramic jar, but it was mistranslated early on and the mistake stuck for all of eternity. Read the entire legend, it is a “theodicy”, “an explanation of why there is evil, suffering, and death in a world that might otherwise be prefect.”

Funny Things That Happen In The Personal, Non-Trumpian World

First, no one can keep up with the Trumpster. When he’s awake, he is the best at chaos and funny things. And his acolytes, too, most recently the way they are calling him—according to RKF–“a deity”. But old people see the signs.

Second, so many funny things happen and when they do, I say, “I need to tell people about that.” And then I don’t. I forget. That’s not funny, that’s sad.

Some funny things…okay…memories will come back…soon…just give me a minute…they’re right on the tip of my fingers…okay got one.

The shooting of the lady in Minneapolis is—stop. Not funny.

In my morning walk at Turning Stone Resort and Casino (TS), my favorite slot machines aren’t paying out. Yeah, you’re right. Not funny.

Our friend Bill from TS has returned to our morning workout group. He had open heart surgery around Thanksgiving and has been recovering. He’s back! They gave him clearance to resume all his normal workout routines and general gadabout walks in TS. Bill is 84. Ok, not funny, but heartwarming, good news. I’ve got 10 more years! Eh, we’ll see.

Another nameless friend from our group, who’s age we won’t mention* is still out, though. She is older than me but younger than Bill and she let’s her nameless, ageless husband come with her to our workouts. He is a likeable enough guy, but he spends too much time in the locker room. Just kidding, nameless partner of nameless infirm lady whose age is nameless, too. We kid because we can all take a joke. A helpful trait in this modern world.

Still nothing funny, but a clear theme is taking shape: most seniors lives are not as involved as Trump’s. Now that IS funny: This world is being run by a soon-to-be 80-year-old man. Those of us at, over, or near 80 know what life is like at that age and wonder if being a billionaire and buying everything you wanted in life would make us qualified to Rule The world with Our Own Morality. What is funnier than that?

Got one! George Burns: “When I was a boy, the Dead Sea was only sick.”

And “Too bad all the people who know how to run this country are busy running taxicabs or cutting hair.” He said this years ago, but these days it might not be a joke.

But life humor–from George–at its finest: “If you live to be 100 you’ve got it made. Very few people die past that age.”

Maybe funny things don’t really happen, anymore. Maybe there is an Executive Order preventing them. If there isn’t, it sure feels like there is.

A wise man once told me “You can live in the past, present or, future. I chose too live where my feet are.” For us poor, unimportant, cast-off old people, enjoy every second, even if you can’t remember it.  

*Name and age can be mentioned if she gives approval. She’d be immortal in these annals. Bill doesn’t care about name, age, or annals. He probably thinks annals is something else, anyway.