DEAR ALAN ...

COMMONSENSE ADVICE FOR 
THE CURIOUS AND CONFUSED

Dear Alan: My husband and I are having a baby girl and are thinking of naming her Odette after my beloved grandfather Otis. Good choice?

Dear Naming Novice: The results are mixed when you try and turn a male name into a female name. Just ask Edwina, Henrietta, and Alberta. (Be careful approaching Henrietta though. She's very sensitive and may even insist you've made a mistake and that her name's Gabrielle, you bonehead.)

Dear Alan:  I’m concerned that I’m watching too much television. How much time on average do people spend in front of the TV?

Dear Couch Carcass:  FACT: Americans on average watch close to four hours of TV a day. FACT: Those who skimp on personal hygiene and sleep are able to watch six hours of TV a day. FACT: Overuse of the word "fact" as an attention-getter causes readers to glaze over and wonder what's on TV.

 

Dear Alan: Is it true that drinking coffee can boost my productivity?

Dear Buzzy: A well-timed cup of coffee has been proven to spike cognitive function and elevate productivity for an hour or more. This explains the morning I ran 5 miles, detailed my car, built a guest cottage in my backyard and helped police solve a string of robberies, all before 9 a.m.

 

Dear Alan: How can we make the travel experience safer for airline passengers?

Dear Soaring Eagle: Currently, before a plane takes off, flight attendants instruct all passengers in the use of emergency equipment and check to see that seatbelts are fastened and seats are in the upright positions. 

Let’s also have them make the following announcement: “Before we take off, we ask that all passengers please check fellow passengers in your immediate area for any screwballs, weirdoes, wackos, misfits, haunted drifters or fidgety religious fanatics.”

 

Dear Alan:  Whenever I’m posing for a group photo, I get a sickening feeling that I’m going to ruin it. Any tips?

Dear Shutter Bugged:  When someone’s taking a picture and you’re on the far end of a group shot, ignore the fear that you’ll be cut out of the photo and refrain from doing an exaggerated lean-in. If you get partially cut out, the photographer will be the one at fault. If you lean in too far and ruin the photo, you’ll forever be the bozo who blocked out Aunt Adeline on her 100^th birthday. So relax, smile, and don’t block out Aunt Adeline.

Dear Alan: I get annoyed when I hold open a door for someone and they don’t say “thanks.” I’m a gentleman by nature, but what can I do to let them know that’s not cool?

Dear Door Dissed: A gentleman will always hold the door open for someone coming along behind him. If that person passes through without saying thanks, the gentleman may throw a cross body block on the individual, pin him or her to the ground, and dangle spit in their face until they acknowledge the gesture.

 

Dear Alan:  I've been told that when we sneeze it's to clear allergens or irritants from our nasal passages. So why is it that I sometimes sneeze when I walk outside into bright sunlight?

Dear Nostril-domus: What you perceive as a sneeze is actually a solar powered propulsion of tiny aliens who've been conserving energy in your nostrils and are now beginning their flight back to the planet Sinus. So next time you look at the sun and sneeze, yell "Goodbye golden nuggets," and wave vigorously until it's time for you to go back inside and lie down.

 

Dear Alan: When I lift weights at the gym, I have a habit of grunting like a hippopotamus in heat. What’s the proper vocal release during an intense session?

Dear King Thong: In the midst of even the most strenuous workout, a considerate gym member does not grunt more loudly than necessary. As an alternative, he may yell out "Yo Yo Ma!" but only if remaining silent would risk injury to himself or others.

Dear Alan: I love to grill, but I’m tired of the same old steaks and fish. Any advice to shake things up?

Dear Smokey: Shish kabobs are a great way to add variety to your BBQ menu. Just throw some shrimp, pineapple, chicken and a few miscellaneous items from a junk drawer on a skewer and watch your guests swoon!

Dear Alan: What’s your take on life and love?

Dear Starving Wisdom Seeker:  Life is a mystery, love is a riddle, hi diddle, ho diddle, hey diddle diddle. (Sorry about that, but once you use the word "riddle" in a poem you've pretty much unlocked the door to diddle.)

###

Mellowing Out With Karen, Gordon and Lionel

I was driving around town listening to the radio the other day and I heard Kenny Rodgers sing “She Believes In Me” followed by John Denver singing “Sunshine On My Shoulders” followed by the Captain and Tennille singing “Love Will Keep Us Together.” 

Looking for a logical explanation for this odd string of oldies, I came to two possible conclusions:

1)    I had hit a pothole that somehow triggered a time-travel episode landing me back in the 1970s.

2)    A new easy listening station had invaded the airwaves.

Since a quick reality check confirmed I wasn’t wearing bell bottoms or flipping the hair out of my eyes every 10 seconds, I latched onto the new radio station theory. Of course, I use the word “new” loosely when referring to a station where Olivia Newton John and the Bee Gees are topping the charts and Lionel Richie is still dancing on the ceiling.

Frankly, I have a dysfunctional come closer/go away relationship with easy listening radio. On the positive side, there’s that irresistible thrill one gets when an all-time favorite song pops up, like unexpectedly running into an old friend. That’s how I feel when I hear “Operator” by Jim Croce or “Blue Bayou” by Linda Ronstadt or “Handyman” by James Taylor.

On the negative side, easy listening can quickly turn into queasy listening when sappy slush begins to crowd out the joys of timeless musical gems. That’s how I feel when I hear “Can’t Smile Without You” by Barry Manilow or “My Eyes Adored You” by Frankie Valli or “Sometimes When We Touch (The Reality’s Too Much)” by Dan Hill. Copy that, Dan.

The worst moments come when, in spite of your self-image as an enlightened connoisseur of music as a dynamic expression of the human experience, you find yourself singing along to some gooey slab of schmaltz like the Carpenter’s “They Long To Be Close To You.” 

Before you chalk it up to a harmless moment of weakness, let’s recite a snippet of the actual lyrics, shall we?

Why do birds suddenly appear, everytime you are near?

Just like me, they long to be close to you.  

Still skeptical? Here’s more . . .

Why do stars fall down from the sky, every time you walk by?

Just like me they long to be close to you.

 Call it a “guilty pleasure” if you like, but the ability and willingness to sing along with this or any other Carpenter’s song is a sign that your connection to any form of cutting-edge, contemporary music is hanging by a thread. What’s next, swooning to the silky smooth croonings of Canadian songbird Anne Murray? Dancing to the slick pop stylings of Tony Orlando & Dawn? Partying to the power ballads of Minnie Riperton?

As I teeter between this time-warped world of seductive simplicity and today’s plugged-in power surge of life-in-progress complexity, I see the slippery musical slope before me. 

One minute you’re privately cranking up the car radio to hear an endearing piece of 40-year-old fluff like Peaches and Herb’s “Reunited,” the next you’re telling some mystified 20 year old about Peaches and Herb, or the Fifth Dimension, or Air Supply. What’s that, punk? You never heard of Air Supply? Now don’t make me sing one of their songs to jog your memory. Oops, too late.

I’m lying alone, with my head on the phone,

thinking of you till it hurts.

I know you hurt too, but what else can we do?

Tormented and torn apart.

Not ringing any bells? Here’s the chorus . . .

I’m all out of love, what am I without you?

I can’t be too late to say I was so wrong.

 

Look, some like the breathless zeal and simpleminded worship of easy listening songs and some don’t. Judging from my tendency to turn the radio up at the first sign of any Gordon Lightfoot song, I probably have a higher tolerance for it then a lot of people. But I still worry about the addictive perils of prolonged ballad abuse.

There’s a line that must not be crossed and pretending that line isn’t there is dangerous. For some the line is drawn at Karen Carpenter. For others, Neil Diamond. For others still, it’s any duet involving Tony Bennett, even if he’s paired with Elvis Costello or Bono. For me, I’ll know I’ve reached the point of no return when I hear the DJ say:

“Stay tuned for more soft and mellow favorites to ease you through your cheesy, breezy life.”

 

Adventures In Motion Detection

Some things you outgrow as you get older – like acne, idolizing athletes, and giggling when someone mentions the planet Uranus. (Okay, I still snicker when Uranus comes up, but faintly and only for a moment.)

One thing that I had hoped to grow out of but have now accepted as a lifelong affliction is motion sickness. I’m told that as a small child I once begged my parents to leave me by the side of the road after one of my frequent back seat barf fests left me drained and pessimistic about the future. 

I suppose I’ll never know how close mom and dad came to honoring my proposal, but I have had a disturbing dream through the years of being raised by wolves after getting lost in the woods near the interstate.

In my adolescent days roaming the amusement-filled boardwalks of the Jersey shore, I endured an endless succession of stomach-churning incidents. This merriment-marring pattern was fueled by my inability to remember that, for me, climbing aboard anything livelier than a sedated dairy cow was a wrong turn down Queasy Street.

While other kids my age sought high-velocity thrills on the rollercoaster or tilt-a-whirl, I occupied myself with more levelheaded pursuits such as trying to amass the 30,000 tickets necessary to win a plastic harmonica by playing arcade games.

Inevitably I would get complacent and allow myself to get coaxed onto one of the tamer rides like the merry-go-round or Ferris wheel . Even in those situations it wouldn’t be long before I’d be making desperate eye contact with the ride operator who -- to add to my misery -- would usually be in the process of shoveling a greasy sausage and onion sandwich down his mustache-framed pie-hole.

Just as I’ve gotten to be a good judge of which amusement park rides have chunk-blowing potential, I also proceed with savvy caution in circumstances where rapid or rhythmic motion holds sway. These situations include, but are not limited to:

• Any commercial or private air travel where the aircraft is required to actually leave the ground at some point.
• Cruises, pleasure boating, charter fishing excursions or any other offshore activity where water tends to relentlessly move up and down until you taste the feta cheese and spinach omelet you had four days ago.
• Movies, especially of the super-sized IMAX variety, where sophisticated cameras strapped to skiers, skydivers and other adrenalin-addicted movers and shakers become your eyes, ears and stomach pump.
• Dances, such as polkas, where prolonged and vigorous spinning make you break free of the Earth’s gravitational pull and carom violently off of walls and other stationary objects before coming to rest in a lightheaded la-la land where accordion players with suspenders and beer breath rule.
• Revolving rooftop restaurants where you leave your table to go to the rest room and when you come back out the spot where you table was is now occupied by a family of five from Yokohama who mistake you for the waiter and ask what kind of beef you use in the sukiyaki.

Suffice it to say that motion sickness has its hardships. But the world keeps on turning, and as long as it doesn’t turn any faster then its present pace, I’ve learned to enjoy a relatively puke-free journey through life. I just thought it was time to shed light on this awkward affliction that millions suffer from in silence.

Thank you for letting me spill my guts. And sorry about your carpet.

OCTOBER ROAD: My Father's Journey Home

“Fathers don’t need much,” my dad would sometimes say. “A visit or phone call is more than enough to make my day.”

That, of course, didn’t stop me from numerous wild goose chases through the years trying to wow him. More often than not I whiffed on the mission, drawing dad’s standard “very nice” response to the unwrapping of another John Wayne video or coffee table book on horses.

When he passed away this year a month shy of his October 10th birthday, his “fathers don’t need much” message came back to me, but with a whispered final request: “Bring me home if you can.”

Though a resident of Florida for the last 30 years, home for my dad is a rural New Jersey town called West Milford, about 40 miles northwest of New York City. It’s there that the mountaintop ranch house my dad dubbed “The Ponderosa” sits, still a family focal point with my brother Bob and sister-in-law Jill holding down the fort.

While Tony Bennett may have left his heart in San Francisco, my dad left his heart, soul and long underwear in West Milford. Before age and alarmingly bad knees caught up with him, he would go back for hunting season in the fall. Some years, before autumn’s festive charms gave way to winter’s tortures, I would join him for some October hiking.

How could I go wrong? October is a time in northern New Jersey known for mild, sun-splashed days and cool, crisp nights. A time where nature’s Crayola box of primary colors erupts into joyful celebration, causing grown men to stop on the side of the road and tear up in worshipful wonder.

Except that some years, winter decides to hold a sneak preview. I flashed back to one of those times, recalling how dad and I exchanged diverging views during a hike. 

“I hear it’s supposed to get down in the 30s tonight,” I mentioned as we made our way into the woods and onto the white dot trail.

“It doesn’t feel cold to me,” dad asserted, a contradictory droplet of snot dangling from his nose. “Only a la-la would be cold in this kind of weather,” he teased.

We followed the trail deeper into the woods, occasionally using our hand-carved walking sticks like a third leg to maintain balance over wet leaves and loose stones.

“I like having the walking stick in case we run into any black bear,” dad said casually. This made me shiver for other reasons.

“Have you seen any black bear out here?”

“Not this trip. But they’re out here. The mounds of bear scat are everywhere.”

“I always heard that you’re supposed to lie down and play dead if you cross paths with a bear,” I ventured, seeking confirmation.

“That’s for grizzlies,” dad clarified. “Black bear will just bend down and start digging into their happy meal. Of course, if you hit them in the face just right with your walking stick, you might be able to daze them long enough to get away.”

“What if you miss?”

“Then your best shot is to poke yourself in the face with the walking stick and hope the bear thinks you’re crazy.”

The highlight of many hikes was angling up the mountain across from the house and stepping out on the open rocks for a breathtaking view of the Wanaque Reservoir. It was dad’s favorite spot … and the only place worthy of spreading his ashes.

Joined by my brothers Bob and Jim, my nephew Robert and my Uncle Allan, we climbed the steep, boulder-strewn trail to reach the scenic lookout and say our goodbyes on sacred ground.

As I thought about my father on this picture-perfect October day, there was a sweetness in everything visible: the woods, the water, the sky. And reflecting on him and how he lived, I couldn’t help but see all these things through his eyes. I sensed that his had been a search for peace all along. His search had sent him down some dead ends and detours, but in nature he found comfort, beauty and an inspiration he could embrace without reservation.

Groping for words as I slipped from the group to a private spot on the rocks, I invited my now departed dad to “reach out to me in any way he could” in the years to come.

“Sons don’t need much,” I pointed out. “A feeling, a presence – a cameo appearance in a dream.”

As we made our trek back down the mountain, it struck me that my father’s final journey wasn’t a once-and-for-all goodbye. The loved ones we lose always stay a part of us. And the love lives on.

“Thanks for bringing me home,” I heard a whisper in the breeze.

“Only a la-la would have kept you away,” I whispered back.

My Cowboy Dad

On the surface, my father was a family man, a working class guy, a foreman at a chemical plant.  But that wasn’t what made him tick. Above all, he was an outdoorsman. A hunter, a horseman, a hiker – more cowboy than community member.

When I was six, he moved the family to a rural part of New Jersey, to a house on a mountain, on a dirt road, surrounded by woods. He called the house the Ponderosa and that said a lot about who he was.

He converted a dilapidated shed in the backyard into a barn and kept horses throughout my boyhood. He and my mom rode them on the trails near the house. For a while dad would enter small town harness races with a two-wheel carriage called a “sulky.” He won some ribbons with a horse flamboyantly named “Fashion’s Golden Flash.” And no, I didn’t name him.

When he wasn’t indulging his inner cowboy, dad let his inner farmer come out and play. He had a big chicken coup and a garden in the summer where he grew tomatoes and cucumbers and zucchini. My God, the zucchini. Bowling pin size. Baseball bat size.  Guinness Book size.

When I was in my early 30s, my parents retired and moved to Florida. For an outdoorsman like dad, living in suburban Port St. Lucie was like a captured white Bengal tiger trying to blend in at the bingo hall. He never completely adjusted to living in Florida, but he and my mom spent many good years there, with trips back to New Jersey and visits from friends and family. I personally was a fan of the Florida move because it meant I got to see them more and create new memories through the years.

Speaking of memories …

I will remember the great hikes we took when he would go back to New Jersey for hunting season and I would join him. The highlight was always navigating our way up a mountain near the old house and emerging out on the open rocks for an amazing view of the Wanaque Reservoir. It was his favorite spot … mine, too.

I will remember how we would watch old movies – usually westerns – and test each other’s knowledge of actor’s names and what else they were in. Remembering that James Garner started in westerns and wound up playing a private detective in The Rockford Files earned you a special kind of respect with my dad.   

I will remember going on father-and-son walks and smoking cigars with him when he and mom would visit my wife Sherry and I. It’s the only time I smoked cigars. I’m sure dad could tell by the fact I couldn’t seem to keep them lit.

I will remember that he lived in Florida for over 30 years and never once wore a pair of shorts. Now that’s a cowboy.

I will remember how uncharacteristically silly he would get when we played dominoes, making funny voices, whistling, singing – it was not the Big Al most people got to see. I loved that side of him.

I will remember his genuine love for me, my brothers and my mother, a love that he got better at expressing in his later years. He said it a lot.  It meant a lot.

My dad passed away on September 2, 2020 from a blood clot following surgery for a brain bleed. He was a month shy of his 88^th birthday and his departure has left an unfillable hole in my life. He will be with me every day in my thoughts, my memories, and the very essence of who I am.

I picture him now young and pain free, riding high in the saddle of a spirited appaloosa on a clear mountain morning. He pulls in on the reins and the horse clomps to a halt as he turns to say one last thing to me.

Dad: “Love you, buddy. Love you lots.”

Me: “I love you too, dad. See you back at the ranch.”

Of Birds And Trees And Manatees: Off The Beaten Path At Birch Park

Last weekend I visited an oasis of green amidst the urban noise and haste: Hugh Taylor Birch State Park. I only had about an hour or so to spend, but absent any time constraints I could have easily lingered long enough to be charged with impersonating a park ranger or possibly a large, fish-eating wading bird.

Hugh Taylor Birch happens to be one of my favorite parks of all time. Hugging the eastern coast of urban Fort Lauderdale, the 180-acre park contains the area’s last native hammock, a tropical wonderland at the ocean’s edge where nature trails whisk you away from the rat race and into a wooded habitat of exotic plants, lagoons, mangroves, turtles, raccoons and more species of birds than you could shake a walking stick at. (I know this for a fact because I tried shaking a walking stick at every bird I saw and my arm cramped up at about the 40-heron mark.)

When you’re ready to rest your arm and enjoy a change of scenery, the woods open up to a spectacular view of multi-million dollar mansions across the Intracoastal Waterway and a chance to glimpse a manatee – an odd, bloated looking aquatic mammal affectionately nicknamed “the sea cow.” When I say “a chance to glimpse a manatee” I mean that their shy, self-conscious nature makes your odds of actually seeing one pretty scant. 

What happened to my wife and I on this visit is that we passed a woman during our walk who said “Did you see the manatee?” to which I sadly answered “no.” I spent the rest of the day wondering if the manatee saw me first, said to himself “there’s that jerk Williamson,” and hid under some driftwood till I passed. Serves me right for yelling “Look, it’s a sea cow!” when I know damn well they prefer to be called manatees.

While Birch Park has emerged as sacred ground during my years in Florida,  my passion for parks goes way back. I grew up in a rural part of northern New Jersey, so for the first 20 years of my life the world outside my door was a park – a vast, sprawling park as far as the eye could see. Our house was surrounded by woods and our neighbors were a colorful mix of local wildlife that included deer, bear, bobcat, coyote, fox, quail and wild turkey.

When a safari theme park called Jungle Habitat opened on land near our house during my teenage years, the local wildlife sometimes expanded to include escaped baboons, hyenas, and zebras. This occasionally resulted in comical phone conversations with the park’s animal control reps who were skittish about the negative publicity reports of escaped wildlife could bring them.

Homeowner: “I’m calling to report that we have a herd of African zebra grazing out on our front lawn.”

Jungle Habitat Rep: “Thanks for letting us know, but our zebras are all accounted for at this time.

Homeowner: “Are you saying they’re not yours?”

Jungle Habitat Rep: “They’re not ours.”

Homeowner: “Then whose are they?”

Jungle Habitat Rep: “Perhaps there’s a National Geographic special or Tarzan movie filming in the vicinity."

Homeowner: “That doesn’t seem likely.”

Jungle Habitat Rep: “Sorry, gotta go. Our escaped lion emergency line is ringing again.”

In the cities and suburbs of my adult years, connecting with nature has become more of an elusive exercise . . . but where there’s a park there’s a way! To best express my deep, primal affinity for Hugh Taylor Birch Park, I leave you with a heartfelt salute I call “Out At The Park” (sung to the tune of “Up On The Roof.”) Enjoy responsibly. Feel free to sing along. And please don’t feed the manatees.

When this fast world starts getting me stressed,

and people have just regressed to ape-like ways.

I drive my way to the outskirts of town,  

and soon my guard lets down and the sights amaze.

At the park is like a world brand new,

where birds and trees and manatees greet you.

Right outside all the traffic and noise,

I’ve found a place where toys are not the craze.

And if green space puts a smile on your face,

I’ll meet you on a lark out at the park.

Out at the park!

Come on baby! Come on sugar!

A Beginner's Guide to Walking During A Pandemic

What would you say if I told you that by walking just 30 minutes a day, four times a week you could enjoy increased energy, a trimmer body, a greater sense of calm and well being, and a deeper, more restful night’s sleep throughout a prolonged pandemic?

Not good enough?

What if I told you that a brisk 30-minute walk, just four times a week, could also lower your blood pressure and cholesterol, raise your IQ, allow you to speak a second language fluently within one week, and land a seven-figure recording contract with a major label even if you’ve had no previous singing experience.

Still not convinced?

What if I told you that if you start walking now – this week – and continue walking just 30 minutes a day, four times a week, that in three months you will have reduced your risk of heart disease by 34 percent, added 2.4 years to your life, mastered the fine art of search engine optimization, and developed the inexplicable ability to communicate with domestic animals in a way that fosters caring, empowering, mutually-rewarding relationships.

While I can’t guarantee that all of these benefits will come your way (individual results may vary), I’m here to add my voice to the long chorus line of medical and fitness advisors who say, and I quote, “If you want to come out of a pandemic looking better, feeling better and living better, put down that pizza-encrusted, digitally-enabled, virtual reality video gamepad and go for a walk!”

But where, when, with who and at what pace, you ask.

These are mostly matters of personal preference. For me, for instance, the answers would be “in Birch State Park,” “at 7 a.m.,” “with my Indian sidekick Buddy Blackfoot,” and “enough to make me breathe harder.” For someone else, the answers could be completely different, perhaps more along the lines of “Heatherwood Drive,” “after dinner,” “with my dog Rooney,” and “like a small town mayor marching in the Memorial Day parade.”

Whatever specific details suit your tastes and circumstances, the good news is, once you start, walking is an activity that comes pretty naturally and requires very little instruction. Even though the instinctive nature of walking makes “coaching” the activity virtually unnecessary, I have identified three rules of walking for health and fitness that I strongly recommend. They are:

1.     Never walk on the side of a busy road heading in the same direction as traffic. As a matter of self-preservation, you’re safer walking against the flow of traffic so you can see and react to drivers who may in fact be engaged in other activities inside their cars. These activities may include putting on a fresh coat of hand sanitizer, watching mask vs. maskless fight videos on their cell phone, or making arrangements to take a post-pandemic trip to anywhere that's not their family room ... right after they head-butt you into a roadside ditch with the front bumper of their SUV.

2.      If your walk takes you into wooded areas or any other uneven terrain, take extra care to notice things in your path that might cause you to trip and fall. These obstructions may include such stumbling blocks as rocks, ruts, tree roots, discarded trash, or, on rare occasions, the slumbering, leaf-covered body of outdoorsman Bear Grylls.

3.     Never, I repeat, never get talked into walking the Ross Prairie State Forest in Dunnello, Florida with my wife’s cousin Nancy’s husband George. Now don’t get me wrong. George is a great, down-to-earth guy, with no obnoxious habits. The problem is, George isn’t human. He’s a relentless walking machine built by the Germans to cover vast distances on foot in all kinds of terrain without a break. After walking for five miles through a heavily-wooded state forest, George will look back over his shoulder at you and say, “Let’s go once more around.” Since your answer will most likely be a winded, unintelligible whimper that sounds like “yeesh,” George will take that as a “yes” and off you’ll go back into the wild green yonder.    

But these are trivial concerns. Walking is, on most days, a refreshingly safe, uncomplicated endeavor and the perfect antidote to pandemic idleness. So follow my simple rules, stay at least six feet apart from strangers, and enjoy the smooth and gentle route to robust health and fitness.

Oh, before you lace up, I do have just one little disclaimer. While moderately swinging your arms while you walk can provide additional upper body toning benefits, the exaggerated, cartoonish style of arm swinging employed by some overzealous racewalkers is discouraged. For one thing, the extra toning and calorie-burning benefits of such a technique are minor and, more importantly, the odds of you earning a reputation as a “walking whack-job” increase astronomically.

Okay, now you know everything I know, so let’s give this a try.

Ready, set, walk! One foot in front of the other, that’s it, that’s it, watch the arms, watch the arms, no crazy stuff, there you go, breathe deeply, that’s it, watch the crack in the sidewalk, nice move, you’re doing great. We’re just taking a walk here, nothing fancy, easy come, easy go. Whadaya say champ, once more around?

Excerpts From A Pandemic Diary

There’s no place like home. It’s your refuge from the world. Your space, your rules, your germs. But when a global pandemic hits and settles in for the long haul, home can start to feel like a prison with a more progressive happy hour policy.

Aside from motivating me to pare my daily wardrobe down to four t-shirts, three pair of shorts and a face mask, fears of a highly contagious virus have greatly complicated my thoughts and routines. Here, from the squirrel cage that is my brain in pandemic mode, are some diary entries that reflect a life on the edge.

March 27
Today was filled with sheltering in place highlights, including:
- Read History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.
- Created a muffin out of crumbs and ground turkey.
- Learned to speak Creole.
- Spent quality time with my imaginary friend PJ.

April 10
My home lockdown phone chat today went like this …
Me to a friend: “How was your day?”
Friend: “I attended a Zoom meeting of a humanitarian group that builds orphanages in poor countries.”
Friend to me: “And how was your day?”
Me: “I bought a big jar of peanut butter pretzels on Instacart.”

April 19
To break up the long hours stuck inside, I went for a power walk today. Some people ask me what "power walk" means. It means that while I'm out walking, I swing my arms in an exaggerated, cartoonish fashion sacrificing all dignity and self-respect.

My reward is an extra 2% toning and cardio benefit. Who's the wacko now neighbor lady who when she saw me coming told her kids to "get in the house"?

April 24
The isolation has taken a toll on my personal hygiene, but I'm still a shower and shave away from my old self. Anyone got some Altoids?

May 2
One month into home lockdown and I've had a lot of time to reflect on my life. When all is said and done, I want to be remembered for 4 things:
1.) Being 5'11" but carrying myself like a 6 footer.
2.) Never wearing a lobster bib just to show off.
3) Selling the last known Big Mouth Billy Bass singing fish at a garage sale.
4.) Almost rhyming "Phoenix" with "Kleenex" in an unfinished poem.

Thanks in advance for your cooperation. My legacy is in your freshly-washed hands.

May 10
Who am I to ask you to social distance and wear a mask? I'm the guy who asks people things, like "What's your middle name?" and "Where did you get your sunglasses?" and "How often do you change your oil?" and "What's in the backpack?" and "Why the face?" That's who I am.

May 24
I miss singing songs around the piano with Alicia Keys, Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson, Giada De Laurentiis, Darius Rucker and Rick, the guy who cuts my lawn. The piano really does bring people together ... except when there's a global pandemic. If anyone's looking for me, I'll be in the shower. Singing.

June 1
My home gym is getting a lot of use since the sheltering in place requirements started.

HANDY TIP: If you’re lifting weights, make them heavy enough to challenge your muscles, but not so heavy that you get pinned under them for hours at a time and have to wait for help to arrive.

June 10
Following in the footsteps of the Batteries + Bulbs stores, I see great potential for a new retail chain called "Takeout + Toilet Paper." I’ll put together a business plan after I finish my 1,000 piece Tiger King jigsaw puzzle.

June 15
To thrive during a prolonged home lockdown, I recommend the following back-to-basics strategy: Eat when you're hungry, drink when you're dry, and don't touch your nose or your mouth or your eye.

June 23
I rewrote Glen Campbell’s “Gentle On My Mind” today. The new version goes “It's knowing that your door is always open and your path is free to walk ... that makes me tend to keep 6 feet away so I don't come within your cough.”

July 2
Due to continuing supply chain disruptions, my wife and I went 72 hours without paper towels in the house. Our descent into madness ended with the purchase of a six pack of Brawny. I'm still a little woozy, but glad to be back living a paper towel-supported life.

So there you have it – a glimpse into the diary of one man’s life interrupted. During these uncertain times, I want to remind you that we are all in this together and we will all get through this together ... from a remote distance.

Also, I am offering 10% off all my homemade face masks and Anti-Viral Soy Candles while supplies last.

Be safe, stay sane, choose soap and hope.

A Rocky Relationship

The suburbs have their share of wildlife – squirrels, birds, possums, Airbnb party animals. My wife Sherry and I had even gotten use to the iguana invasion that hit our South Florida neighborhood hard the past several years. But when a raccoon showed up in our backyard recently, we recoiled in horror.

It wasn’t that raccoons were menacing or frightening or even particularly unsightly. It was just that 2020 had already thrown a global pandemic, social isolation and deep-seeded fears of an unpredictable future at us. The sudden appearance of a masked mammal didn’t feel like a good omen.

Two doors down, our friends Toby and Terry were even more on edge. The raccoon, which was quickly nicknamed Rocky, had taken a liking to their tropical backyard pool area and would appear at random moments with the demeanor of a guest wondering what was for dinner that day. Overnight, Toby and Terry’s outdoor lifestyle of swimming, grilling poolside, and laidback lounging was replaced by the paranoia and angst common among troops under siege.

“When I’m outside, I’m always strategic about what door I’m closest to if I have to take evasive action,” Terry told me.

“Does it ever come at you?” I asked, digging for details that might benefit me during close encounters of the raccoon kind.

“No, but it doesn’t retreat either,” he observed, painting a picture of a calculating, fearless adversary.

Sure enough, the next day while picking up a fallen palm frond in my backyard I came face to face with the serenely unruffled Rocky. He was no more than 30 feet away and in no hurry to increase the distance between us.

I made an exaggerated stomping move in his direction, thinking it would spook him to run for safety.  He just stared at me quizzically as if to say “Is there something wrong with your leg?”

When my bloodcurdling yelping sound also failed to budge him, I decided to lose the battle and head inside to focus on winning the war.

Toby and Terry were way ahead of us.

“We’ve hired a trapper,” Toby told Sherry. “He’ll put cages in our yard, your yard and Barbara’s.

“Is Barbara on board?” Sherry asked, knowing that our good friend and long-time neighbor has a pro animal policy of “feed it first, ask questions later.”

“She’s okay with it as long as they catch and release it unharmed into the wild,” Toby confirmed.

There was talk that Barbara also wanted the raccoon’s email address to keep in touch, but she backed off for the sake of expediency.

On the morning after the trapper set up his holding cells I awoke early to find a reluctant tenant in the cage at the north end of our backyard.

“We got a raccoon,” I called to Sherry, “but it’s smaller than Rocky and has different markings.”

As I adjusted my eyes in the pre-dawn shadows, I realized the idea that it was even a raccoon at all was sketchy.

“It’s a possum,” Sherry announced a few minutes later as the backyard sunlight made species identification more of an exact science.

After touching base with Toby, Terry and Barbara, the trapper was summoned, the possum relocated, and the cages refilled with food for another night of raccoon seduction.

“Do you really think Rocky is going to fall for this?” I asked Terry. On day one, he had seen the raccoon sniffing around the cage in his yard and then walking away as though too smart to take the risk.

“I don’t know, but I’d like to give it another shot,” he shrugged, his tone at odds with his hopes.

The next morning, much to my disbelieving eyes, it happened. There he was, caught, caged and collected. “ROCKY CAPTURED!” screamed the boldfaced headline in my brain. We alerted our partners in raccoon reconnaissance and summoned the trapper to carry out extradition to more suitable territory.

After weeks of wariness and tension, our long national nightmare was over.  Well, not our national nightmare, but certainly our neighborhood nightmare.

Terry and Toby are finally enjoying their backyard paradise. Sherry and I have stopped worrying about what surprises lurk in the branches of our mango tree. And Barbara, well, word has it she got Rocky’s contact info and is keeping him in the loop on neighborhood news.

I’ve asked her to update him on a new strain of raccoon-eating iguanas that some claim to have spotted here. Hey, it might just be a rumor, Rock, but why take a chance?