Couldn’t Make this Up

The Deadhead at the DMV

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‘A bureaucratic nightmare with a happy ending’ 

Have you heard about Enhanced Drivers Licenses? Or a Real ID? Basically, you need one or the other to board a plane starting in May. I keep getting the two mixed up, but, but decided to spring for the more expensive one “just in case” and also since I really really don’t want to go to the DMV again anytime soon. You will, no doubt, relate when you hear my sad story. 

Nothing sadder than Mom’s empty chair. Not even my DMV story

Of course, writing about a visit to the DMV is not nearly as sad as writing about the death of one’s parent, so there’s that. But it’s also not nearly as cheery as writing about Mr. Baby. So before I start, I’ll share a couple of recent adorable baby pics.

Adorable baby with Dad, AKA The SIL

Adorable baby with Mom, AKA The Child

Okay. That’s done. Now for the DMV.

I live partly in New York City and partly in Amagansett, so I have a choice of DMV experiences. I could take the subway to the DMV near Macy’s, which I used to do until a really mean DMV employee fixed me with an icy stare and refused to accept my the paperwork for my Vespa title-transfer because Dude Man’s signatures didn’t match. (Or didn’t match enough for her purposes.) At that point I had been waiting in three separate lines for hours, so I did the only reasonable thing: I burst into inconsolable tears and vowed never to darken that DMV door again.

Gazing at the country in the City

I took my non-matching paperwork instead to the DMV nearest Amagansett, which is in Riverhead. This is the same Riverhead of getting-lost fame, which inspired my story, “Okay, you know where the jail is, right?” Which is pretty hilarious, if I do say so myself.

Gazing at the country in the Country

Now, Riverhead may not be a simple subway ride away — it takes 50 minutes by car — but in Riverhead, at least in my experience, the people are nice. When I showed my City-disputed paperwork to the woman at the counter, she not only didn’t fix me with a mean icy stare, she smiled and wished me a good day. After accepting said paperwork.

A picture of some lines. Nice lines, on a sweater

There also were no crowds, no lines, no hassle whatsoever. But this time was different. I supposed I should have realized something was up when I tried to make an online appointment and all the dates in the calendar were grayed out — through June. Must be a computer glitch, I told myself before hopping in the car at 7:00 Monday morning. The office opened at 7:30, but I figured getting there at 8:00 would be fine.

Not so, it would seem. The place was jammed to its bureaucratic gills. They did accept walk-ins, thank the scheduling gods, so I took a number — WU016 — and settled down to wait. After about 15 minutes, it was called. Wow, I thought! I’ll be home by 9:00!

Hah. That was just the guy taking my picture. That done, he instructed me — nicely — to wait for my number to be called again.

A picture I took of The Dude. Not at the DMV. At the MET

Well. They had nineteen “service desks,” and numbers were being called mere seconds apart. I had brought a New Yorker for a distraction, but I couldn’t look at it for fear I would be so distracted I’d miss my number being called. So I just sat there, staring at the screen displaying the numbers like a zombie — and like everybody else there.

To complicate things, I felt the urge to visit the ladies’ room (or whatever it’s called in a DMV…”rest area?”… “parking spot?”) I gave myself till 10:00, and if my number wasn’t called, I’d risk it.

A really nice pic of three generations of girls. Because why not?

Sure enough, the clock registered 10:00 and good ole WU016 was called to Service Desk 11, where a young man with dreadlocks greeted me with a smile. Examining my paperwork, he admitted that my ConEd bill reminded him of a Dylan song. (“Joey”, I think he said it was called.) So we talked Dylan some. For a guy who was in his thirties he was remarkably well-informed. He even knew the scene in Don’t Look Back where Donovan is completely intimidated by Dylan’s playing.

He said that he had been to a Grateful Dead concert when he was three — his parents were Deadheads (!) He was also a fount of knowledge about Jim Morrison and Leonard Cohen, and commiserated when I told him I was not allowed to hitchhike with my boyfriend to Woodstock.

The boyfriend who hitchhiked to Woodstock. Read about him in “Larry and the Nose Holes”

I told him he was about the same age as The Child, but that The Child didn’t realize the significance of living in Haight-Ashbury. Which is where she, in fact, lives. He asked at one point if I wanted 5’6″ on my new license (I had put 5’4″ on the form) and told me his mom was having the same issue with shrinking. (See “Skirting the Issue” for more on that.)

Well. Crowds or no crowds, lines or no lines, that little dreadlocked deadhead baby sure made my DMV Day. He even knew where the ladies’ room was.

New York City. April 2025

“Is is safe to watch the eclipse on TV?”

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‘Honest-to-God questions for my eye doc hub’

Unless you live under a rock or on the West Coast, you were probably watching the solar eclipse yesterday. Dr. Dude and I were out in Amagansett, where we peered at it through a fancy-schmancy sun scope.

Dude Man with a solar scope. This was an earlier, easier-to-use model. The one he has now is waaaay more complicated

I also had a backup device: a sheet of 8 1/2 by 11 copier paper that I punched three holes in with a letter opener. It was delightful projecting tiny little crescents all over our upstairs deck while Dude Man hogged the scope. “Get me a black tee shirt! I need to block the light from coming in around my head!” “Okay,” I said, while gaily waving my paper around, making my “mini-eclipses” dance.

The Paper Plate Method. One step up from the copier paper

But more annoying than orders from Mr. Fetch-Me-This-Fetch-Me-That were texts and calls from his patients.

See, Dr. Dude, as you may already know, is an ophthalmologist, which, you certainly must know, is a fancy word for an eye doctor. And, to experience an eclipse, one must use one’s eyes, preferably shielded by eclipse glasses, which you could get pretty much anywhere for free or practically nothing. Some libraries gave you a pair if you checked out a book. My friend T scored hers when a helpful library patron in Summit, NJ, upped his order from two to three when he realized the librarian was not going to let T have glasses without checking out a book — even though T volunteers at said library for umpteen hours a week. (Stingy librarians. No wonder people are turning to e-books.)

But back to safe viewing. I don’t know about you, but in the days leading up to The Eclipse, I found it hard to miss instructions and advice on safe viewing. It seemed like every piece of news I encountered had tips, pointers — and warnings.

Yup. You can use a straw hat to make teensy little mini-eclipses

There were articles about how to make your own viewing devices: Cheerios boxes figured big here, as well as colanders — here’s a piece from Fox News, for heavens sakes. There was even a piece in The Times about how to safely watch without eclipse glasses. Here it is if you want to save it for the next U.S. eclipse, um, twenty years from now. In addition to fun facts about straw hats, sieves, straining spoons and loosely-laced fingertips, there was this at the end: Do NOT look directly at the sun during the eclipse with your naked eye.

Basically, the warnings were everywhere.

An example of viewing tips — and a warning — from the East Hampton Star

But, swear to God, Dr. Dude got calls from patients asking things like: “Can I look at the eclipse through my fingers?” Or “Is it safe to go outside?” There was even a guy who traveled up to Maine so he and his family could experience totality and asked if it would be safe to drive home. But my absolute favorite — and no, I am not making this up — was “Is it safe to watch the eclipse on TV?”

Oh — yes. Lest I forget. Later in the afternoon there were several calls from panicked patients who — in spite of all the warnings — had looked directly at the eclipse and wanted to know what to do now that their eyes burned and hurt and their vision was blurry. “Not much you can do at this point,” was his reply.

I only hope that none of these people has passed on any genetic material.

Looks like an emoji for “I looked directly at the sun during the eclipse”

Amagansett, New York. April 2024

“What’s that bird?” “Heck if I know.”

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‘Confessions of an Experiential Birder’

I’ve often said that birding is like jury duty with feathers. (See “Jury Duty, Only with Feathers.”) Or that bridge is indoor golf. (See “Bridge? It’s Basically Indoor Golf”.) I also used to say that Hell is other people’s children. But I must be getting soft in my old age — or maybe I’m just craving grandkids — because other people’s children don’t bother me as much as they used to. Unless they are seated behind me on a plane. (See “The Four Seatmates of the Apocalypse.”)

One thing I haven’t said much is the name of a bird if someone asks me.

This is what one of our guides would call a “fancy bird.” Some kind of woodpecker; just don’t ask me which one

That’s basically because, unless it’s some bird that the asker probably already knows the name of — think “robin” or “blue jay” or “wren,” if you’re not too picky about the type of wren — I won’t know. I’m a birder, but I’m not the kind of birder who keeps track of names, much less genus and species and other technical whatnot.

I do keep track of funny signs. (See “Oh no, Danger Man!”) Like this one somewhere in Brazil indicating parking for those over 60

Why, I don’t keep track of anything about the birds. Unless it’s some really interesting experience associated with that bird. Like, on our Northeast Brazil trip, there was this macaw — the Lear’s, or Indigo Macaw — that lives only in a very specific type of canyon. You can read more about this macaw here, but basically, there are only a few hundred of them, they weren’t recognized as a species until 1978 — and, if you want to see them, you have to go to this one sandstone canyon via four-wheel-drive at daybreak to watch them come out of their nests and swoop around. Now that’s an experience — and that I remember.

Waiting around the sandstone canyon for the Lear’s Macaw to show up. They did. And so did some listers

I’m most definitely not a “lister.” Listers are birders who keep a list of all the birds they’ve seen. And, trust me, they care about that list. I’ve had encounters with listers a few times on our trips. Mostly, they’re okay. Though it can get a bit old to have someone constantly piping up “6499!” (the number of birds in their Life List just achieved) or “Lifer!” (meaning the bird just spotted is the first time the person has seen it in his/her life). Variations on this rack-’em-up theme include “day bird,” which is the first time that bird has been seen that day, and “trip bird,” same thing, only for the trip. “Day bird” can also mean a bird that’s been seen every day of the trip. On our most recent excursion, it was the black vulture. Which should tell you something about that trip.

Iguazu (or, in Brazil, Iguacu) Falls. Another terrific experience, especially with these swifts that go dive-bombing through the falls every evening

At the end of every birding day, the group gets together with their checklists and the guide/leader goes through all the birds seen that day. Fortunately for me, this happens at cocktail hour. I dutifully check birds off as I sip, say, a cold local beer or a  caipirinha.Three guesses what happens to the lists.

Paddling on a hot river where there were many caiman — and lots of cool birds too

So. If you see me after one of our birding trips, feel free to ask me about my experiences. (I have lots of good stories — like the one where we had to go to a water park on a Sunday to find a certain rare mannikin. The beautiful Brazilians in their bikinis didn’t quite know what to make of us.)

Just don’t ask me the names of any of the birds.

Amagansett, New York. April 2024

I’m having a hat attack

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‘Getting ahead of the Christmas gift situation’

This is gonna be a quickie, ‘cause I’ve got to get back to my hats. See, I had this brainstorm this past weekend. (Yes, I mean the weekend before the weekend that has Christmas at the end of it.)

I was working away on my umpteenth sweater while watching Friends when I needed something from my knitting closet. While fishing out whatever the heck it was, I was almost smothered by bags of leftover yarn from all the sweaters I’ve knitted already.

One of the sweaters I’ve knitted already. Yes, there is yarn left over. Yes, there is some going into a hat

I looked at all those partial hanks and semi-depleted balls and thought, “Hats!” (Actually, I think I said this aloud: “Hats!)

It was a real Eureka Moment for a person who has friends with chilly heads. Friends who, like my follically-challenged husband, are hard to buy gifts for because they already get themselves anything and everything they want or need. But hey, they can always use a hat.

Someone who can definitely use a nice warm hat. Maybe two

So I turned our guest room into a hat factory. Gathered all the odds and ends of worsted and sport and heather, grouped them into interesting little piles of colors and textures, downloaded a bunch of hat patterns from Ravelry — and got to it!

What I used to knit with leftovers: vests! But, gee, his head looks cold

I had never knit a hat before. Which, in a wacky way, made it all the more fun. The first one got off to a rocky start, because it’s not so easy determining whether the circumference is going to work. But once I frogged it a couple of times, it went swimmingly. In case you’re interested, the term “frogging,” which means to undo your knitting and roll it back up into a ball and start over comes from “rip it rip it”, which some knitting wag thought sounded like a frog: “ribbit ribbit”. I guess.

The first hat, all done and getting blocked. After I ripped it out a couple of times. Grrrrrr

Incidentally, I’ve been test/playing with The Child’s whiz bang new product, Dot, which another tester said is “like an operating system for your life.” Dot, which you can read about here, is not available to the public yet, but I’ve been putting her through her paces with all kinds of tasks. This morning she entertained me with an article about playing “Yarn Chicken,” which is when you’re in a race with your yarn. Will you win, and have enough to finish? Or will you run out somewhere toward the end? To which quandary I have the perfect answer: Stripes.

Running out of yarn? Throw in a couple of stripes!

Well, I warned you. I have one more hat to knit before Thursday. So I’ve gotta get at it. Good thing Friends ran for so many years!

I’ll leave you with this holiday photo from my favorite yarn source, Catskill Merino. Most of my hats (and their parental sweaters) started out on the backs of these lovely merino sheep.

There’s gotta be a manger in there somewhere

May your Christmas be merry and bright. And your head be toasty and warm — topped with a nice new hat.

New York City. December 2023

Hippopotami

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‘As in Hippo pot — oh my!’

Hey there, Madeleine and Becca and Ruth. I’m baaa-aack! Yes, after three weeks and two countries’ worth of African adventures, I’m back at the keyboard again.

What with the animals and the birds and the dunes and the waterholes and the sunrises and the sunsets and suchlike, I’m not sure where to begin.

One of the animals we met made a great breakfast buddy

So I’ll just jump right in with the story about the hippos in the middle of the night.

See, we covered a heck of a lot of ground on this trip, going from habitat to habitat to get different kinds of birds. Which meant that we mostly stayed just one night in each of, gosh, a dozen different lodges. These places were not fancy, but very cool all the same, and I must admit I hated leaving most of them. But once I got the hang of never really unpacking, I got into a rhythm and started to enjoy the feeling of anticipation that came with knowing I’d get to discover a new place at the end of each day.

Here’s a sunset and a waterhole

We were about two-thirds through the trip when we stopped at Xaro Camp. (Interesting linguistic note: in Bostwana, an “x” is pronounced like a “k,” so you say “Karo Kamp,” ’cause, well, the “c” is also pronounced like a “k.” Hahaha.)

We covered a heck of a lot of territory. This story takes place at Xaro up there at the Okavango Delta

The only way to get to this camp is by water, it being situated at the head of the Okavango Delta. 

When we were shown to our room — which was a canvas tent on a wooden platform — we were told (rather firmly) not to leave the premises after dark — not even to go out on the balcony — since large nocturnal animals would be roaming about looking for food. And, if we didn’t want to be on the menu, we’d need to stay inside. The one time we’d be out after dark would be dinnertime, and then we’d be escorted. Safety in numbers, I guess.

Approaching camp by water. Yes, that’s a crocodile. A huge crocodile

We were used to this, having been to Africa before. In fact, once in the Serengeti, we were having breakfast when a whole herd of elephants came marching through the lodge grounds, ripping up trees and causing havoc. A whole herd of German tourists rushed out to take their pictures (!) and had to be wrangled back inside. So, yes, we were into the escort idea.

These ginormous dunes were in Sossusviel in the Namib Desert. No hippos there!

Another fun fact: when shown our cabin (room? tent?), we were also told that ours was called the “hippo cabin,” since it was just a few yards from a dip in the riverback where hippos liked to come ashore. Oh wow. Terrific.

Dude on our balcony. You can see the “hippo ramp” right behind him

This was a stay-two-nights place, and the first night was uneventful. Some screeching, a few hoots. Plenty of elephant tracks out there in the morning, but otherwise nada. Oh! We did see Pel’s Fishing Owl (or PFO), which is very hard to find. We found two.

But the next night I woke around 3ish and was lying there deciding whether to grab a flashlight to make my way to the bathroom, when I heard this snuffling sound. A really loud snuffling sound, punctuated with these grunts. By now, I really needed to pee, but decided against using the light. I kind of felt my way toward the toilet, and lowered away — trying to be extremely quiet, which I have had lots of practice doing. (See “The Daydream Believer and the Homecoming Queen” for a tale of quiet peeing gone awry in an awfully embarrassing way.)

Sorry, I do not have a shot of myself quietly peeing. But here I am, quietly stalking the elusive Dune Lark. (Yes, we found it)

The whole time I’m aiming for the side of the bowl to avoid noisy splashing I’m hearing snuffling and grunting just inches away from my scared little snack-sized body. Mind you, there’s just a piece of tent canvas between me and whatever it is making the snuffling and grunting.

I also don’t have a photo of the hippos. Mainly because I didn’t see the hippos — just heard them. But here’s a closer look at that croc 

Next morning, I see large footprints around our tent and am told at breakfast that, yes, it was hippos I was hearing — and that everyone in camp heard them too. Though not everyone heard them inches away from their peeing selves.

Well, I think that’s enough adventure for today. But don’t worry; there’s plenty more for next week.

At the end of another adventurous African day

New York City. September 2023

 

Our Wild Car(d) Rental

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‘Scoring an F150 from Thrifty’

Not to sound like a summer deadbeat or anything — though I am kind of a deadbeat, and not just in summer — I was going to skip yet another week of blog-posting. (I was AWOL last week, in case you didn’t notice.)

My AWOL view; perfect for working on a photo book to commemorate the Living Wake

But then I realized that you Faithful Readers (Madeleine and Becca and Ruth, I’m talking to you) would wonder if I’d fallen off the face of the earth.

See, Dude Man and I are going on yet another of our Wacky Birdy Adventures, and we will be out of internet contact for three whole weeks. And gosh, if I didn’t write one of these things till the end of September, I might even lose Madeleine and Becca and Ruth!

Showing off a leech bite on one of our birdy adventures (Borneo). Now I’ve done it; you’re all going to Borneo

So, what’s been keeping me away from my keyboard? Ta-da! Another wedding, that’s what. And boy oh boy do I love weddings. I have said it before, but I’ll say it again: What’s not to love about a wedding? There’s a big gathering of family and friends, toasts and food and more toasts, and everybody’s happy. The only other time I can think of when this kind of thing goes on — well, except for maybe the “happy” part — is a wake. (Though a wake can be happy; read about my Oldest Younger Brother’s genius idea, his Living Wake, right here.)

Scott and me living it up at his wake

But what’s that about a rented F150, you might be asking. (A couple of 70-Somethings don’t exactly seem like the F150 type.) Well, this wedding took place on the Biltmore Estate — Biltmore being the name of the extremely large (more than 250 rooms) and extremely luxurious (an indoor heated pool and a bowling alley) house situated on equally large (some 30,000 acres) and equally luxurious (designed by Frederick Law Olmstead) property near Asheville, North Carolina, that the Biltmores built more than a hundred hears ago.

Dude Man, with the Biltmore mansion a hike away in the background

We booked rooms in the Biltmore Inn, since no one can stay at the mansion itself. (A pity; there are 33 guest rooms.) In the weeks leading up to the wedding, I received several emails from the Inn, inviting me to book events — dining (nah), flowers in the room (also nah), tickets to the mansion (yes!) — in advance. But we were also advised to rent a car. They said the property was way too big and shuttles too infrequent to opt out. (We also discovered that GPS was completely unreliable, but I’ll get to that.)

Dude Man again, with the Biltmore Inn a walk away in the background

So I scrounged around on the internet and found that the best car rental deal was through Thrifty. They have this thing called the “Wild Card.” Which is their cheapest option — even cheaper than those micro-compacts that look and feel like those clown cars they used to have in the circus. (Maybe they still do; I haven’t been to a circus in decades, thank god.) To get this cheaparino rate, you simply agree to take whatever car they might have available at the time. It’s a surprise — hence the “Wild Card” moniker.

Dude happily at the wheel of the F150. There was no way I was going to drive that thing. It made my Dad’s cars seem like Tonka Toys — see “Boats? Dad had yachts of them” for Dad-car stories

Well, I think they should just call it the Wild Car. Because what did we score? This brand-spankin’-new F150 truck, that’s what. It was shiny, it was blindingly white and fragrant with that lovely new-car smell. Wild, indeed. Also, it was huge. Not as huge as The Child’s F350 — which they used to haul their camper shell around the country during the late not-lamented Covid Lockdown — but way bigger than our Honda, that’s for sure.

We could have hauled the whole wedding party in that thing. Plus a cooler and some lawn chairs in the truck bed. (Which is something people did in my home town; we called it a “Clinton County Cadillac.”)

The happy couple. The groom is Dude Man’s cousin’s youngest son. Yes, we’re digging deep, wedding-wise

Oh yes, the GPS Thing. It took us ages to find the Biltmore Inn. When we programmed the address into Apple Maps, we kept getting sent to the employee-only entrance. Turns out everyone gets sent by GPS to the employee entrance — except for the employees. (Or so a very nice employee told us when we finally checked in. I had to get out in town and ask directions, which an antique-store-proprietor helpfully scribbled on the back of an old receipt. He even drew us a map. I felt bad not buying anything, but not after all that downsizing.)

Speaking of downsizing, I don’t want to expand on this story further. If I get too longwinded I might alienate even Madeleine and Becca and Ruth. I will leave you with a few more nice photos of where the Biltmores once roamed. I’ll be back with stories at the end of September — unless we get stampeded by elephants.

Me, making like a Biltmore

Dude, ditto

Dude, admiring the indoor pool. Nope, no water. It leaks

The two of us, plotting how to marry Biltmores. Except we’re already married, darn it

Amagansett, New York. August 2023

 

Hangin’ with Gouda, Jook and The Dude

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‘Those Dartmouth Boys do love their nicknames’

Many of you Faithful Readers think that I’m the one who dubbed The Dude “his Dudeness.” An honor I would love to claim, were it the truth.

But no. Wayne was The Dude way before I clapped eyes on him in the late lamented Shabu Shabu on our first date. (You can, of course, read about this sacred event in “The Time I Had A Blind Date with an Eye Doctor.”)

What The Dude looked like on our first date. Well, except he wasn’t wearing that white doctor coat at the time

He was christened “The Dude” because he showed up at the freshman mixer at Dartmouth College wearing a tie. This was in 1970, when Dartmouth Men were sporting fringed suede vests and/or leather hats instead of ties. (I have this on good faith from the suede-leather-vest guy, a perfectly lovely man nicknamed “Crud,” for some reason I’d really rather not know about. The Dude was the one with the leather hat.)

That’s Crud, seated left, with Dude and me. That’s Eleanor, Lady Shearing (“Ellie” to us) standing in back. Her husband was knighted by the Queen. Which is a great story: “She’d Better Put a Bell on It”

Like I say, those Dartmouth Boys do love their nicknames. It’s been ages since The Dude last sported a leather hat, but he and his bros still call each other by their college monikers.

Earlier this summer, one of Dude Man’s roommates, a man with the perfectly good name of Ken, contacted us to say he’d be in town — he and his lovely wife Ellen (no nickname that I know of) live in LA — and would we like to get together to have lunch?

“I’ll make a reservation, but it won’t be under “Jookbock,” was how he ended the conversation. See, Ken was quickly renamed “Bookjock” at Dartmouth because all he did was study. He studied all the time because he didn’t like Dartmouth (He really really wanted to go to Harvard) and wanted to get out of there as fast as he could. So he hit the books — “Bookjock” — and graduated early. Well, for some reason, “Bookjock” morphed into “Jookbock” (more fun to say, maybe? Dude Man can’t remember) and was eventually shortened to “Jook.” Which is pronounced like “book,” only with a “j.”

That’s “Oooo Come On,” or even more familiarly “Oooo” with The Dude and The Child as an actual child. He was called “Oooo Come On” because he was always urging himself on while playing squash. At D’mouth, of course

Also at this lunch was a guy named Gouda, whose mother named him Scott — a perfectly lovely name. I know because I have a brother named Scott. My Scott owes his Actual Name to a nickname — something I found out about at his Living Wake last week. (A thoroughly enjoyable event you can read about here.) Turns out Scott was named “Scott” in honor of our Dad’s nickname: “Scottie.” Dad got called this because when he was little his mother used him as kind of a dress dummy so she could pin up the hem of a skirt she was making for one of his sisters. Dad loved wearing the skirt and didn’t want to take it off. It was plaid — so, “Scottie.”

Two Younger Brothers at the Living Wake event last week. That’s Doug on the left and Scott-named-after-our-dad’s-nickname on the right

But back to the Dartmouth Scott. It was his mother who was responsible for the name “Gouda,” since she used to send him care packages of cheese. (At this point I have to wonder what kind of mother sends cheese care packages. My mom sent brownies, or sometimes Rice Krispy Treats.)

(Before I forget, I must point out, in the spirit of full disclosure, that the three Dartmouth guys in the photo at the top of this post are not, alas, Jook and Gouda. If they didn’t have nicknames, they certainly compensated with what appears to be a very nice marijuana crop.)

I’ll close by mentioning that The Dude and I did in fact have a most marvelous lunch with Gouda and Jook. Their wives too, though as far as I know, they don’t have nicknames. At least not nicknames they get called in public.

A gaggle of Dartmouth guys — all with nicknames

Amagansett, New York. August 2023

Easy as pi

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‘What The Child does every March 14’

It’s been quite a while since she wowed the math classes at Stuyvesant High School with her ability to recite pi to more than 400 places. But The Child still keeps her pi oar in, so to speak, by reciting pi to one hundred places every March 14. Which is still no mean feat.

Concentration is key. She says she imagines pictures. Or something

See, March 14 is Pi Day, when math nerds celebrate the one and only true magic number: π. Pi is 3.14 — get it? March 14 — a mathematical constant, never-ending, the circumference-to-diameter ratio of a circle.

But, math nerd or no, it’s still fun to watch her do her Pi Thing. He she was, just this morning:

Yes, braggety-brag brag brag, The Child has a knack for Pi reciting. She was so good at it at Stuy that the math department suspended the competition while she was student there — and just had her go around to the math classes and demonstrate.

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Technical difficulties

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‘On leaving the blogosphere for good. Almost.’

Those of you who have been reading my stories for a while (bless you) know that I try to publish fresh nonsense every week, usually on a Tuesday. If I miss a Tuesday, I’d better have a darned good reason — like going to a wedding or visiting my mom or roaming around in the jungle dodging leeches and internet holes.

The wedding, as the story appeared in the East Hampton Star. (No, don’t squint. You can read it by clicking here)

Well. The pretty good reason was that none of my subscribers got my last post. And if you write a post and your subscribers don’t get it, that’s kind of like dressing up in your fanciest duds just to hang out at home. You express yourself, sure. But what’s the point?

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Bed-Hopping, Seventies-Style

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‘It’s still pretty darned exhausting, if not exciting’

I woke up the other morning and, as I squinted blearily at an unfamiliar bedside view, thought to myself, “Where the heck am I?”

For a moment I was taken back to The Golden Olden Days when waking in an unfamiliar bed meant something, well, exciting had happened.

Strange beds but no strange bedfellows. A recent Air BnB nest

I remember, a few years ago when I was still doing some freelance ad writing, riding in a car with a group of much-younger female coworkers. Somehow we got on the topic of dating, and, let me tell you, these women were shocked — shocked! — when this other ad exec (also a female of about my vintage) and I started reminiscing.

We regaled these Twenty-Somethings with tales of office parties and hot tubs and Boone’s Farm and strip poker and one-night stands and The Munchies. We spoke of dating coworkers, dating clients, dating editors, dating art directors, even (heck yeah!) dating director directors. Sometimes (gasp) at the same time. 

Me, back when I was running around a lot

Of course, things were different then. Back when the earth’s crust was still cooling and I was in my Prime Dating Years, smoking couldn’t kill you, drinking couldn’t kill you, and certainly sex couldn’t kill you. Though you might end up with a little souvenir if you weren’t careful about the sex. Continue reading