Way back when I was taking education classes at the University of Houston, one of the things I picked up that is still useful today is “Don’t ever say something in the classroom that you wouldn’t shout through the window.” I’ve said a lot of stuff under my breath in my classroom that, thankfully, never got picked up by a microphone. Facebook and Twitter and a host of other media megaphones were everywhere by the time I retired, but I resisted the urge to mutter anything that could be misconstrued, let alone be taken at face value, as offensive.

This invaluable lesson seems to elude a lot of people. Lately, of course, Roseanne Barr shot off her mouth straight into her foot with a tweet that destroyed her career within hours. Sure, we can argue that there are many others deserving of her fate. Karma is not always consistent. But the fact is she did it all by herself. I never had any use for her or her show, but she also took down an entire cast who had nothing to do with this.

If you can’t say something nice, figure out a way to say it anonymously without digital or physical fingerprints. June 2, 2018

I’ve got a lot of sand in the bottom of my hourglass. Seems like just yesterday I was saying “40 is really old!” After I turned 40, I thought, well, maybe 50 is old. After that, I just quit saying anything about it. And now I’m turning 60. I’ve been getting reminders that I’m getting old in the mail for the past several years. The AARP send me invitations to join, funeral homes send me lovely brochures on planning for the inevitable, and I prefer not to mention the Viagra emails clogging my Hotmail account.

Luby’s sent me a coupon for a free meal. I never pass up free food, so I showed up with an appetite. After several bites, I realized the reason so many old – I mean really old – people like to eat there is because the food is easy to chew. And bland.

As long as I have to be this age, I might as well make it clear what I want to be called. Polite society calls them – I mean (sigh!) us – “Senior Citizens.” “Seasoned Citizens” reeks of raw onions and garlic. Personally, I’d just as soon be called a “beat-up old citizen.”

Turning 60 has its privileges. Certainly, being mature is a matter of mind. There are just as many mature young people as there are idiotic older ones, although the more idiotic ones tend to remove themselves well before they can collect a pension. But as a rule, people pay more attention to you. There is more pressure to “act your age,” but by now it should come naturally. You don’t have to respond to every stupid comment you hear or read. You’re sixty, not sixteen. 

Take it easy. Young pups need us to demonstrate the proper reaction to uncivilized behavior is a shrug, a deep sigh, and the restraint not to beat someone into a coma. I survived 32 years as a high school teacher without a single count of homicide. Surely you can overlook some perceived slight.

I’m old enough to remember the Beatles, and young enough to enjoy them with my Bose headphones. I’m old enough to remember rotary phones, and young enough to adjust to cell phone technology. I’m old enough to remember when man first landed on the moon, and young enough to navigate the internet on my laptop. I’m a much better driver now than when I first left the DVM waving my new license in exultation. Good thing, because I have to drive across town to nearest Half-Price Books.

I’m a little bit slower, but I’m still young enough to get around on two legs. Fact is I get impatient when people get in my way, and most of them are kids. Embrace the gray, I remind myself. What’s the hurry? Luby’s doesn’t close until eight.

After I finally shuffle off this mortal coil, I can’t think of anything more appropriate for my marker than this epitaph for a Japanese philosopher named Togai: “He cared for nothing but books. His life was uneventful.” January 28, 2017

Apollo 17.jpgOne the great highlights in my life occurred when I was a teenager. I was at a music venue helping a friend set up equipment for a dance when in walked someone who meant more to me than any performer – Alan Shepard, the first American to get shot into space in the Mercury mission. I introduced myself, shook his hand, and went back to plugging in speakers.
Among the advantages to growing up in Houston was realizing that something of national importance was taking place right here. Although I was too young to truly appreciate the magnitude of what was going on, a sense of pride permeated everything. I knew men who worked at NASA. In fact, my oldest brother worked for NASA. I saved newspaper clippings of the exploits of our astronauts, and dreamed of becoming one. A fear of heights and claustrophobia is a bad combination for would-be space explorers, so I wisely set my sights a little “lower.”

Just a few years before Alan Shepard “slipped the surly bonds of earth,” Charles Lindbergh audaciously flew across the Atlantic. In fact, the famed aviator actually met Neil Armstrong, Gene Cernan and Jim Lovell. (But for a mishap, one of them would have walked on the moon.) Barely 70 years separated the legendary solo flight and the flight to the moon. Now consider the sheer magnitude of technological knowledge necessary to expedite this mission, and consider the primitive state of computers compared to their ubiquitous presence.

Just a couple of weeks ago Lisa and I listened to Walter Cunningham of Apollo 7 speak at the University of Houston Clear Lake campus. A month earlier, John Glenn died. I was almost finished reading (again) First on the Moon when news of Gene Cernan’s passing was broadcast. The very last man to leave the moon was also the last to leave earth.

Another member of the Greatest Generation has come and gone. I’m grateful that I was here for the ride. - January 19, 2017

Bob Dylan's Simple Twist of Fate
Bob Dylan, nee Robert Zimmerman, after a half-century of representing anti-establishment sensibilities, has done it again. First, he shocked the world by plugging in a guitar and, unfortunately, a microphone. Then he accepted the Nobel
Peace Prize for Literature. Talk about a simple twist of fate. The times they are a-changing. (I could go on and on. He made 37 albums.)

Well, why not? Obama got a Nobel Prize before he even took office. And look how successful he has been, spreading peace all over the world in places like Syria, Libya, Iraq, and Georgia – one of the original Red states, not the one between Florida and South Carolina – and the Crimea, and . . . well, you get the idea.

In recent years, it seems the only two considerations for the prize is obscurity and unreadability. So, I think it’s great that someone got this award for writing something that makes sense.

Not everyone in the artistic community agrees, however. Rabish Alameddine, a previous winner, sniffed, “Bob Dylan winning a Nobel in literature is almost as silly as Winston Churchill.” Oh, really? Churchill? The one who helped defeat Nazi Germany and win World War II? Or the one who wrote The History of the English-Speaking People and a dozen other widely-praised works? He also had no use for the Bard: “I read Shakespeare when I was 14 . . . I think that’s a problem, a remnant of colonialism.” Alameddine is a master of the non-linear narrative, which is probably like reading William Faulkner on acid. One or the other or both.

A youth-oriented blog, Vice, opined that “Dylan’s win won’t tarnish the Nobel in the eyes of the world . . . But maybe this help writers care less about awards in general, and focus more their arbitrariness.” No kidding? I had already reached that conclusion when Obama was awarded the Nobel.

Let’s take a deep breath. It’s not as if Dylan won the award for his singing. His Christmas in the Heart album alone would have taken care of that. But now that musicians are fair game, Paul Simon should definitely be next. - October 15, 2016

In case you missed it, Barbra Streisand is coming to Houston. A blurb from an ad in the Houston Chronicle gushed “Barbra Streisand sounded like diamonds, and porcelain, and a freshly drawn bath and consomm√©.  – The New York Times
Honestly, if I had turned in a paper with something like that in college my professor would have speared it to my chest with a red pen.
Diamonds, okay. She sounds like diamonds. Diamonds sparkle, and they retail for more than diamondoids, even diamondelles. What does porcelain sound like? My bathtub is made of porcelain, and I have to scrub it now and then. Maybe it’s like the porcelain with that freshly-drawn bath that leaves a ring. But not just any ring – a DIAMOND ring. The kind that sparkles like Barbra’s voice, even after I take a bath.

I’m stumped with the consomm√© thing. It’s a broth that moms make for the kids when they can’t hold down anything else. So maybe Barbra’s like chicken soup for the soul. Or someone sick to his stomach.
I’m more astonished that the blurb didn’t end with an exclamation mark. I guess that would be too over-the-top.
Well, I guess we have to allow for some gushery when someone from the New York Times says it. I still say Linda Richman, the hostess of Coffee Talk (“Give us a call. We’ll talk. Drink coffee. No big whoop.”) did better: She’s like buttah. Like melted buttah!” - October 1, 2016
Venerable conservative pundit George Will touched off a hailstorm of responses to a column denouncing denim. Yes, blue jeans are verboten with this crotchety bow-tie-wearing columnist. “Sartorial good taste,” he opines, “can be reduced to one rule: If Fred Astaire would not have worn it, don’t wear it. For women, substitute Grace Kelly.” Of course, Fred Astaire never pushed a grocery cart in any of his movies. Nor did Grace Kelly. I just hope she was properly attired when she drove her car off a mountain.
I’d be happy to dress like the Tapster, but  the climate here on the Gulf Coast would kill a bull moose. 

Unless I’m going to work when I leave the house, I wear shorts, a t-shirt and sandals. Everything is clean, and I tuck my shirt in. A belt holds up the goods, and I make a three-point check for wallet, cell phone, zipper. I don't want to frighten old ladies.

Other than that, I have two hard and fast rules. First, blue jeans are not acceptable in church. Second, if my children ever see me in public wearing bicycle shorts, they are under oath to shoot me through the back of my head. – August 13, 2016

Famed astrophysicist Stephen Hawking believes humans are capable of time travel.  The Daily Mail reported that Hawking also stated it was “entirely reasonable” to assume aliens existed, and if he could go backwards he’d visit Marilyn Monroe in her prime or drop in on Galileo. Earlier in his life as an armchair (wheelchair?) theorist, he avoided such talk for fear of being labeled a crank. "These days I’m not so cautious.”

Hm. Time travel. Aliens of the third kind we don't want to meet. I think I liked Hawking better when he was the undisputed geek of the world.

At some point it becomes obvious that college smarts ain't necessarily better than common-sense smarts. A healthy balance is my aim, and I like to think I hit reasonably close to a bull's-eye. - March 9, 2015

Maintaining Dignity in the Digital Age
When one reaches a certain age, one is subjected to a new range of humiliations in the privacy (one hopes) of the physician's office. One also resorts to a new range of strategies to salvage one's self-esteem, such as referring to oneself in the third person, as I already have six times. 

There is a lot of time to reflect on this new position in life while hunched over the examining table. Naturally, the first thought which comes to mind is how to escape. As my pants were hanging about my ankles at that moment, my mind cast about for something else. All I could come up with was a face-saving, as it were, method of maintaining my dignity and sanity. "When all else fails," as one wag in CENTCOM put it, "simply revel in the absurdity of it all."

So I came up with a list of  


1. There’s gold in them thar hills!

2. The latex glove is ribbed for your pleasure.

3. How about a free sample of minty suppositories to freshen up down here?

4. This month we’re offering an oil change at no extra charge with your lube job.

5. Hey! Here’s that ring I lost a year ago!

6. You’re number 198 this year. Two more of these and it’s Sweet Miami Beach, here I come!

7. Would you mind rubbing my eyes? I hate to stop now to wash my hands.

8. You seem to have a lot of wiggle room here. Got any friends I don’t know about?

9. Oh, great! I just lost my place and I have to start all over.

10. Would you mind humming a few bars of “I Feel Pretty”? I work better with music.

11. When I was in med school, we used to call the guys who wouldn’t do this without gloves as a bunch of weenies.

12. I don’t know about you, but I find it interesting that sausage is food that gets stuffed in an intestine twice. - July 11, 2009

Chen Fuchao, a man heavily in debt, had been contemplating suicide on a bridge in southern China for hours when a 66-year-old passerby came up, shook his hand - and pushed him off the ledge. Apparently, the traffic-clearer was fed up with what he called Chen's "selfish activity." Traffic around the bridge had been backed up for five hours and police had cordoned off the area.

Pushing the poor unfortunate man wasn't bad enough. Then the geezer whipped out a ghetto blaster packed with enough bass booster to blast holes in the concrete, pushed the play button, and busted some Mao Moves to the tune Jump by Van Halen. He was wearing a red scarf which added an element of danger as the onlookers thought he was a Blood carrying out a hit. 

He left the scene pumping his fist in the air yelling "Power to the People!" Confusion spread among the crowd. Was this a new state direction to denounce usurpers of peace and tranquility? Or was this simply an atavistic resurgence of the sacred elderly exercising their prerogative to put those bourgeois whiners in their place for usurping peace and tranquility?

The Feng Shit hit the fan when Jackie Chan catapulted on the scene and whipped an unshod foot upside the head of some sassy, insouciant youth, and screamed in his native Cantonese that Chinese are ill-equipped to handle liberty, and motioned the Red Guard to restore order with tanks and automatic weapons. - May 2009

Don’t Worry! Don’t Worry! Don’t Worry! 
It’s Only a Theater of the Absurd!

Fingernails on chalkboard.
Amazon warrior with left breast caught in wringer.
Most unfortunate bullfighter is gored.
Pull my finger [imitate sound of flatulence – can you smell the wind?]  Now I’m a singer!

Have you heard enough?
Ah, so!
I married to famous Beatle!

My talent in singing matched by talent in art and poetry.
Climb ladder, turn over the card and see.

Did you wait in record store?
Did you stand in line?
Did you take number nine nine nine
Nine nine nine
Nine nine nine
? ? ?
? ? ?
? ? ?

I am merely talentless psychotic.
Eat grapefruit with antibiotic.
Hit your head on the wall.
That will drown out the noise!
December 26, 2005

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