I’m not taking sides.

I’m not taking prisoners.

According to the New York Post, “The kids have been coming home and telling their parents about the weird man who keeps coming to class to sing scary songs on his guitar. They just think of him as the weird guitar guy.”

That’s one of the myriad problem with the suburbs; weirdness is rarely appreciated.

Grover Norquist, an anti-tax extremist, opined that liberal politicians, “could redeem themselves in the eyes of the conservative movement despite their past records, just as some high school students take abstinence pledges even after having had sex. It’s called secondary virginity. It is a big movement in high school and also available for politicians.”

Secondary virginity?! As Bugs Bunny would have said, “What a maroon!”

I’ve seen how secondary virginity works in practice. As dumb ideas go, it’s right up there with making the world a better place by all but abandoning taxation for the wealthy.

“I don’t think I’ve read a better first half of a book,” she reported.

I liked her review; it reminded me of a similar observation by Ambrose Bierce, “The covers of this book are too far apart.”

The plan worked; we had no problem spotting each other, especially since she was carrying a sign announcing that she was looking for someone with 9.3 fingers. Once again, my missing finger has served me well.

As I get older and appreciate my mortality, I’m more and more conscious that there’ll be a last time I do everything: the last time I’ll land in Bangkok, the last time I’ll throw a snowball, et cetera. And so, it’s rather sobering—whiskey notwithstanding—to realize that this may be the last time I’ll see my eighty-five year old uncle. Except for my family, there’s no reason to travel the ten-thousand kilometers to Florida and back.

Another uncle, Don’s brother Russ, died after my last visit with him. I thought it wasn’t my final visit, but I was wrong. With dumb Rinehart luck, my pessimism will be as misplaced as my optimism was.