Why? You’ll find out shortly.

For now, let’s just say that it’s time to post “Juice Abuse” again, with an update that addresses, among other things, the power of storytelling. I implore you to take a minute and first read (or reread) the original essay for context. Mahalo.

One bright spring morning some 55 years ago, my father and 10-year-old me sat together in the family dining room, finishing our breakfast cereal. Dad, a tall, strapping man sporting a high-and-tight crew cut, wore a crisply ironed white shirt and narrow black tie, the de facto uniform of all corporate types during the early ’70s.

I finished my Froot Loops and, running late for school, gulped down about half of my fresh-squeezed orange juice before grabbing my dishes, dumping what remained of the juice into the kitchen sink and heading for the front door.

“Wait a minute,” I heard my dad say as I opened the door.

“What?”

My father headed over to the sink. “Get over here.”

“Dad, I’m late for – .”

“Get. Over. Here. Now.”

I ambled over to him.

Reaching into the sink, he snatched the garbage disposal strainer that held what remained of the orange juice I’d just discarded, and poured it into a glass.

“Drink it,” he commanded.

“But dad, I – ”

Reaching down and grabbing onto my chin with a meaty paw, my 6’4”, 230-pound father jerked my head up and bent over so I was nearly eye to eye with him.

“Kid, I’m not asking you. I’m telling you. Drink it.”

At this point, I had two options: Swallow the slop, like a good, compliant boy, or paint Dad in my favorite shade of orange.

To this day, so many decades later, I regret not spraying OJ all over him. I’m sorry I didn’t lash out and – for once honoring a sensitive, frail spirit that had been damaged long before this morning – accept the consequences.

Instead, without a word, I swallowed the orange juice.

Just like I’d always swallowed my anger. Just like I’d always swallowed all of my feelings.

The half century that followed this fateful morning can be encapsulated in a nutshell: I’ve swallowed, buried, denied, and glossed over my feelings ever since.

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Friends have told me that I really didn’t have any other option back then, that drinking the sink slop was the only way that little boy would be safe, perhaps even survive.

They could be right. Who knows?

People who survive childhood trauma, those souls targeted by their perpetrator’s long-buried anger and shame, often “internalize the abuser,” in a way becoming the abuser. In doing so, they ultimately treat themselves with far greater brutality than their abuser ever had.

One day I’d like to forgive my father. I’d like to weep at his gravesite and tell him that I understand where he came from, how his behavior had all been about projecting his own deeply buried feelings, feelings from a past he’d never shared.

And when that happens, maybe I can start to forgive myself.

UPDATE: Today, I’m happy to report that this story has taken a turn for the better, that the story itself has changed.

After decades of self-harm rooted in identifying with the abuser – unconsciously turning the abuser’s cruelty inward and continually treating myself the way he only occasionally treated me – I’m experiencing the “retrospective magic” of storytelling. For example, as I’ve reflected on my past through writing, my father has cropped up in a number of essays, memories that manifested long after the original publication of “Juice Abuse.” Here are a few examples (with links following this essay):

In “A Tender Moment,” I reflected on the time my father took a risk when I was a little boy and showed an affectionate, vulnerable side I’d never before seen in my young life, and how I reciprocated this tenderness four decades later, just a few days before he passed.

“The Prank That Never Happened” is the story of how, just one day after Dad died, I was tempted to furnish some silly fibs to the funeral officiant about the man and his life, fibs that would’ve been included in his eulogy. In choosing to tell Dad’s truth, however, I was able to look deeper into the whole person – a good person – beyond my former myopic viewpoint.

And “Howie in High Gloss” recounts the “edible prank” my parents played on my brother and me, and how we reciprocated by painting a gaudy mural in their home, one depicting a media blowhard viewed unfavorably by my folks. Dad’s sense of humor came to the fore in this one.

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Before I wrote these stories, I saw my father as little more than a bully. But thanks to the magic of storytelling, I’ve been able to see him in a far more objective, accepting manner. Is this storytelling magic – this seeming ability to rewrite the past through recollection – rooted in psychology? Neurology? Even spirituality?

For now, I only have one answer: Yes…

These essays didn’t come about by mere chance. Rather – and at the risk of going all New Agey and “woo-woo” – it’s as if my Higher Self has invited me to use an innate, long-dormant gift to see my father from a more expansive, holistic perspective. By seeing and actually re-experiencing my life with the “whole man,” I’m sensing a new, wondrous (yet oddly terrifying) feeling: forgiveness.

This process, I’m happy to add, includes forgiving myself. Is that cool or what?

This all begs another question: What, beyond storytelling, is behind this expanded perspective, this awakening?

New York Times best-selling author (and extraordinarily sharp cookie) Daniel Pink believes that when we recall an event, our memory becomes pliable, that new context or emotional meaning can be added to the original. This “metacognition,” our ability to think about our own thinking, actually makes our memories editable. As such, we can leverage this to change a given memory, to literally change our past. Pink adds that our noggins are already hard-wired for it; all we have to do is use it.

Apparently, through storytelling – and a HUGE amount of support from like-minded writers – I’ve been using it.

Still, I’d love to understand the deeper elements behind this shift toward forgiveness, toward acceptance. What have I learned, about my Dad and his past or about my own life, that’s led to this recent evolution?

I have no idea.

All I can do, at least for now, is be grateful for what’s been happening, and to know that I’ll likely address this whole confusing ball of wax in a future essay.

In the meantime, I’m content to squeeze a bit more out of life.

A TENDER MOMENT
My father never told me how he really felt. It took me decades to realize that he never had to.

THE PRANK THAT NEVER HAPPENED
The truth about my father emerged only after a side journey through LarryLand.

HOWIE IN HIGH-GLOSS
A tale of one loudmouth, two pranks, and a lifetime of belly laughs.

If you scroll up just a tad, you’ll see a reference to the HUGE amount of support I’ve received in my storytelling journey. That support comes from Write Hearted, a wonderful online writing community. (The flip side of the same coin: I wouldn’t be doing any of this without this fine gathering of wordsmiths.)

I thank the following Write Hearted members for their feedback and support as this essay was being rejiggered: Rick Lewis, Kathy Ayers, James Bailey, Rachel Parker, Dana Allen and Linda Kaun.

Some of the participants smiled. Others held stern looks of determination.

Me? I was ready to exit the pool. Some 20 minutes earlier, I’d literally immersed myself in my future … and that future looked mighty bleak.

But I’m getting way ahead of myself.

A few weeks earlier, I’d sat at my desk, once again failing to focus on a manuscript. Perhaps it was the sterile cubicle maze I shared with my fellow editors. It could’ve been the windowless, industrial blue walls or the soul-sucking fluorescent lights. Or maybe the problem was in my noggin.

For whatever reason, my mind tended to drift while on the job. I’d occasionally nod off … or make inexplicable errors … or leave my six-by-nothing cube to wander around the office. (Thank goodness I was a copy editor and not, say, an air traffic controller.)

Earlier that day, I’d stumbled across an online ad touting the benefits of joining the AARP. These included can’t-miss discounts on Dentu-Creme, 365-day pill organizers, those goofy walk-in bathtubs and, if memory serves, Apple’s “Magnify Everything” package.

Then it dawned on me: Uh-oh. I’m officially a senior citizen.

Sure, I’d been contacted by the AARP some four years earlier. (How they managed to locate someone in the U.S. Federal Witness Protection Program is anyone’s guess.) But I’d never really pondered what life would be like as a Full-Blown Codger™.

Now, slumping in my office chair, ponder I did. And it scared the hell out of me.

I envisioned years of early-afternoon TV dinners; tedious, bicker-filled Scrabble marathons; evenings snoring in front of low-def ‘70s game shows, played at 100 decibels due to high-deaf ears; and far too many trips to the local podiatrist. (Those toenails weren’t going to trim themselves).

Fate intervened the following week, when Tim, a rail-thin Gen-X writer with a collection of Hawaiian-print ties and a discomfiting eye tick, told me about Senior Splash, a local water-exercise class geared for fogies. I saw it as an opportunity to literally dip my toes into the waters of an uncertain future.

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As the Big Day approached, I pictured myself surrounded by a group of seniors, all of them cackling away about D-Day or the advent of indoor plumbing or whatever. And I grew a tad concerned at the prospect of repeatedly getting kneed in the nether regions by cellulite- and varicose vein–covered legs, or karate-chopped in the neck by an overly enthusiastic fossil flailing away to a disco tune.

Then I figured: Live on the edge, baby. Go for it.

I checked into the city of Irvine’s Woollett Aquatics Center on a sunny Wednesday morning, changed into Spiderman board shorts and shuffled toward the pool. There, I strapped a blue flotation device to my chest and grabbed two Styrofoam dumbbells designed to provide underwater resistance.

Anticipating the Big Event, I’d undergone an upper-body wax job the previous day. Why? Most of the folks in my end of the gene pool are living, breathing reminders that evolution is a fact, not a theory. Given our hirsute appearance, I’d always found it easy to picture all four grandparents falling out of fig trees and hobbling their way to the nearest cave, where they proceeded to capture lizards and discover fire.

Oh sure, the wax job had hurt like the dickens, but the pain compensated for the shame of having total strangers at the local beach check my hands for opposable thumbs or offer me fruit. “Don’t look straight at it,” a concerned father might warn his kids. “It might take that as a sign of aggression.”

Anyway, my newly bald bod proudly gleaming in the mid-afternoon sunlight, I entered the pool and crab-paddled with the others toward the deep end. Minutes later, a young, perky woman (my guess is that I owned underwear older than her parents), fired up a boom box. I expected a tune preferred by the denture-clacking set, like “Frank Sinatra’s Greatest Hits” – “hits” referring to Uncle Frankie’s reputed ties with organized crime. However, a high-energy Beyoncé tune got us moving.

As we flailed our way through a variety of resistance exercises that gave our grease-clogged tickers a nice jumpstart, I spotted a fellow 60-something hitting me with his best stink-eye. I could tell this wasn’t his first chlorinated rodeo, no siree. His sour expression seemed to say, Get off my turf, Bucko. Find your own pool.

Then it occurred to me: He wasn’t there to burn calories. Seeking an early retirement, this poor sap was trolling for a Sugar Mama.

I immediately pictured Loverboy grinning like a Cheshire cat as he fell backward in slow motion onto a king-sized (adjustable) bed that had been covered with diamonds and $100 bills. The odds were in his favor, since I counted about 15 women and only four males thrashing away in the pool. (And the other two dudes appeared to be Civil War veterans; no competition there.)

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Maybe he’s on to something, I thought as I considered my near-empty nest egg at the time: little more than fistfuls of $10 and $20 bills stuffed into a cigar box.

That wasn’t the only thing that seemed empty.

Taking in my fellow oldsters, I began to wonder what kind of lives they’d led prior to this moment: their wins and loves and losses; their dreams, fulfilled or forever deferred; their aching regrets. Scissor-kicking and shifting to a new arm movement, I found myself pondering what meaning or purpose they might’ve developed during their lives.

“Purpose” and “meaning” had never been in my vocabulary. No real dreams, no loves, no losses … just a long series of bleak memories that, at the moment, translated into an equally bleak future.

That’s when I decided to quit and began to crab-paddle away from the group.

I wanted out of the pool … out of everything.

“Keep at it!” a voice to my left bellowed. “You got this!”

It was Loverboy, the guy who I thought had given me the stink eye. With an encouraging smile, he nodded in my direction.

“Name’s Phil,” he added. “C’mon, work with me! Let’s crank this out together!”

Phil and I fell into a shared rhythm. Maybe it was an endorphin rush. Maybe it was my buddy. But I soon began to feel better. Life, at least at that moment, was okay.

That’s when it dawned on me: I didn’t need any Grand, World-Changing Purpose. Maybe all the Life Affirming Meaning I needed came from that very moment, in that sunny pool session.

And who knows? Perhaps my future was – and is – composed of singular, present-time moments to notice, to appreciate, to savor.

Senior Splash ended sooner than I’d expected. As my fellow soaked seniors and I exited the pool, I turned to my new friend.

“Thank you, Phil,” I said. “I needed that.”

“Stick with it,” he replied. “See you soon.”

Before Senior Swim, I’d thought that exercising with a bunch of kibitzing oldsters would be torturous. I’ve never been more wrong.

Maybe you see your own future as a time of decline and loss. But aging can be rooted in positive human qualities: community, vitality, humor and – despite a certain shameless writer rocking a pink bathing cap – even dignity.

Why fret over the future, when our Almighty Grand Purpose is there for the taking, in every present moment? And how the hell is that not meaningful?

Speaking personally, who knows? If I show up to Senior Splash on a regular basis, I could meet $Miss Right$ – and I’ll be the one slow-falling onto a bed covered in cash and diamonds.

That, at the very least, is a future worth pondering.

Kudos to the fabulous folks in my Write Hearted community, for their valuable feedback and encouragement as this essay was bubbling to the surface: Matt Cyr, Rick Lewis, Dana Allen, Kathy Ayers, Alden Cox and Linda Kaun. Y’all can jump into the pool with me any time!

I was packing boxes, preparing to move to a new apartment, when my gaze focused on a tiny spider plant thriving in a sunny corner of my bedroom, a sprout that just days earlier had been carefully separated from its much larger “mother plant” and placed into water to develop roots. I’d transplanted it into fresh soil a week later.

Given a recent gut-punch of a loss, this solitary creature, one literally rooted in past generations of spider plants, brought to mind the nature of human impermanence: how we all reach a point in time when our bodies can no longer support our souls. As I took in the tiny plant, it occurred to me that death, like life itself, is a universal mandate from the Cosmos that we all must eventually face.

Several spider plant cuttings placed in water had been gifted to me by the family of a good friend who’d passed about two weeks earlier. My understanding is that Bob, who’d died peacefully in his sleep at age 90, had never really cared for houseplants, but that he’d taken on this task to honor his late wife, Doris, who’d passed about 10 years earlier.

It turned out that Bob had a knack for nurturing houseplants. Then again, he’d always had a knack for nurturing pretty much everything. About a week after my friend left this Earthly Plane, some 30 folks gathered in his Prescott, Arizona, home to pay our respects and reminisce about a life well lived. There, family members offered a vibrant variety of art work to take, as well as green cuttings from Bob’s and Doris’ plants.

That was typical Bob: extending his life and love even after embracing his own impermanence …

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I’d arrived in Prescott six years earlier, having packed up my Toyota Matrix and left Southern California only four weeks after first scouting out the Northern Arizona town. Although Prescott’s down-home Western charm and century-old downtown called to me at a visceral level, when I arrived I didn’t know a soul. Only years later did I realize how very lonely I’d been.

One of the possessions I’d managed to fit into my Toyota for the move was “Brutus,” a hearty pothos houseplant gifted to me some 35 years earlier. Over the decades, Brutus and I had together endured multiple moves, as well as so many of life’s spectacular highs and lows.

The morning after spending a stressful night in a local fleabag dump (“hotel” would be stretching the definition), and still without a clue as to where I’d live, my old friend Brutus committed suicide.

Actually, he slipped off my recently waxed hood as I was shifting contents in the car, and crashed onto the asphalt, shattering his pot. Biting back a scream of pent-up anger, I muttered several f-bombs and, in a rageful panic, tossed the houseplant into a nearby trash can. The previous day or so had been stressful beyond words, and I’d never handled stress well; when I hit critical mass and something within me snapped, I blew up. Brutus was the unintended victim. (To this day it absolutely kills me that I didn’t rush my decades-long compatriot to the nearest nursery for botanical resuscitation. It remains one of my most profound regrets.)

About a week later, I was sitting in a local coffee shop, working on an article for a SoCal newspaper and still battling “new-in-town-freefall mode” – I was far from thrilled with the place I’d moved into and I’d yet to make any friends – when a diminutive elderly gentleman sitting to my right tapped me on the shoulder.

“Where did you get that thing?” he inquired.

The friendly fellow was referring to a unique collapsable laptop holder that raised my MacBook to eye level. (I’d seen people hunched over their own laptops, and, at six-four, I knew that doing so myself would eventually lead to a deep and lasting relationship with the local chiropractor.) After showing Bob the device, we began talking.

What seemed like 20 or so minutes later in conversation, I looked at my watch. Two hours had passed. This was something that I’d grow to expect when spending time with Bob. While my new friend was a lot of things, he was, first and foremost, the most extraordinarily curious person I’d ever known. The result: Our conversations always had a way of bending time.

“Hey,” I eventually said, glancing from an overworked barista to Bob, “we gotta stay in touch.”

“Absolutely!” So we swapped phone numbers.

Doing so forever changed the course of my life.

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About three months after settling in Prescott, I stumbled across an image on the internet, one depicting a kitten embracing a tiny duckling. It’s not by accident that the first person I shared this with was my new friend, Bob.

He loved it … so much so that, for the rest of his life, he used that image in his email signature, adding three words that encapsulated this wonderful human being so aptly: “Love and Light.”

Although Bob was a kind, gentle soul, he had a slightly subversive bent, and was often willing to question authority figures and institutions.

Case in point: A few months ago, I was scheduled to undergo a medical procedure, which I shall not disclose, at the local hospital. (Hint: the procedure, which involved a rather hefty dose of propofol, rhymes with “colonoscopy.” ‘Nuff said.) The hospital’s marching orders prohibited post-op patients, still returning from Planet Plastered, from driving themselves home. Bob had agreed to give me a ride.

Maybe it was the old, detail-oriented copy editor in me, but one day a light bulb went off in my noggin.

“I got an idea,” I told my medical chauffeur. “My paperwork says, quote, ‘The patient must be picked up from the hospital by another driver. Rideshare services are prohibited.’ Notice anything funny about the wording, Bob?”

“No, not really.”

“The operative words here are, ‘must be picked up.’ It doesn’t say anything about where you’ll take me, now does it?”

With a playful gleam in his eyes, my nonagenarian friend smiled.

The following day, Bob did indeed pick me up at the hospital. From there, we drove an estimated 75 yards to my parked car, where he let me out.

Mission accomplished.

“You okay?” Bob asked as I semi-wobbled toward my car.

“I’m good,” I said, grinning. “And thanks.”

With an expression that can only say, Hell yeah, we beat the system, my friend gave me a brisk salute and threw his Subaru into gear.

Still a bit more groggy than I care to admit, I drove myself back to my apartment, all the while watching for burning, overturned vehicles and flattened pedestrians in my rear-view mirror.

A humorless, by-the-book rules follower might’ve seen himself as a possible accessory to vehicular manslaughter. But to my generous, gracious friend, our little stunt was wicked fun.

Just three weeks later, Bob died peacefully in his sleep. With that, the world was down one extraordinary human being.

Today, thanks to Bob and several other wonderful friends, as well as a conscious choice to avoid a jail cell known as “my comfort zone,” I’m finally in a position to redeem myself, to atone for the demise of Brutus, my old houseplant. I intend to do so by nurturing that baby spider plant, and many more like it, all gifted to me by Bob through his loving family.

Nurturing anything – and, perhaps most glaringly and tragically, nurturing myself – has never come easy. (Why? That’s another essay.) However, thanks to Bob and the many wonderful friends I’ve met through him, I’m finally learning, kicking and screaming, I might add, how to do just that.

Bob, you embodied “Love and Light” in every word, in every action. Speaking for everyone blessed to know you, I’ll forever miss your engaging, always-curious and occasionally subversive ways.

And every time I’ll nurture your and Doris’ tiny spider plant – and the many, many more green souls that I promise will thrive in my new apartment – I’ll think of you and revel in your “Love and Light.”

Your plants, like your legacy, will always remind us of how, paradoxically, impermanence lasts forever.

Kudos to the fine folks in my Write Hearted community for their valuable input while this essay was being drafted: Rachel Parker, Neha Patel and Rick Lewis.

And thank again, Bob, for everything.

My brother’s expression shifted from calm confidence to befuddled annoyance as he cut into the birthday cake. Shaking his head slightly, Jeff hesitated when the knife’s smooth forward motion was halted by an object apparently even denser than the Thanksgiving turkey he’d carved about an hour earlier.

Since Jeff and I were both born in late November, the Urish clan always combined our birthdays with the annual turkey feast. Hence the cake.

He withdrew the knife, briefly pursed his lips and took a slow, measured breath before sticking the utensil back into the cake. A moment later, he said, “What the heck’s going on?”

Curiosity piqued, about a dozen family members gathered in the kitchen, glancing at my brother in confusion.

Our parents, however, didn’t look the least bit confused. “You’re doing great,” Dad said, grinning and shooting a quick glance at Mom. “Keep at it.”

Shrugging and sighing in frustration, Jeff suddenly turned into Captain Bizarro, withdrawing the knife and beginning to probe the cake with his fingers.

“Hold on,” he said, like a nervous OB-GYN intern. “It’s coming out. Just a sec.”

My brother soon extracted – get this – a book from the birthday cake. Acknowledging the sugar-coated tome’s author, outrageous “shock jock” Howard Stern, he briefly smiled and dropped his head in mock resignation before glancing over at Mom and Dad.

Then he began laughing.

And when he showed me exactly what he’d extracted, I began to laugh as well.

At the book. At my parents. At a prank very well played.

The Rise of an Articulate Buffoon

I can tell you the exact moment I became a follower of Howard Stern.

It was August of 1988, and Stern was hosting an obscure cable TV talk show that aired in the wee hours of the morning. His guest on this particular episode was Richard Simmons, the flamboyant, short-shorts-rockin’ diet-and-exercise guru.

Simmons was there to plug Deal-a-Meal, his popular weight loss program that used a card system to help dieters manage their food intake. Joining Stern and Simmons in the studio were (I’ll try to be delicate here) three rather “big-boned” Deal-a-Meal devotees who’d recently shed a few pounds but, God bless ’em, were nowhere near their goal weight.

What Stern did next made me bolt upright in bed, jaw dropped and eyes bugged out in amazement.

As the always energetic Simmons began to blather away about Deal-a-Meal, Stern reached behind his desk and procured a fishing pole. Tied to the end of the pole’s line was a huge bag of Lay’s potato chips, which Stern proceeded to playfully dangle and bounce in front of the faces of the befuddled guests while Simmons continued to discuss his diet program.

This cannot be happening, I thought. This Stern knucklehead is either gonna become a household name … or get tossed into the Hudson River.

Pulling audacious stunts like this nearly every time he was on the air, Stern bragged and bellowed his way to fame via both radio and TV syndication, eventually becoming the self-proclaimed “King of All Media.”

While I may have been a casual follower of Howard Stern, my brother, Jeff had become a full-blown fan.

“I’d listen to him during my morning commute,” Jeff recalled during a recent conversation. “I liked many of the serious points he’d make, but some of the stunts he pulled were really nuts. You never knew what’d happen.”

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Rejected by Pops & Mumzie

Thanks to his bombastic lunacy and heavy handed, boastful ranting, millions of Americans loved Howard Stern.

And millions of other Americans wanted to, well, toss him into the Hudson River.

My parents? They fell, without a doubt, into the latter camp.

Straight-laced and conventional right wingers with roots reaching back to the Eisenhower-era ’50s, Mom and Dad were disgusted with Howard Stern’s long, flowing locks, eccentric manner of dress, and grandiose, self-promoting histrionics. It didn’t help that, along with politicians and A-listers either bold enough or stupid enough to stroll into his studio, many of Stern’s guests happened to be strippers and porn “actors.” No bar was ever too low for Stern and his production team of irreverent, knuckle-headed misfits.

“Mom and Dad never realized that Howard was in many ways quite conservative,” my brother said years later. “They refused to see past the hair, the dark sunglasses, the crazy stunts and all the bragging.”

Over a period of months, Jeff patiently tried to get Mom and Dad to see Stern in a different light, even purchasing a copy of his best-setter, “Private Parts,” to spark their curiosity.

My folks wanted no part of it.

“Gotcha!”

Stepping closer to the birthday cake, my father nodded his chin in the direction of my brother and, pointing at me, said, “Gotcha, boys! You both had it coming. And just for the record, it was your mother’s idea.”

My parents, beaming like little kids at Disneyland, had tasked the local baker with embedding a copy of Stern’s follow-up best-seller, “Miss America,” into our birthday cake. Their unwritten message: Here ya go, kids. We’ll read something published by this ass-clown the day hell freezes over.

Art Therapy

A few months later, I answered a phone call from my brother.

“I got an idea,” Jeff said. I could hear the excitement in his voice. “It’s about Mom and Dad. You’re gonna love this.”

“I’m listening.”

“They’re going on a cruise next week, down to Baja. While they’re gone, what do you think about pulling a fast one on ‘em?”

“By ‘fast one,’ I imagine you mean a prank, yes?” I said. “I’m 90 percent there. Put me over the top.”

So he did.

My first visceral reaction: Mom and Dad would write us out of their will, something not terribly appealing, since at the time I was, as Mozart would probably say, flat baroque.

But when I pondered Jeff’s wicked tomfoolery for another moment, I had to smile.

“Okay, I’m all in,” I said. “Let’s do this.”

The following week, while the old folks were whiling away their days stuffing themselves silly, enjoying shipboard comedy and magic acts, and soaking up the Mexican Riviera sun, my brother and I planned to slip into their house and paint a massive mural in their garage. The mural in question would depict – yeah, you know where this is headed – none other than their blathering nemesis, Howard Stern.

Given our artistic limitations (my giant string designs notwithstanding) we needed to base our mural on a very simple image, one requiring only a few colors. Using an overhead projector, we traced the design in pencil and for a few hours played “Crayola Time” with high-gloss paint. Easy-peasy.

Oh, but my brother didn’t stop there. He took the copy of the “Miss America” bestseller that Mom and Dad had buried in the cake a few months earlier … and embedded that same book in the garage wall next to the mural, covering it with plexiglass.

Jeff and I weren’t sure how our folks – especially Dad, who didn’t always see things quite as giggle-worthy as the rest of us – would react. As the paint dried and we cleaned up the garage, I pictured Pops saying something like, “Very funny. Now paint this thing over – or there’s gonna be hell to pay.”

But they loved it.

“What you boys did, that happens to be one of the highlights of my life,” Mom said more than once.

Dad concurred: “You guys got us good,” he’d say, shaking his head and smiling. “That Stern fella’s still a jerk, but you got us good.”

Decades later, I realize that both pranks – my parents’ Turkey Day Cake Caper and the High-Gloss Howie Counterpunch – had nothing to do with Stern. It was how one family learned to deal with divergent opinions, affection and identity through humor. Ultimately, it was about love.

We never said “I love you” with words. Rather, we expressed it by knowing exactly what would annoy one another … and doing it anyway, just gently enough that everyone ended up laughing.

Long after the paint had dried, visitors who found themselves in the garage might’ve assumed that our family had some kind of dysfunctional, deeply unresolved issue with Howard Stern.

The truth was simpler: We just had a deeply resolved way of showing how we cared for each other.

Still, to this day, I have only one regret about all these shenanigans: Given another chance, we would’ve gladly painted the mural in my folks’ living room.

Kudos to friends in my online community, Write Hearted, for their feedback and support: Rick Lewis, Dana Allen, Matt Cyr, Neha Patel, Rachel Parker and Kathy Ayers. Y’all rock!

Maybe this post will get some reaction, I thought. Maybe it’ll create some buzz … finally.

I stared at my laptop, feeling my face grow red with frustration … or was it shame?

No cute “heart” or “thumbs-up” emojis had popped up. Not a single comment, share or private message.

As I glanced around my room – tired eyes darting from overwatered spider plant to laser printer to lime-green lava lamp – I half expected to hear that cliched ripping sound of a needle being yanked across a vinyl record. That’s because every single one of my Facebook posts had been ignored.

This time, however, my frustration was mixed with confusion, since this last post was unlike any I’d ever shared … by a long shot.

I first opened a Facebook account in the spring of 2010, right around the time the Zuckerberg Coding Legion had back-handed digital upstarts Friendster and MySpace off the social media radar. Like millions of other new FB users, I wanted to reconnect with old friends and family, send out high-octane congrats for key milestones (Happy anniversary! Happy birthday! Glad your restraining order was dropped!) and share ideas, pics and fun updates with a built-in audience.

But I got something I didn’t expect: the reopening of a painful 30-year-old wound.

Since most folks know me as a deep-thinking existential philosopher slap-happy joker, my posts naturally leaned toward the quirky and snarky, odd observations about the news or life in general, such as:

• For sale: skydiving parachute. Used only once … never opened.
• Quack alert? My ophthalmologist recommended cayenne pepper eyedrops.
• This just in! Depressed Moron Jumps From First-Floor Window

The result? Zero feedback.

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So, in lieu of another goofy one-liner, my latest post was a whole new animal:

• Something to ponder: “Life begins at the end of your comfort zone.” Can any of you relate to this?

By then, I’d received one “Like,” a little heart icon from someone named Brittany. Hmm, I thought. Do I know anyone named Brittany?

As if on cue, Brittany followed up with an actual comment:

• Hi Larry. You sound nice. I’d like to get to know you better.

• Thank you. I appreciate your feedback. Have you ever felt trapped by your own comfort zone?

• I have! she replied. By the way, are you single?

That’s when I realized that “Brittany” was probably a bathing-averse shut-in named Biff living in Mommy’s and Daddy’s De Moine, Iowa, basement. And “Brittany” was trying to rip me off.

• As a matter of fact, I am single, I typed. I imagine you’re single, too, right?

• Yes I am!! the person calling himself Brittany replied. Let’s get to know each other!

• I’d love to, Brittany!! But first, let me ask you this: What is your bank’s routing number, bank account number, Social Security number and mother’s maiden name?

And, like magic, “Brittany” was gone forever.

I then recalled an item in my Facebook feed from the previous day, an update from someone we’ll call Cynthia:

• I just switched from strawberry jelly to orange marmalade. WOW!! What a difference!!

Here’s what really wound my watch: Cynthia’s post received an array of fun emojis, as well as several dozen comments, such as:

• I love orange marmalade!
• YOU ROCK, CYNTHIA.
• Ohmigosh. I gotta try that.
• Small world! I just switched from English muffins to toast!

Cynthia was a high school classmate, a cheerleader who – cheesy cliché alert! – actually did date Burbank High School’s starting quarterback. (Why cheerleaders never dated third-string left tackles remains a mystery.)

In other words, Cynthia had always been popular. And I‘d always been invisible.

Just like high school.

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High school students have always naturally formed into cliques: the Jocks, Brains, Drama Kids, Class Clowns, Band Members, Stoners, Geeks, Student Government Control Freaks, and so forth.

I never fell into any category … unless Loner is a category.

It didn’t help that my brother, one year ahead of me and a starter on the Burbank High basketball team, was fairly popular. So much so that, during my time at BHS, my de facto name was “Jeff’s brother.” He got all the attention.

Posting on Facebook years later reminded me that, during my high school years, I’d been invisible.

Thanks to Facebook, by 2010 I apparently remained invisible.

“Larry who?” I imagined old Burbank High acquaintances on FB were thinking. “Didn’t he play basketball? Oh … that was his brother. I wonder what Jeff’s up to? Let’s look him up.”

Soon after my virtual speed date with “Brittany,” I quit Facebook … but not before coming this close to giving my online profile a desperate facelift.

I’d become Johnny Blowdry, a stunningly successful (but humble) dental-floss mogul who’d retired to Honolulu to work as a Ferrari-driving private investigator. Using Cynthia’s popularity as a strategic template, my aim would’ve been to parlay my growing fame into a sweet deal as a Smucker’s ambassador.

The Authentic Facade™ would be capped off with the original photo, below.

What could go wrong?

Kudos to Matt Cyr, Alden Cox, Rick Lewis, Brigitte Kratz, Neha Patel, Dana Allen and Linda Kaun, all friends and compatriots in our Write Hearted community, for their helpful feedback.

However, a dead tree did just that.

It happened on an overcast Christmas Day, a holiday that, given my religious background, I’d never celebrated.

A chilly breeze sighed through the gently swaying Ponderosa pines, cottonwoods and alligator junipers as I skirted Miller Creek on the Thumb Butte Trail, a three-mile loop nestled in the hills near my home in Prescott, Arizona. I’d just stopped to take a sip from my water bottle when I felt an odd urge to turn and look back toward the creek I’d just crossed.

And there it was.

An initial glance at the tree – or, more accurately, the dead, dried-out husk of what had been a tree – told the story of a devastating accident and the years-long pitched battle that followed, a battle between life and death.

I know a thing or two about battles. Only mine aren’t physical. Rather, they seem to originate in my head, trickle down into my heart, and ultimately hijack my soul.

I like to call major clinical depression The Beast, a label that often brings to mind the Tasmanian Devil, of Warner Bros. fame, that spinning and slobbering, whimsically rageful, charmingly confused varmint I grew to love as a child. But major depression is no colorful cartoon. No, it’s a black void, a 200-ton cloak that cannot be removed, one that lifts and dissipates only when it’s good and ready.

On some days, I don’t need an alarm to wake up and face the day. I stare upward in bed, two sleep-crusted eyes trying to focus on a ceiling that remains hidden in the pre-dawn darkness. I turn onto my left side and look at the bedside clock. 4:31. If I can at least make it to 6:30, maybe I can deal with The Beast.

But, to my chagrin, it has already emerged. Let the battle begin.

Muttering a barely audible curse, I flip onto my other side, close my eyes and try to will myself back to sleep. Rather than slipping back into unconsciousness, however, I find myself engaged in an all-too-familiar dialogue, a briefly terse exchange between Larry and Larry that goes something like this:

Get up, Loser.
And do what, exactly?
Doesn’t matter. Get your miserable carcass out of bed.

My only retort: curl into a fetal position and begin moaning. After several minutes, I find myself rocking back and forth, an always-futile attempt to lull away the pain.

After what seems like an hour, I notice that I’m now sweating through my pajamas. But at least I’m that much closer to dawn, a new beginning that might infuse me with something wholly unfamiliar: hope.

I again look at the clock: 4:42.

After all that hell … just eleven minutes has gone by.

I now have two options, neither of which is pretty:

1. Swing my legs out of bed and stagger, muttering to myself, into the shower; force myself under the ice-cold stream; and try to conjure some will to live, some tiny pilot light of optimism, knowing full well that this tiny orange flicker will snuff itself out long before I’m toweling off.

2. Lurch in the pre-dawn black to the medicine chest and swallow a handful of pure bliss. The Trazodone, Gabapentin and Seroquel – each one a powerful, wonderfully addictive creation of Big Pharma – are supposed to knock me out at bedtime.

The pills “work” quite well, thank you ... especially whenever I take a 4:42 a.m. quadruple dose of all three meds before passing out. When I eventually come to about 10 hours later, wobbling and fogged out of my cortex, I grab an early Subway or Pizza Hut dinner and fall back into that familiar hellhole I call bed.

This is just a single morning.

Now imagine going through this, on and off, for 30 years.

Look, I told you it wasn’t pretty.

I approached the broken tree, curious about what might’ve happened to this creature. It might’ve been a lightning strike, a focused millisecond of vicious energy from above that pulverized it, cracking it off-kilter 90 degrees.

But what actually happened doesn’t matter. What matters is that this rooted soul, stunned and badly damaged, didn’t give up.

It fought. And it survived.

As I slowly rubbed my right palm on the section of the tree that, incredibly, had grown parallel to the ground, fighting sideways for many years against the pull of gravity, I thought: Looks like you had quite a struggle, my friend. But I’m glad the Cosmos let you live.

But maybe the Cosmos had nothing to do with it. Maybe this tree chose to live.

No, you weren’t just a survivor, I add. You were a warrior.

As my hand gently caressed the dead bark, I found myself glad that – at least on this gloomy, overcast Christmas morning – I’d had a three-egg omelet and two cups of caffeinated “liquid hope,” and not a goddamned fistful of Big Pharma.

And then it dawned on me: I didn’t “find myself” getting out of bed, showering and dressing for the hike. I didn’t “have” the eggs and coffee. My Toyota didn’t magically “wind up” at the trailhead.

No … I’d fought hard to get out of bed. I’d chosen breakfast. I’d demanded life.

As I leaned my forehead lightly against the tree, my eyes began to glow with tears as I said, aloud to myself, “Maybe you are a warrior.”

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Not every morning is this difficult. Some days my eyes open to a room filled with sunlight, muted by venetian blinds, that silently streams through the east-facing window. I look up at the ceiling – decorated in a massive string-art design, a colorful symbol of creative productivity – and pop out of bed. The ice-cold shower is torturously divine, the breakfast delectable, the notion of the day ahead enticing.

I check my to-do list, pick a single task (a good mantra: “What does now require?”) and get on with my life. And on this day, that life is bearable. It might even be okay.

Will any given day be a good one or an awful one? Each dawn represents its own mental-health roulette wheel. Once the spinning slows, will the ball land on Red or Black? Content or Miserable? Focused or Hopeless? Will the roulette ball come to rest on “Life-Changing Winner,” or will the wheel itself gyrate out of control, self-destructing into fragments of a life forever shattered into an endless void?

I have no idea.

But this I do know: When my soul emerges from its slumber – into a bleak purgatory or a bright, glorious gift known as “today” – I must spin that roulette wheel as if my life depends on it.

Because it does.

I slowly swept my index finger across the tree’s horizontal trunk, tracing a soft line, left to right, toward a point where, slowly, over the course of perhaps decades, it had managed to pivot back to its vertical growth. Tilting my head back, I looked upward and took in the tips of the now-dead branches, frozen in time as they reached toward the nourishing sun, just like it had been created to do.

Wiping away my tears, I stepped back several feet, framed the now-fallen warrior in my iPhone, and pixelated our shared moment into permanence. Then I turned and, sighing and taking in the green expanse ahead, moved on up the Thumb Butte Trail. The morning chill caressed my face as a hopeful energy – one that had been absent just a few minutes earlier – softly expanded within my soul.

The trail immediately turned uphill. As I felt my heart rate jacking up with greater exertion, I realized that progress needn’t always be vertical. While we like to be grateful for “happier,” “stronger” or “more productive,” real growth – not just surviving, but thriving – can be ponderously slow or invisible.

Real growth can even be sideways.

Once again, something compelled me to turn around. When I did, I discovered that I had a message for the tree.

“Thank you. And I love you.”

Postscript: Today, those meds are gone. The darkest mornings are less black, and far, far less frequent. And I keep spinning that roulette wheel. Sometimes – how, I honestly don’t know – spinning it is even kind of fun.

If you connect with this story in a way that says “Pay attention,” please know that people care about you, that you’re not alone. And keep spinning that wheel.

Many thanks to the fine folks in our writing community, Write Hearted (where we always “root” for each other!) for their encouraging feedback: Rick Lewis, Neha Patel, Dana Allen, Linda Kaun, Genie Joseph, Kathy Ayers and Alden Cox. Y’all rock!

And I absolutely hate digital technology. I always have.

Why?

Let’s put it this way: If you want to see someone take on the cognitive ability of an acid-tripping wart hog, present me with even the most elementary technical glitch. Then sit back, fasten your seat belt and watch me go from “zero to batshit loonball” once the very first attempt to fix the digital conundrum fails …

… and, oh yes, it always fails.

Case in point: the day my Hewlett-Packard printer decided to go belly up, mere hours before my editor wanted the hard-copy pages of a job I’d been working on, a profile of a New Age rabbi known to channel his spirit guides in Yiddish.

I tried everything I knew, which in my case was limited to:

1. Restart the printer.
2. Unplug the printer.
3. Restart the computer.
4. Unplug the computer.
5. Fight the urge to knee Hewlett-Packard’s CEO square in the pills.

The computer kept hitting me with the same error message:

SYSTEM ALERT — MULTI-STAGE FAULT CASCADE INITIATED
References: 49.3F.07A-X / FW-SYNC-12 / I/O-NEG-04 / MEDIA-PATH-UNDEF
>> Anomaly detected during job intake; operations suspended pending review. <<
>> Host parameters and firmware mismatch cannot resolve automatically. <<

Given my seething frustration, however, this is what my brain perceived:

>> Printer encountered a #@!% problem while doing the very basic task you asked it to do. Repeating the same @#%! steps ad nauseum will not magically fix it. <<
>> Yes, the printer is online. No, it is not printing. Like duh, Heisenberg. These two facts can coexist, despite how %!@# confusing that seems to be for such a @#%! clueless meat puppet. <<

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For my health – and for the safety of everyone in my Zip code – I got up, walked around the block and did the first intelligent thing that day: call my buddy Ron.

A dear friend I’d met in our local bike club, Ron was a brilliant mechanical engineer, one who’d once worked for … wait for it … a printer manufacturer.

He answered on the second ring.

“What’s up, Lar?”

“I need help.”

“I’m listening,” he said.

“It’s my damn printer. I can’t figure out – ”

“Hold on. I’ll be right over.”

That was Ron, dropping everything at a moment’s notice to help out.

About 30 minutes after fiddling with the hardware – I can’t even begin to describe what high-tech shenanigans he tried – Ron stepped back, pursed his lips and said, “Lemme get my printer.”

“You brought your own?”

A few minutes later, Ron connected his own machine and fired it up. Just like that, page after page of my chakra-balancing-rabbi story began to churn out of his printer … a printer that just happened to be the very same HP make and model as my own.

“Why the hell does yours work and not mine?” I asked in frustration.

“Beats me,” he said. “But at least now we know it’s your printer, not your MacBook.”

“You think maybe I overwatered it?” I deadpanned.

Ron glanced at me as if I’d suddenly sprouted a third ear out of my forehead, recovering enough to say, “Uh .... Renee and I are having lunch at noon,” referring to his girlfriend. “It’s her birthday. I gotta bounce. But we’ll figure this out.”

I walked Ron out to his car and thanked him for his efforts before he drove off.

I was now all alone, hamstrung with this digital mystery, just like the dozens of others that had mocked me over the previous decade. Sure, Ron said he’d return later, but at the moment I felt completely impotent, my ego once again eviscerated by some digital glitch. Unable to tamp down my growing frustration, I took another walk around the block, trying to cool down.

The 10-minute “time-out” (a term normally associated with petulant toddlers) didn’t help. Rather, the little stroll was about as effective as extinguishing a campfire with a bucket of jet fuel. With every step, I could feel my frustration growing like a mushroom cloud. By the time I returned home, that frustration had boiled over into seething anger.

A more self-aware person would’ve chilled out, awaiting Ron’s return. Not me.

Jaw clenched and blood pressure now in the red zone, I opened my document, checked my printer’s cable connection and tried cranking out a sample page. The screen immediately hit me with that same error message.

My field of vision narrowed until the entire universe became nothing more than those awful lines of code, idiotic gibberish that seemed to scoff at my inability to fix this problem … and to fix every single tech snafu over the years.

I guess you can never plan on those infrequent times when your mood goes from “slightly irked” to “Chernobyl.” The very rare meltdowns seem to manifest on their own … which is exactly what happened as my gaze shifted between my HP and that error message.

“That’s it,” I muttered. “We’re done here.”

To an outside observer, I looked like any other happy-go-lucky schmo hunting for a book online or catching up on the day’s news. But by then, perhaps in order to avoid a Blue Cross–funded vacation to the local nut farm, I became the outside observer, mentally checking out.

I found myself in the far corner of my room, observing a tall, dark-haired 40-something as he sat, head slightly bowed, clenching and unclenching his fists, before he stood and unplugged his printer. I took in his surprisingly slow, measured gait as he headed toward the back porch, cradling his printer like he was carrying a frightened puppy. Reaching his destination, he halted, glanced down at the printer, slowly exhaling once, then twice. And I noticed, with some oddly detached interest, as the tall fellow raised his printer over his head … and then brought it down like an outdoorsman splitting firewood with his axe, smashing it onto the concrete floor.

It was supposed to feel good.

It didn’t.

I closed my eyes at the moment of impact, hearing the explosive crack as the plastic hardware shattered into a warped husk. A cloud of black toner plumed upward, filling my nostrils with the pungent, antiseptic stink of Silicon Valley. As the dark powder settled over and around me, I sensed that the printer had somehow gotten in a final error message (>> @#&%! you! <<) at the moment of its demise.

I headed to the bathroom to wash off the toner, which had coated my left hand and a good portion of my forearm. There, the mirror revealed that the black powder had also coated most of my face. As I pondered the enraged buffoon (a dead ringer for an Appalachian coal miner) staring back at me, I was surprised to find myself, after all this, actually suppressing a giggle.

Maybe it was the comical coal miner in the mirror. Maybe it was the adrenaline dump. Or perhaps my “toddler overload” had just naturally run its course. For whatever reason, I did a complete 180 and began to relax … chill out … unclench my fists … pause. My friend Ron would return sooner than later, so what was the problem?

I snatched a Heineken from the fridge, grabbed a dog-eared copy of “The Da Vinci Code” and headed out back. Ignoring the twisted corpse of my printer – and still coated in Hewlett-Packard Blackface™ – I calmly took in the recently watered lawn, the marigolds and azaleas sprouting in all their pastel glory, and the inviting hammock that swung ever so slightly back and forth in the balmy mid-morning breeze.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Repeat.

Yes, by golly, it was becoming a good day, after all.

I hopped into that hammock and, black toner still raining down from my hair and eyebrows, took a swig of the beer and cracked open the best-seller.

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I awakened from a glorious nap about an hour later to the gravelly voice of Mr. Bimbaum, the pushy, ever-curious retiree as he peered at me from his side of the cinder-block wall.

“You okay?” he barked.

“Oh, just hunky-dory,” I said, smiling through blackened lips and blinking printer toner out of my eyes.

“You sure?”

“Yup.”

“Can I get you anything? Uh … like a wash rag?”

Here’s what Mr. Bimbaum must’ve seen from his side of the backyard wall: a relaxed, toner-faced whack-job responding to his concern by raising his Heineken in a toast of good cheer. “No siree. I’m better than ever.”

Shaking his head in befuddlement, my neighbor backed away ... slowly.

Rather than slip back into Snooze Central, I rolled out of the hammock, now sprinkled here and there with printer fairy dust, and headed to the bedroom to grab a change of clothes and hit the shower. There, I spotted Ron’s printer sitting on my desk, waiting for its tech-friendly owner.

Huh, what are the odds? I thought to myself as I approached his printer. Ron, since when are you a basketball fan?

My friend enjoyed many things: cycling, live jazz fusion, the occasional prank, a nice meal at Applebee’s … but he hated basketball, choosing a full, active lifestyle over hours watching multimillionaire pituitary cases run around in their shorts.

Come to think of it, Ron hated all spectator sports.

Why, then, did his printer display an L.A. Lakers logo, the exact same L.A. Lakers logo as the one on mine?

Then it dawned on me …

Years after the dust (or, in my case, the toner) settled, I still ponder why I fly off the handle at the first sign of a digital dead-end.

For starters, I’ve always believed that computer technology was supposed to be intuitive and seamless. When it isn’t, I feel betrayed by the corporate eggheads continually selling us all a bill of goods. And I take that personally.

Couple that with the cognitive overload caused by tiny silicon chips spewing out cryptic error messages, and I wind up feeling incompetent, stupid, powerless and utterly dependent on others. Blend all of these factors into the same cauldron, and it creates a bitter goulash that brings out my inner toddler.

Ron, being Ron, laughed when I told him that I’d destroyed his printer. “At least I hope it was cathartic,” he said.

“Dude, I’m really sorry,” I said. “I just – ”

“Forget about it,” he added. “I’ll upgrade my printer and give you the receipt. You want me to buy two?”

“Much appreciated.”

“And, Lar.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m just grateful we don’t drive the same car.”

SOFTWARE UPDATE! READ AT ONCE!
References: 49.3F.07A-X / FW-SYNC-12 / I/O-NEG-04 / MEDIA-PATH-UNDEF
>> System detects a HUGE thank you for text-based assistance by Rick Lewis, Kathy Ayers, Rachel Parker and Neha Patel, all bilaterally symmetrical, carbon-based entities populating our wonderful writing community, Write Hearted. <<

It all began when my friend Lee Reeves, a wonderful writer and co-founder of AZ Wordsmith – a group that meets in Prescott to read slice-of-life essays and fiction before a friendly crowd – suggested that I convert one of my own essays into a live performance. I’d just stepped away from the microphone after reading my latest offering, the true story of the time I purchased a beer while in the fast lane of a SoCal freeway.

“You should get on stage the next time we have Stories That Matter,” Lee said. “Your essays would be perfect for this. Please think about it.”

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Stories That Matter, another gem co-founded by Lee, is a series in which members of the community share true tales – bawdy, heartbreaking, funny or even borderline horrific – in front of a live audience. The only restriction: Reading from a script was strictly verboten; the sharing had to be done straight from the heart.

As I pondered Lee’s kind offer, my brain processed only a few words, words that stood out like a glowing neon sign:

My elaborate, well-considered reply to Lee’s idea is as follows: “Uh …”

… as two bugged-out eyes briefly rolled back into my skull.

“No pressure,” Lee added, always upbeat and supportive. “These are fun gatherings, like your essays. You’ll do great. You really will.”

Pondering what this endeavor involved, performing a story, sans script, I hemmed and hawed for a roughly estimated 12.67 nanoseconds before replying with another “Uh,” followed by, “Lemme think about it.”

However, what I really meant was something, shall we say, a bit less open-minded: “HELL!! NO!!”

Look ... I can READ anything in front anyone, anywhere. But performing extemporaneously, without a script? The mere thought of doing that was terrifying.

I’ve based my entire life on varying degrees of comfort. My time on this Earthly Plane has always revolved around pain management, about ultimately kowtowing to fear. And, for whatever reason, I’ve always equated the very idea of stepping outside of my comfort zone, even testing the waters with one itty-bitty toe, with a sense of dread.

That shifted, more than I realized, one day several weeks ago.

That’s when Neha Patel, a gifted writer, professional coach and member of our Write Hearted community, told an engaging story of the day she decided to go “off-script” during a stressful time. It involved stepping outside of her own comfort zone – and, for that matter, doing something downright silly – “glitching the Matrix,” as she put it.

And it worked beautifully.

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After reading about her spontaneously goofy act, I again pondered the offer by Lee, about performing in Stories That Matter before a live audience. And three words immediately came to mind … three words I did not expect:

“Ready! Fire! Aim!”

… which scared the hell out of me.

But it didn’t stop me.

The result is a terrifyingly fun performance in the most recent Stories That Matter show, about a prank I pulled nearly a half-century earlier: I kidnapped a world-renowned celebrity and held him for ransom.

(For context: This performance occurred just one day after Thanksgiving.)

As I walked off stage, satisfied with the outcome and pleasantly surprised that I’d actually survived this giddy ordeal, another thought occurred to me, one that flashed into my awareness like another neon sign:

Indeed it does.

Kudos to Neha Patel, who reminded me that acting without a perfect plan is often the wisest option; to Lee Reeves and Steven Kartstein, for believing in me when the mere thought of going on stage had me fighting to stay out of a fetal position; and to the wonderfully supportive Write Hearted community, for always being there through thick and thin.

Just then, Joe, who had moved into my apartment a year earlier, in 1983, entered my room. He looked at the door, which had been removed and placed onto two saw horses.

“What’s up?” my roommate inquired.

“Isn’t it obvious?” I replied, irritated. “I’m fixing this door.”

“YOU? Fixing something?”

Joe then peered at my handsaw, and at the growing pile of sawdust that had accumulated onto the newly carpeted floor, the result of my repeated attempts to “fix” the door over the previous hour.

And he began laughing.

“What the hell’s so funny?”

“Oh … nothing. I’ll leave you to your little project,” my amused roommate said, shaking his head and backing out of the room.

Somewhat puzzled, and briefly fantasizing about applying that hand saw to Joe’s neck, I resumed trimming the bottom of the door.

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A few weeks earlier, my landlord – Frederico, an unassuming, congenial fellow from Barcelona with a quick smile and a spectacular amount of dandruff – decided to add carpeting to his apartment building’s hardwood flooring. Fellow tenants used to joke that said flooring had been sourced from the remains of the Nina, the Pinta, and/or the Santa Maria, of Chris Columbus fame. With every creaky step, I ran the risk of suddenly falling through the rotted wood and into the lap of my downstairs neighbor. (To my knowledge this neighbor was San Fernando Valley’s only drag-queen mailman – but that’s another story).

I loved the new plush upgrade, which resulted in a safer, dare I say more comfortable, walking and stomp-dancing experience. The only problem was that the low-hanging door to my bedroom, which had swung freely when situated over the brittle 1492-era planks, now dragged over the thick carpeting. After a week of strong-arming that door open and closed, I decided to take action.

The game plan:
1. Remove the door.
2. Trim the bottom of said door just a tad.
3. Replace the door.
4. Humbly rejoice in my DIY genius

Easy-peasy, right?

Uh … Well …

My initial mistake was in trying to remove the door using the first thing I spotted: a plastic protractor, a simple device used to measure angles in degrees. My idea: wedge the gizmo under the pins that connect the door to the hinges, then lift up, popping out said pins before slipping the door out of its hinges.

Anyone else would’ve ambled downstairs for a hammer and nail, and use them to tap, tap, tap the door-hinge pins upward, freeing them from the hinge, like this:

Not me.

And I had 17 plastic protractors. Broke ’em all. (At least I was persistent.)

Nah, not really. My one and only protractor snapped like a tortilla chip just as the first door-hinge pin budged upward a roughly estimated 7.72 microns.

Fifteen minutes later, using the correct tools, I finally freed the door from its hinges and, feeling a bit unhinged myself, set the now-liberated object onto two saw horses borrowed from the landlord, Flaky Freddie.

Grabbing a rusty hand saw, I proceeded to cut half an inch from the bottom of the door, before carefully replacing the door onto its hinges. Strangely, it was as difficult to open and close as it had been before I’d snapped the tortilla-like protractor.

Fine, I thought. Half an inch isn’t enough. So I did it again, removing the door and lopping another thin section off the bottom.

By then, I’d trimmed nearly a full inch from the bottom of the door, when Joe, my roommate, walked in, looked around and started laughing.

That’s when it dawned on me: I’d been slowly, meticulously, painstakingly trimming the TOP of my door.

Why I didn’t have an aneurysm right then and there remains a mystery.

Letting loose with a scream of creatively strung-together expletives, I yanked the saw from the door and spiked it in disgust onto the plush carpeting. As the saw karmically bounced up and cracked me in the right shin, a soft inner voice whispered through my 100-decibel fury: One day, Einstein, you’re gonna laugh about this.

As I drove to the local home-improvement center to procure a new door for Flaky Freddie, it occurred to me that, while we humans are by nature detail-oriented creatures, it always pays to slow down, breathe and take in the big picture before diving in to any project … or any endeavor, for that matter.

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In the 1973 feature film “Magnum Force,” Detective Harry Callahan, portrayed by Clint Eastwood, famously said, “A man’s got to know his limitations.”

Today, knowing my own limitations, I realize that my chances of handling even the simplest DIY project are on par with Dr. Hook securing gainful employment as a hand model.

I’m finally beginning to learn that the Cosmos shall smile upon us if we play to our strengths. Mine happen to be writing for (1) pleasure and self discovery and (2) gawd forbid, making a couple of bucks.

Still, it always helps to apply a can-do attitude with “weaker” endeavors, right? So who knows? Maybe one day I’ll prepare meals like a 5-star chef, sing like a lounge crooner or handle tools like a master carpenter.

Just not in this lifetime.

And rest assured: If I need anything more involved than a flathead screw tightened, I’ll calmly assess the situation, take on a shiny, happy can-do attitude, breathe in to get centered, visualize a positive outcome … and call a handyman.

High-fives to the fine folks in my online writing community, Write Hearted, who provided valuable and encouragement as this piece was being developed: Brigitte Kratz, Dan Xin Huang, Dana Allen, Linda Kaun and Rick Lewis. This essay – and all of my writing – is greatly improved, thanks to you.

As the familiar voice of Alex Trebek issued from my 18-inch Mitsubishi, I muted the TV and pondered the Jeopardy! brain teaser.

Adjusting my gaze, slowly taking in the darkness of my Burbank studio apartment as a bluish glow from the television danced against the walls, I began to chew on a piece of gravy-slathered turkey cut from a Swanson’s frozen dinner. The ensemble’s red cranberry sauce, which included one actual, solitary cranberry, sat in one corner of the aluminum tray, silently awaiting consumption.

Hmm… I pondered, gazing up at the ceiling trying to mine the mental stalagmites that might lead to the correct Jeopardy! answer. Fails to catch a football. Hand warmers. Where’s the connection?

No synaptic connections were forthcoming.
Human connections were lacking as well.

I was alone on this chilly Thanksgiving Day in 1985, an angry 27-year-old estranged from family. In a way, it felt as though I’d been alone my entire life. Still, it had been my decision to step away.

One month earlier, I’d written a scathing letter to my parents, explaining how for years I’d been treated like a second-class citizen, and outlining several of the many times I’d been … well, “abused” was an apt word. The scars, however, weren’t physical.

As Trebek issued forth another Jeopardy! challenge from my muted TV and I used a fork to flick that cranberry around its tiny home, I thought of a poem, one with a noted twist, that my therapist had mentioned about a year earlier:

Sticks and stones
May break my bones
But words can kill you.

“Larry, it sounds like you’re the family’s ‘identified patient,’” my therapist, Rick, had said one overcast morning two months earlier in his office.

Rick had been there when I’d come to the decision to walk away from the family unit. Throughout the previous year, he’d patiently listened as I shared my anger over the way I’d been treated.

“The family’s what?”

“Identified patient,” Rick said. “You’re that one family member, almost always in a dysfunctional unit, who’s used to express the family’s deeper hidden conflicts.”

“What hidden conflicts?” I asked.

“That’s why we’re here,” Rick said. “To unearth them and see where that leads us. Your role – a role you of course didn’t choose, and a role nobody consciously chose for you – is to draw attention away from these more significant conflicts. And I hate to say it … but it works beautifully.”

“So you’re telling me I’m a scapegoat.”

Rick smiled. “That’s another way of putting it.”

We’d gone over how my role in the five-member clan had been manifested years earlier by nicknames thrust at me, relating a typical scenario that had occurred all too often.

“Pass the salad, Zombie.”

We were having a family dinner one spring evening a few years earlier, and my brother was reminding everyone of my tendency to get deeply lost in thought, perhaps dissociating from a tense environment that was, all too often, little more than a war zone.

“Yo. Earth calling Zombie. The salad?”

A zombie is an undead creature, a reanimated corpse lacking free will.

Nobody objected to the dig. Nobody reacted. Vignettes such as these had become all too common and accepted by everyone … myself included.

I’d related to Rick many other incidents, scenes involving longstanding nicknames such as Loser, Louse and Goofy. Taken separately, they barely made a dent in my armor. Collectively, however, it had become a case of “death by a thousand tiny cuts.”

Never one to exaggerate, my soft-spoken therapist nevertheless referred to the way I’d been treated as a form of “soul murder.”

Rick and I had discussed how I’d internalized these toxic labels. The very idea of releasing these names always left me freefalling in a void of my own creation; having Louse or Goofy no longer available to define me as a human being felt, oddly enough, like a form of annihilation. Why? I had no idea.

One day during an October session, I exploded. “I gotta get the hell out!”

“Of what?” Rick inquired.

“Everything! Everybody!”

Pursing his lips slightly, my therapist shifted in his chair and adjusted his glasses … waiting.

“I can’t take it anymore,” I muttered, bending forward and stifling a sob. “I gotta get out of the family.”

“You gotta get out of the family,” Rick reflected back.

Slightly perturbed, I lifted my head and gazed around the office. “Do I hear an echo?”

“What would removing yourself from the family look like?”

The words came to me in an instant: “Freedom. Breathing room. Lightness.”

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I polished off the microwaved turkey, pondered sampling the off-white gelatinous mass that Swanson’s that somehow called “mashed potatoes” … and eyeballed that one cranberry, sitting alone in its little corner of the tray.

Alex Trebek broke the silence: “One term for talking trash about someone is ‘throwing this,’ like a big elm tree might do.”

“What is shade?” I said, followed by …

“ … I’ll take Self-Imposed Loneliness for $400, Alex.”

I’d walked away from the family one week after my latest session with Rick. When my sister first heard of my decision, she reached out to me, wondering what she’d ever done that justified cutting her out. My only answer: absolutely nothing.

During our conversation, she made it clear that she understood exactly where I was coming from, and that she’d always be there for me. So we stayed in touch. I remain forever grateful for that.

My hope was that, in creating some therapeutic distance, my parents and brother would start treating me not as a scapegoat, but with the love and acceptance deserving of any child or sibling. Beneath my anger, I was concerned – no, terrified – that, when the time came to reconnect, weeks or even years into the future, my parents and brother would reject me, that my forced emancipation would backfire like raw gas on a pilot light.

The wall-mounted rotary phone rang, breaking up the rapid-fire jousting between Trebek and the three trivia-saturated contestants.

Could be a friend, I thought. Maybe someone was calling to reach out to wish me a Happy Thanksgiving and remind me that, despite all that had transpired, I still had many things to be grateful for.

But nothing came to mind.

I set aside what was left of my 5-star gourmet feast, by then composed of nothing more than Barry, my cranberry soulmate for the evening. I scrambled out of the faded leather recliner to answer the call.

Then it dawned on me: Maybe it’s Mom or Dad. Or my brother.

I sat back down and counted the number of shrill telephone rings … until the ringing ceased.

I never knew who called.

“What would you ultimately like to see if you walk away from the family?” Rick had asked about a week before I mailed The Letter to my parents.

The answer came instantly: “I just want Mom and Dad to treat me like they do my brother,” I said. “But I don’t know if doing this’ll make any goddamn difference.”

“There’s really no way of knowing,” Rick said, “unless you go for it. It’s your call; trust your gut. But just know that, whether you walk away or not, I’m not going anywhere.”

Alex tossed out another clue into the dark apartment: “Known as The Disco Kings in the ’70s, this British trio kept ‘Stayin Alive’ from 1958 to 2012.”

I immediately thought of the one and only Bee Gees song that resonated with me: “I Started A Joke,” a 1968 tune that had always left me feeling vaguely melancholy. But as the Jeopardy! broadcast cut away to a detergent commercial, snippets of the song’s lyrics coalesced into something far, far more powerful.

I started a joke
Which started the whole world crying …
I started to cry
Which started the whole world laughing …
I finally died
Which started the whole world living …

And I started to cry.

THANKSGIVING 2025
Nearly forty years later to the day, I’m sitting at my desk, recalling that first Jeopardy! question, the one posed by Trebek before I muted my TV to take in my dark studio apartment and ponder my then-recent choice to step away from the family.

“A kick returner who touches, but fails to catch, the football has committed one of these hand warmers.”

“Muff,” this 67-year-old sighs aloud, as tears again form in his eyes for the umpteenth time in the past hour.

Muff, as in screw up.
Muff, as in a source of regret.

Maybe divorcing my father, mother and brother for two years had been a mistake. To this day, I’m not sure.

As I sit here at my keyboard, pausing to take in my warm, colorful, well-lit apartment, it occurs to me that no significant change has occurred in my life during my time away from the family … nor in the years since we reunited.

But perhaps that’s not entirely true.

For only today do I realize that a notable shift occurred during Thanksgiving 1985, when I began to adopt a new persona, one that helped me deal with all the toxic labels that I’d somehow fused into a deep-seated birthright I never deserved.

Clown. Joker.

Forty years ago, I began to look at life as an infinite source of humor, much of it self-deprecating. Today, I continue to clutch onto those old, toxic labels, as if my very existence depends on it. Why? That remains a mystery … or a massive blind spot. Still, at least laughing at myself and the world around me has helped me cope with – or perhaps continue to bury – four-plus decades of hopelessness.

I’m beginning to realize that fleshing all this out via an outlet I’ve managed to keep entombed for decades – writing – can help me start to unearth all that I’ve buried. Who knows?

What I do know for certain is this: The only way to find out is to keep writing.

Yet as that old Bee Gee’s song again comes to mind, I have my doubts, my old thought patterns, my all-to-familiar demons …

Oh, if I’d only seen …
that the joke was on me

Recalling these lyrics, I become, for a brief moment, that lonely cranberry, sitting in his little, dark corner of the world.

Still, I feel a slight glimmer of hope. I’ve learned that I can let go of the Old by reaching out, clawing toward, fighting for and, ultimately, embracing any form of the New.

And maybe I can embrace that New by freeing my soul – one day, one idea, one story prompt, one sentence at a time – through my keyboard.

Writer. Storyteller.

I love those nicknames.

It’s what I do. It’s who I am.

Kudos to Alden Cox, Kathy Ayers, Brigitte Kratz, Neha Patel, Dana Allen and Rick Lewis for their encouragement and feedback while this essay was being developed.

And in case you’re curious:

For about the fifth time in only a few minutes, the same word kept popping up in my mind, and I had absolutely no clue what the hell it meant:

Canvas.

Although it was just after 11:00 in the morning on a balmy Burbank day in June 1980, I was still in bed, pondering my immediate future. I rolled onto my left side and, clutching onto a large corduroy body pillow, gazed at a brand-new, glossy poster of Magic Johnson, the NBA rookie who, just one month earlier, had led the Los Angeles Lakers to their first championship since 1972. In the image, Magic was following through on one of his trademark no-look passes, the ball headed toward an unseen teammate. The aptly-named Magic Man transcended the game itself, by performing jaw-dropping, never-before-seen moves on a nightly basis.

Millions called the 6’9” point guard a true artist on the court.

I rolled onto my back and took in my 12-by-12 bedroom: at the three walls painted sky blue, the fourth wallpapered in a brilliant tropical sunset; at the silver cassette tape deck wired to two massive Kenwood speakers; at Brutus, my tough, perpetually under-watered spider plant. I stretched and, while gazing up at the ceiling, pondered climbing out of bed.

And there it was, that random word again, like an annoying pebble in one of my size-14 Converse All-Stars:

Canvas.

I’d just returned from a year at San Diego State, where I’d majored in psychology and minored in frat parties (with the requisite liver abuse), aimless channel surfing, and solo evenings twiddling my thumbs at the local McDonald’s: anything to avoid, God forbid, cracking open a textbook. Given how things had transpired – a 0.0 GPA the previous fall, thanks to my brilliant idea to stop attending classes without actually dropping them, followed by a bland, half-hearted 4.0 spring semester, when I actually bothered to show up – I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be returning to the university following September.

Feeling rudderless at the ripe old age of 21, I had no idea what to do with my life. My future, five minutes or five decades hence, seemed to be as blank as the ceiling that was staring me in the face.

Canvas.

That’s when it hit me. The ceiling.

A canvas. A blank canvas …

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As a kid in the early ’70s, I’d spent hours at a time creating string-art designs, dizzying geometric patterns formed by weaving colored thread back and forth between nails fastened onto wooden or foam boards. Although I wasn’t aware of any artistic talent – my one year of piano lessons had been about as blissful as a colonoscopy, and I couldn’t draw a stick figure for the life of me – I loved witnessing the whimsically symmetrical magic that unfolded, and the easy, rhythmic meditative state that always followed, whenever I played with string.

Then I had an insane idea: Why not do a giant string design … on my ceiling?

Right away, my overactive mind, the source of that one-word inspiration, canvas, soon followed with something less encouraging.

What are you, a whack job? String art? On a ceiling?

I decided to engage my inner critic with an eloquent, dare I say long-winded, argument.

“Bite me,” I said aloud.

And with that, the defense rested.

Still on my back, I began to envision a series of colorful concentric circles, essentially a massive Spirograph design (remember those?) poised eight feet above the carpeting.

My brain went into overdrive. What would I use for the string? How much was needed? And what colors? And how the hell would I fasten it to the ceiling?

Then there was the layout itself: How to pinpoint the exact center of the room, the planned center of the concentric circles? How to calculate the exact placement of the pins, those critical pivot points, to create a perfectly symmetrical series of circles?

To my pleasant surprise, the answers manifested without effort. Still gazing up at the ceiling, now completely enraptured by the blank canvas, the design swiftly came together in my mind’s eye, vibrant lines flashing back and forth at light speed between the pivot points, like the computer-generated animations that came into the world a few years later.

And my malaise lifted completely.

Next stop: Beautifully Yours, Burbank’s arts and crafts store. It was surely the first time the store’s friendly staffer helped a testosterone-jacked 21-year-old male find … crochet yarn, of all things, my chosen medium. As for the pivot points, which held everything together, upside down no less: “Why not just try thumb tacks?” she suggested. Problem solved.

An hour later, I stood in my bedroom, neck craned upward. Sixteen bundles of the yarn, each one coiled together like kite string; 300 thumb tacks; and a tape measure sat at my feet. A smile was plastered on my face when my father stopped at the doorway after a day at work.

“What’s going on?” he asked, removing his tie.

“I got an idea,” I replied.

“What’s with all that?” he inquired in his Bronx accent, nodding toward the recently purchased items.

“I want to do a string design.”

“A what?”

“A string design, Dad. You know, I did those as a kid.”

“Where?” he said, glancing around the room.

“There,” I said, jabbing a thumb at the ceiling as my smile morphed into a giddy, full-blown grin.

My father, a logical, linear sales engineer who took to anything even remotely associated with art the same way a feral tomcat takes to a hot tub, looked at me, pursed his lips slightly and shook his head in dismay ...

… or maybe it was pity.

“I don’t understand, Larry.”

“Dad, neither do I.”

I didn’t need to explain myself, for by then my obsession to create this kaleidoscopic pattern, though not fully formed in my mind, had fully embraced my soul.

Shaking his head and sighing, my dad ended the conversation with words I’d heard many times before: “Kid, I think you’re nuts.”

But he also threw me a bone, adding, “But what do I know? Knock yourself out,” before shrugging and heading into the family room.

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I could go into all the scintillating, mind-blowing, history-making boring details outlining how the string design, a full 10 feet in diameter, took shape. Let’s just say that any high-schooler who’d made it through Geometry 101 without slipping into a coma could’ve done the same thing.

But, to the best of my knowledge, nobody ever had.

The following afternoon, a Saturday, I was cleaning up the remaining string fragments and putting away all the scattered thumb tacks when my dad tapped on the door, and, cracking it open a bit, asked me if I’d like to join him down at the local park for an hour or so of pickup basketball.

“Come on in,” I said.

“Larry, you wanna – ”

Then he looked up at the ceiling.

“Jesus, Lar.”

“What do you think?”

Never one to sing high praise, the ol’ fella surprised me with, “Wow. That’s amazing.”

Then Dad hit me with a question, the exact same question every person has asked me in the 45 years since, whenever they see one of my ceiling designs in person:

“How long did that take you?!”

“The math, not long at all,” I said. “To set the tacks just right, maybe three hours. And to weave the design, about another five.”

In 1980, those eight hours seemed like just ten minutes … of pure bliss. And, in the decades since, that’s never changed.

That old string design stayed ceiling-bound until August of 2019, six years after my father left this mortal coil and one week before my mother left her home for the final time, to move to an independent-living senior community. As I removed the thumb tacks and all that string began to sag toward the floor, like a tired weeping willow, I recalled the many times my father enjoyed showing friends, family and coworkers my work.

“Come here,” he’d say in rarely displayed enthusiasm, gesturing toward my old room. “You won’t believe this. Look up. That’s something, right?”

When my father first questioned the wisdom of trying something this unusual, I knew at a core, elemental level that trying to explain myself would’ve been an exercise in frustration. Even at such a young age, I must’ve understood that the finished product would transcend mere words.

And it did.

As I pulled the final thumb tack from the ceiling and the rest of the colorful crochet yarn collapsed to the floor, I sighed and glanced across the room at that old, now-frayed poster of Magic Johnson, plying his craft.

Yes sir, I thought to myself, the Magic Man was a true artist.

But maybe, just maybe, so am I …

High-fives to friends in our Write Hearted community – Linda Kaun, Kathy Ayers, Alden Cox and Rick Lewis – for their valuable input and encouragement while this essay was being strung together.

I kept my parents’ cast-iron Bell & Howell movie projector long after video cassette recorders were first produced.

My Panasonic VCR, given to me by a friend, remained in my apartment a full decade after the DVD players came on the scene.

See a pattern here?

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The Luddites were members of a 19th-century faction of British textile workers who protested the use of automated machinery, due to concerns relating to worker pay and output quality. Rather violent lads, they often smashed the machines in organized raids. Today, the term refers to those who oppose the introduction of new technologies.

I’m a dyed-in-the-wool Luddite, a full-blown technophobe struggling in a world gone completely, maddeningly digital.

Which brings us to artificial intelligence.

You won’t be shocked to learn that I’m not on the AI Bandwagon, gleefully waving pom-poms over the prospect of machines replacing our brains. And my opinion about AI didn’t do a 180 after a recent job interview … one conducted by an AI bot. For some 20 minutes, this carbon-based meat puppet (uh, me) jousted with a silicon-based program. And it wasn’t a day at Disneyland.

It began one fine August afternoon, when I sat at my desk, having completed an online job application. Minutes later, I found myself staring at my image, as viewed through my own laptop’s camera. Staring back at me was a 60-something job seeker, at the moment drifting somewhere between befuddled curiosity and trepidation. My eyes briefly wandered from the screen and focused on a happier time, in the form of a framed photo I’d taken of Mount Everest during a trek high into the Nepal Himalayas.

A written prompt jolted me back to the present moment.

<< Your video and audio functions are enabled. Press START whenever you’re ready. >>

Shrugging to myself, I followed the prompt.

The AI-generated voice, an uncanny vocal representation of a young woman, said: << Welcome. We hope to learn more about you and determine if you’re a good fit for our Creative Writer position. >>

“Uh … thank you?” I said, haltingly, to my laptop.

The bot cut right to the chase. << Tell me about the writing-style differences between straight news stories and features, and give me an example of each. >>

I sat there for a moment, slack-jawed, briefly mesmerized by my on-screen image. The AI interviewer repeated the question.

<< Tell me about the writing-style differences between straight news stories and features, and give me an example of each. >>

“Well, a news lead should tell 90 percent of the story in the first two or three sentences, while a feature must first engage the reader through any number of writing strategies.”

While I managed to furnish a few examples of what I’d just stressed, a sheen of perspiration began to emerge on my forehead.

<< Give me an example of when, during your two years at the Orange County Register, a writing assignment that you’d completed didn’t meet the needs of your lead editor. How did you work with the editor to complete the task? >>

That’s when I realized that the AI bot was reading my online resume, my LinkedIn profile … and God knows what else. And I wasn’t thrilled.

“Well, I usually threaten the editor. I keep a ball-peen hammer in my top drawer for that very purpose.”

This is what my brain came up with in the heat of the moment.

To my credit, I didn’t say it aloud, opting with “Well, I like to find out exactly how my work fell short. Then I rework the assignment based on my editor’s feedback. Ultimately, the finished product is her call.”

While I coughed up the response, I pictured that ball-peen hammer ... and using it on the box of silicone running the program that was conducting the interview … or perhaps on one of the evil eggheads captains of industry behind the AI revolution.

By then, my forehead sheen had turned to full-on flop-sweat, beads of which began trickling into my eyebrows.

For the remainder of the interview, my brain – a 3-pound slab of neuron-packed fat rooted in snark and dark humor – conjured up one set of answers to the bot’s questions, as my mouth managed to blather other responses that were more appropriate. While doing so, I wondered if the AI bot could somehow see my clenched jaw, furrowed brow, reddening face and all that sweat … and whether or not that would factor into my immediate career future.

<< How do you approach a new story or writing assignment? >>

My brain: I start with three things: cocaine, coffee and Coors. … Just kidding. I don’t drink coffee.
My mouth: “If I cannot tell the entire story in one or two sentences, I don’t know the story. All of my research and every interview question are based entirely on those few words.”

<< How do you verify facts and ensure reliability in your reporting? >>

Brain: Rule number one: Never, never, never let annoying facts get in the way of artistic license!
Mouth: “I print out my first draft and highlight Every. Single. Fact. Then I look at my notes and verify all the research and interview quotes.”

As the minutes ticked by, we went back and forth, the bot and I, lunging and parrying like two Olympic fencers probing each other for weaknesses. And, like a see-saw, my energy level dropped as my frustration rose.

That’s when it happened.

<< Tell us about a time when you had to deal with a difficult story source. >>

Brain: I use disposable gloves, chloroform, duct tape, a shovel and lye. To the best of my knowledge, he’s never been found.
Mouth: “I use disposable gloves, chloroform, duct tape, a shovel and lye. To the best of my knowledge, he’s never been found.”

Oopsie ...

My pie-hole audibly parroted the sick-and-twisted nonsense that had just flashed through my brain.

<< Please repeat that. >>>

“Uh … you mean about the chloroform and all that?”

<< Yes. >>

What the hell, I thought. By then, my chances of landing this job were on par with encountering a hammerhead shark in the aforementioned Himalayas.

“Let me amend that answer. I usually use a chain saw. It’s a lot messier, but it’s also more cathartic.”

<< … … >>

“Knock, knock,” I barked at my laptop. “Anybody home?”

<<< Who are some writers or journalists who inspire you, and why? >>>

Although I admire a slew of fine wordsmiths – some Pulitzer winners, other fellow snarkmeisters – my brain came up with … nothing. Zip. Nada. Complete Skull Vacuum™. It was as if my overstimulated cortex said to the rest of my brain. Okay, we’re done here. You, limbic system, come with me. Take it away, brain stem!

Eventually, the bot thanked me for my time before the laptop’s screen went black.

Sure, I was impressed by the digital sophistication required to review my background info and come up with so many poignant, challenging questions. However, that notion didn’t explain the gnawing ache in the pit of my stomach, my flushed face or my shaking hands, my body’s unconscious reaction to having been eviscerated, ripped open by computer code that had mined my data and used it against me.

And, as I gazed into the infinite blackness of my laptop’s screen, I wondered how much more powerful artificial intelligence could become, what it could mean for the future of every writer … hell, for all of us.

Five or 10 years from now, would I find myself trying to cajole a bot into granting me a raise? Into keeping my job? Into hanging on to my mortgage or preventing my electricity and gas from being turned off? Would I be pleading before a sterile digital program, posing as both judge and jury, to stay out of jail for a serious crime I didn’t commit, an infraction based entirely on some random data blip at a supercomputer site buried under the Colorado Rockies?

Perhaps it’s not a stretch to picture AI bots one day interviewing other AI bots for jobs once held by human beings. Where does this AI influence – I’m tempted to call it a takeover – end?

Sighing in frustration, I closed the laptop, collapsed into my recliner and stared upward at the ceiling. As all that flop-sweat began to evaporate, I decided to put on some nice baroque music; the genre’s slow, nurturing pace always seemed to take the edge off any stress, anger or worry.

And I finally began to relax, even before the soothing sounds of Mozart began to emanate from an old friend: my Montgomery Ward 8-track tape player.

Many thanks to the fine folks at our Write Hearted community who provided valuable feedback about this essay: Rick Lewis, Kathy Ayers, Neha Patel, Alden Cox, Genie Joseph, Linda Kaun and Dana Allen.

The 9/11 terrorists were absolutely certain that they’d be whisked away to their version of Nirvana. Hardcore evangelists (and their aptly named “flock”) are absolutely certain that their way to wholesome, righteous living is the only way. And, pulling my own covers, I am absolutely certain that fans of the Boston Celtics are the Spawn of Satan, crazed, fire-spitting mutants cloaked in green jerseys.

Still, there have been times when I’ve stumbled across what seems to be The Truth. And when that’s happened, the pathway to The Truth has usually involved a few loopy side trips through an imaginative, oddly enticing place in my head I’ll call LarryLand.

Case in point: the time I discovered some Very Important Truths about my father.

It happened 12 years ago, just one day after he died. I was on the phone with the man who would officiate my dad’s funeral the following day, Rabbi Thomsky. Knowing little about Dad and his life, the rabbi sought a number of details to round out the service, a few words of English to counterbalance all the Hebrew.

I paced slowly back and forth in my parents’ living room, my mother collapsed in a tan cloth recliner, fighting back tears as the rabbi and I spoke.

“How many children did your father have?” he inquired.

“Three,” I said.

“How long were your folks married?”

“Fifty-eight years.”

Hearing that, Mom bowed her head and began to silently weep. I felt numbed by the raw intensity of the moment.

“Can you share with me a few highlights from your dad’s life?” Rabbi Thomsky asked. “Something of interest I can say at the service?”

That’s when it happened.

The Weirdness Lobe of my brain hijacked the rest of my cortex (and, I imagine, a pretty good chunk of my limbic system), and I quickly morphed into little more than a brain stem gripping a phone.

I pictured my father flying his F-86 in the Korean War, gunning for Russian MiG-15s. I visualized him years later, a veterinarian who spent much of his time working pro bono. I caught a glimpse of Dad creating one of his kinetic sculptures, some of which were showcased in The Metropolitan Museum of Art and The Getty Center.

Quite a life, yes?

Here’s the problem: Every single detail that I’d just imagined about Dad was false. Absolute nonsense. Pure fiction.

And I began giggling.

Flashing forward in time, I pictured the reaction of my father’s loved ones at the funeral service: their expressions of shock and bewilderment, perhaps even betrayal, as the rabbi droned on and on about a life that had absolutely nothing to do with Dad.

What would happen if I actually shared with the rabbi all the nonsense that LarryLand had just coughed up? This was a golden opportunity for a prankster like me – even a prankster in mourning, right?

Wrong.

I hemmed and hawed for one or two nanoseconds, before what few remaining “normal” neurons in my head backhanded me with: DO!! NOT!! DO!! IT!! (Stop and picture, for a moment, a few lively, sassy neurons bitch-slapping me across the face.)

Anyway, here’s what sealed the deal: the sight of my mother, eyes moist, lower lip quivering, as she tried to comprehend the new life-sized hole in her soul.

“You still there, Larry?” the rabbi said into the phone, snapping me back to reality.

“Sorry, yes,” I said. “You wanted details about Dad.”

“Please.”

So I told him.

I told him about the young boy raised in a family that, despite residing in the U.S., had been shattered by the Holocaust. How that boy became a young man who finished college and, after a stint in the army, headed west to California, where he soon met the love of his life, and how the young couple eventually had three kids, putting down roots in 1960s Orange County. I mentioned how Dad thrived as a sales engineer, making a comfortable living for his family, and about how he once gave up 25 percent of his sales territory, a significant chunk, in order to save a co-worker’s job.

I recalled Dad’s early love of flying gliders, the silent freedom he enjoyed while soaring and pirouetting in the blue expanse above. I added how, when my mother one day came to him in tears and begged him to give up this risky hobby – she’d had visions of raising three young children alone – he did so immediately, no questions asked. I talked about how Dad never drank, gambled or had the slightest hint of legal trouble, about his involvement as a volunteer in the Boy Scouts, his decades-long love of sailing, how he always stressed working hard and getting good grades, the time he first introduced my brother and me to a shared passion, basketball …

I could’ve gone on with the rabbi for another hour, sharing more about who Dad was and the good life he led.

But by then my mother wasn’t the only one in tears.

Because everything I’d said was true.

The following day, I was too numb to recall much about the funeral. I imagine Rabbi Thomsky included a few poignant details about Dad’s life, and I guess those in attendance must’ve nodded and smiled through their own tears when they were reminded of the kind of man he was: sensitive beneath a facade of armor, generous, occasionally bombastic, loyal, so very, very stubborn, clever …

… a lot like his son.

Today, I have no regret – absolutely none – over my decision to not pull that silly prank.

Nevertheless, I know for a fact that when it’s my time to be laid to rest, a certain lifelong friend will step forward during the funeral and spin several ridiculous yarns, including: the time I became a chess grandmaster at age 3, how I scaled Mt. Everest bare-chested, wearing only flip-flops and cargo shorts, how my own kinetic sculptures wound up displayed in The Getty …

And if you happen to be at my funeral when these comical details emerge …

… stop. And listen carefully. You might hear an odd sound coming from my coffin.

That would be me.

Giggling.

Kudos to the following, all members of Write Hearted, for their valuable input: Rick Lewis, Dominik Gmeiner, Neha Patel and Kathy Ayers.

I considered killing time by selecting one of the periodicals placed on a nearby cart, but ancient copies of “Stamp Magazine” and “Highlights for Children” didn’t tickle my fancy. Hearing a muffled conversation from an adjacent room, I glanced around, taking in the blood pressure monitor, height and weight scales, defibrillator and an assortment of disposables and antiseptic supplies, all bathed in the room’s harsh fluorescent lights.

A few minutes later, I heard a brief knock on the door and, without hesitation, my doctor entered. Holding my chart was someone I’ll call “Dr. Carlson,” a diminutive fellow with a quick smile and a head of thinning salt-and-pepper hair. He shook my hand and sat down next to me in a rolling chair.

“Let’s see,” he said, opening my chart. “So … you’re feeling fatigued.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m not sure what’s going – ”

“Hold on, hold on,” Dr. Carlson said, cutting me off. “Just let me go over this.”

“Okay. I was just – ”

“Let’s first see what you have going on here,” he said abruptly, removing his bifocals and looking up at me. “After all, we’re not psychic, right?”

I stayed silent.

Dr. Carlson slapped my chart closed, grabbed a pen and notepad from his lab coat and said, “First off, are you on any supplements?”

“I’m on vitamin C and D, zinc, a multivitamin, quercetin,” I said. “Oh, and there’s B-complex,” I added before rattling off a few more.

While scribbling down my list of supplements, my doctor shook his head slightly, chuckled and muttered to himself, “Wow. They sure saw you coming …”

They sure saw you coming … The man was saying, to my face, that I was a sucker for purchasing supplements. This wasn’t the first time he’d been rude. But it was the last.

Seconds later, I burst out of the exam room, knowing that I’d never again see that arrogant troll. Red in the face and quivering with adrenaline overload, I sensed beneath my barely controlled rage something that, in retrospect, likely saved my life: self-respect.

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One spring morning three months earlier, I’d noticed blood in my urine. Shocked to the core, I grew weak in the knees and had to steady myself by leaning against the bathroom sink. At some deep, elemental level, I knew exactly what this symptom meant.

When I saw blood again a few weeks later, I called Dr. Carlson. A quick in-office lab test revealed more blood.

What my esteemed doctor, a man who’d taken the Hippocratic Oath and vowed to “First, do no harm,” said next left me feeling … elated.

“I think it’s dehydration,” Carlson said. “Drink more water and see me in six months.”

No cancer! I kept thinking as I skipped out of his office, before heading to the nearest 7-Eleven for a junk-food celebration.

Then came the fatigue, for no apparent reason. Followed by that medical appointment, when I mentioned my supplements, and the doctor’s rude behavior. They sure saw you coming …

That was the last straw.

Although I’d never been a shining beacon of self-esteem, I knew I was worthy of a more caring medical professional, someone who wouldn’t gloat while berating me every time I saw him. So I asked around for a good doctor.

One week later, when I informed the aptly named Dr. Young (who, I swear, looked like a college freshman) about my bloody symptom, he wasn’t rude. No, he was emphatic.

“Larry, you must see a urologist.”

“How soon?” I asked.

“Now,” he said. “No … yesterday.”

And so I did. After a routine cystoscopy (believe me: getting a camera snaked up your willy isn’t as fun as it sounds …), followed by a more-invasive exploratory procedure, the verdict was in.

Bladder cancer. Stage 3.

A month later, a highly recommended surgeon at Keck Medicine of USC found a second bladder tumor. When he later informed me that, based on the tumor’s location and grade, I had a 50/50 chance of surviving only five years, the decision to have my bladder completely removed was a no-brainer.

Lovely, right?

One option: Yank the cancerous bladder and wind up wearing a pee bag (clinically known as a “pee bag”) connected to a stoma for the rest of my life. (If you studied Latin, you surely know that “stoma” means “disgusting, easily infected hole in your abdomen.”)

Uh … no thanks.

So instead I underwent a “radical cystectomy,” a six-hour procedure in which my bladder was removed and a new one was constructed, right there in OR, from resected portions of my small intestine. The result: a “neobladder.” (Although “neo” comes from the Greek “neos” or “new,” less-formal folks in the bladder cancer community call it – I’m not making this up – a “Frankenbladder.” Gotta love that!)

Anyway, I can bladder blather on about the phenomenal surgeon and his wonderful team of professionals. And I can wax poetic about how I was so incredibly lucky to connect with a young, rising star in the cancer community, a doctor who has since become world-renowned for his diagnostic and surgical expertise. But that’s a story for another time.

Today, I occasionally wonder what might’ve happened if I’d lacked the self-respect to walk out on an incompetent doctor. Had I continued to put up with his rude behavior, thereby delaying critical treatment, I may be relating this little tale of woe from a permanent home, located on “the wrong side of the lawn.”

Perhaps I should thank Dr. Carlson. For if he’d been incompetent and empathetic, I likely would’ve stayed with him.

And it might’ve killed me.

Thankfully, I’ll never know.

Kudos to all the fine folks in my Write Hearted community who provided helpful feedback while this piece was being created: Dominik Gmeiner, Rick Lewis, Neha Patel, Kathy Ayers, Alden Cox and Genie Joseph.

Upstairs, situated next to a space filled with mainframe computers boasting the total memory of one Radio Shack floppy disc, was the staff break room. It was used by librarians and other fine civil servants who relaxed by scarfing down delectables from the Sputnik-era vending machine (the snacks were free, provided you knew how to body-slam it with just enough finesse), catching the latest episode of “Happy Days” or “Charlie’s Angels” on a 13-inch black-and-white Zenith, and incinerating all manner of Swanson’s frozen dinners in the break room’s newest gizmo: a silver 50-pound microwave oven that leaked like a Chernobyl reactor. (I’m pretty sure that thing permanently lowered my sperm count … but that’s another story.)

In addition, some of the staffers enjoyed assembling jigsaw puzzles.

One day, after shelving a cartful of books, I headed upstairs to the break room, smacked the vending machine to procure a free Hostess Twinkie, and headed toward one of the lime-green beanbag chairs that, along with conventional furniture, were situated against the far wall. But before I plopped my 18-year-old keester down and tore into the treat, I glanced at the latest jigsaw puzzle, a nearly completed 2,000-piece item depicting a cute “Peanuts” cartoon, of Charles Schulz fame. It’s something like this, only with many, many more jigsaw pieces:

That’s when I spotted Snoopy.
And I had an idea.

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Despite being alone in the break room, I instinctively looked left and right, like a black-clad burglar who’d just slinked through a jimmied window, before reaching down and lifting Snoopy from the puzzle. Deftly placing him in the front-left pocket of my Levis, I smiled to myself and bolted stage left.

I’d just dog-napped Snoopy.
And I felt drunk with power.

That night, at home after my shift, I grabbed the latest issue of my sister’s “Teen Beat” magazine and removed a pair of scissors from the kitchen’s junk drawer. With the patience of Job and the down time of a tax cheat cooling his heels in Sing-Sing, I cut out hundreds of individual printed letters. Then, using a bottle of Elmer’s glue, I meticulously pasted each letter onto a sheet of what was then called “typing paper” to form a note.

A ransom note.
It began like this (click on the graphic to bring up a larger version):

Before we continue, we must pause to discuss a real kidnapping, one that had occurred not long before I abducted Snoopy.

Fasten your seat belts, folks. This takes a dark turn.

In 1973, John Paul Getty III, grandson of J. Paul Getty (the World’s Richest Man, with more money than the Catholic Church), was kidnapped by the Italian mob and held for $17 million. When the elder Getty, who apparently was also the World’s Richest Cheapskate, initially balked, a local newspaper soon received – I am not making this up – John Paul Getty III’s severed ear in the mail, courtesy of the aforementioned Roman goombahs. The old man soon coughed up a negotiated $2.2 million, and John Paul III was eventually returned.

With that in mind, here’s my entire ransom note, re-created to the best of my memory from 1977, which I left in the break room atop that radioactive microwave:

We have Snoopy. He’s in good hands, at least for now. But you don’t want to mess with us. We’d hate to fit your mutt with four cement boots and invite him to dog paddle in the East River.

To get him back, leave two bottles of Coca-Cola on the top shelf just west of the building support pillar at the end of the cooking section. Your DEADline is Saturday, July 17, no later than noon.

No funny stuff, or your dog does the backstroke.

To show you we’re serious, we’re leaving you a little gift. Do NOT push us.

Placed in the same plain white envelope that contained my goofy ransom note was one small piece of the jigsaw puzzle, a piece that depicted – are you paying attention? – Snoopy’s ear. Since the world-famous Getty abduction had occurred just three years prior, library staff must’ve understood exactly how deadly serious sick and twisted amusing this was.

Nobody at the library ever said a word to me about this.

I never noticed any lantern-jawed thugs, coppers or G-men trailing me.

No, life at the Burbank Public Library went on as usual. Except some very important people in town must’ve realized that someone had kidnapped a world-renowned celebrity.

How do I know this? On July 17, 1977, while shelving books in the library’s cooking section, I headed over to the prearranged location, and there they were: two bottles of Coca-Cola.

And I smiled.

Later that evening, a librarian on break discovered that Snoopy had been miraculously returned to his jigsaw domain, reunited with his severed ear.

I learned two things, at the ripe old age of 18: (1) Pulling victimless pranks was a load of fun, and (2) I really didn’t have what it took to lead a genuine life of crime.

Nearly a half century later, I remain quite certain that no library staffer ever determined who’d kidnapped Snoopy, lopped off his floppy ear, and left the ransom note.

And I have absolutely no idea who paid the ransom … which I enjoyed later that day with a few freebie Twinkies pilfered from the break room.

It remains a mystery to this very day.

Special thanks to Alden Cox, Dana Allen, Kathy Ayers and Linda Kaun, who provided encouragement and helpful feedback while this essay was being written.

To me, taking in a baseball game is about as exciting as watching an IKEA table collect dust.

Granted, there are nuances to the game that I fail to – or admittedly refuse to – appreciate. For example, how a team’s manager positions his players on the field, depending on the pitcher, the batter, the score, the base runners – hell, let’s get creative here – the relative humidity, the lunar cycle, the Dow Jones Industrial Average, whatever.

To baseball purists (and I deeply respect each and every one of you), the game is an engaging, high-stakes chess match, a chess match pitting athletic multimillionaires against one another.

To me, the game is like, well, a freakin’ chess match. The only difference: Chess matches move more quickly, and the grandmasters don’t spit on the ground between moves.

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However, I’m happy to relate one notable exception. What I saw during a televised baseball game one June day in the early ’80s nearly knocked me out of my well-worn La-Z-Boy recliner.

I’d just fired up my recently purchased Mitsubishi 18-inch color TV (which weighed the equivalent of three cinder blocks and sold for $550). The Los Angeles Dodgers were playing the San Francisco Giants up in the Bay Area.

Just as I tuned in, Dodgers 3^rd baseman Ron Cey slapped a slow ground ball to the Giants’ shortstop and was thrown out at first. I reached for the TV clicker, hoping I’d stumble across something more exciting, like a televised examination of inductive versus deductive reasoning.

However, something deep within me – an intuitive, odd “spidey sense” that to this very day I can’t fully comprehend – told me to stick around and watch the game.

I’m glad I did.

The next Dodger, all-star first baseman Steve Garvey, approached the plate, bat in hand. As he did so, music throughout the stadium began to play a very specific “batter-walk-up song.”

In case you don’t know this, “walk-up songs” – snippets of traditional baseball tunes such as “Take Me Out to the Ballgame”; “Eye of the Tiger,” by Survivor; or “We Will Rock You,” by Queen – are played as an athlete takes his final warm-up swings and heads toward the batter’s box. Today, I imagine most walk-up songs are pre-recorded, but 40 years ago, an actual in-stadium organist tickled the keys.

And this particular organist had a real mean streak.

Just as Garvey headed toward home plate, the organist knocked out a few bars from composer Scott Joplin’s 1902 ragtime classic “The Entertainer,” definitely not your typical baseball ditty.

That’s when my jaw hit the floor. This cannot be a coincidence. I thought to myself.

Why, you ask?

Let’s just say it had to do with one man’s, shall we say, “libidinous misstep” and another man’s Academy Award–winning soundtrack.

Stick with me, folks, there’s a connection here. And, given Garvey’s wide-ranging fame at the time, it didn’t take a baseball fan to put 2 and 2 together.

As for Garvey’s first at-bat, which followed “The Entertainer” snippet, I don’t recall whether or not he got a hit, struck out, popped out, did the Hokey-Pokey and turned himself around, or whatever. It didn’t matter. For I was riveted, waiting for one event: Garvey’s next appearance at the plate.

During the interim, as other players from both teams took their at-bats – and as I fought heroically to stay out of a baseball-induced coma – the Giants’ organist played a variety of ordinary, traditional walk-up songs.

Not Garvey. When he headed toward the batter’s box for the second time, there it was again: a 10-second refrain from Joplin’s “The Entertainer.”

Later that game, it happened a third time.

Okay, here’s the connection that blew me away.

Steve Garvey’s wife, Cyndy, had recently caught the Dodgers first baseman having an affair with his secretary, apparently swinging his rather famous bat in a different direction, as it were. It eventually ended their marriage.

Cyndy Garvey very soon took up with a certain fellow named Marvin Hamlish.

And who, pray tell, was Marvin Hamlish? He was a noted composer who had adopted ragtime music for the 1973 Oscar Best Picture winner, “The Sting.”

And the most noted song in the movie’s soundtrack? “The Entertainer,” the very same song used every single time Garvey entered the batter’s box that day in San Fran. You’d think that a musician who’d made it to the Major Leagues would be forgiving of a fellow professional who’d mishandled his organ. Sadly for Garvey, this wasn’t the case.

And there you have it, folks: a snarky – one could argue downright vicious – slice of sports history.

Not to burst your bubble, but the sadistic stadium organist never converted me into a baseball fan.

Still, I learned an important lesson that day so many years ago: Trust your intuition. Listen to your gut.

And I can’t help but wonder if Garvey would’ve been better served had he moved the source of his own intuition above his waist.

Kudos and hugs to members of my Write Hearted community who went over early draft: Rachel Parker, Kathy Ayers, Simon Emslie and Dana Allen. And a special shout-out to Rick Lewis, who provided valuable feedback and furnished a few clever zingers that I incorporated into this essay.

On a blistering August afternoon in 1983, I was heading south from L.A. toward San Diego on the I-5. The plan was to go windsurfing with friends in Mission Bay. Traveling in the fast lane, the windsurfer strapped to the roof of my car, my mind wandered as I pictured the next two blissful days: my San Diego State buddies and me harnessing the bay’s reliably stiff breeze as our boards skipped like well-thrown stones over the choppy water’s surface, followed by delectable barbecue fare and animated conversations over a bonfire after sunset.

Just then, about 10 miles north of Oceanside, the freeway traffic suddenly backed up as hundreds of brake lights slammed me back into the present moment.

No biggie, I thought. It happens.

A SoCal native, by the time I was in my mid-20s I’d negotiated “constipated” freeways many times. But in my eight years of driving, I’d never seen traffic stop altogether.

Within a minute of halting, all five southbound lanes became little more than a huge, taxpayer-funded parking lot, a miles-long ribbon of sheet metal, glass, rubber, carbon monoxide fumes and seriously pissed-off drivers. We’d occasionally roll forward every minute or so, a few feet at a time.

An hour later, we’d moved about 200 yards.

My car, a purple ’73 AMC Hornet, didn’t have A/C. So as I grew hot under the collar, the rest of my body followed suit, schvitzing through my yellow Hang Ten tank top and cutoff Levis.

That’s when I saw them.

Three lanes over, two scruffy, free-spirited 20-somethings sat in the bed of an ancient yellow-on-rust Ford F-150 pickup. Both of the shirtless, sun-baked yokels occupied two lawn chairs, literally kicking back while guzzling can after can of beer, right out there in the early-afternoon meltdown.

My first thought: Huh. Maybe these guys are the “designated drinkers.”

During that first hour, as the freeway crawled along, I saw the giggling, belching hayseeds heroically power through six or seven beers each.

Impressed – and dehydrated – I came to three conclusions: (1) Those fine lads are not rocket scientists. (2) Man, I’d sure love a nice, cold beer. (3) Right now.

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I’m not a big drinker. Never was, never will be.

However, at the time, sitting in my overheated Hornet in the fast lane of the clogged I-5, I realized that a can of whatever golden, carbonated nectar these happy-go-lucky MIT professors were guzzling would go down quite well, thank you very much. More importantly, the idea of acting out, giving a frustrated middle finger to whatever Gridlock Gods were behind this slice of motorist hell, seemed completely appropriate.

In other words: Screw it …

Leaning to my right, I bellowed out the open passenger-side window toward the party boys: “Hey!”

Both of their heads, mounted on alcohol-lubricated necks, swiveled in my direction.

“Whassap, dude?” the fellow closer to me bellowed back enthusiastically.

“I’ll give you a buck for one of those beers!” I hollered.

Without a word, Mr. Whassup reached down, grabbed a cold one from what must’ve been a well-stocked ice chest, hopped out of the pickup, jogged over three freeway lanes to my Hornet, and held out a glorious can of Budweiser.

I gave him a dollar bill and latched on to the beer.

“Enjoy, dude!” he said before scampering, barefoot, back to his biergarten on wheels.

I placed the delectable Budweiser into a cupholder, gave the Brewski Bros a thumbs up and resumed hypnotically gazing at the stalled line of cars in front of me.

Today, I have mixed emotions about this rather unusual transaction. When I was handed the beer, I was giggling along with my newfound buds in the pickup.

However, when I again placed that can of Budweiser into my car’s cupholder two minutes later, it was empty.

For the first and last time, I drank behind the wheel, something I’m not proud to admit.

I don’t recall how long the traffic remained snarled in the I-5 that day four decades ago, but eventually my AMC Hornet, empty Budweiser can and sweaty self were back at full speed, heading toward Mission Bay and two days of glorious windsurfing.

You never know where, or how, a person can find human connection and relief from the slings and arrows of Life. It can even happen over a beer, on a packed freeway.

Today, while I don’t recall much about the fun my friends and I had out on the water, I recall the briefly odd adventure with my freeway buds like it was yesterday.

Kudos to Matt Cyr, Kathy Ayers and Christopher Harding for their feedback on the first draft of this post.

“Hi. I’d like to make a withdrawal,” I said, checking my watch and glancing at the potted spider plants that flanked each teller window, each one struggling to flourish under the bank’s harsh fluorescent lights.

“Sure. How much would you like?” she asked.

“What’s the maximum amount?”

A few seconds later, she glanced up from her monitor. “Two-thousand dollars.”

“Really? Uh … might it be possible to get more? In cash?”

Again I checked my watch.

“I’m afraid everything else is tied up long term,” she said, frowning. “We could free up more in three business days.”

I didn’t have three business minutes. I needed it now.

“Okay,” I said, sighing in resignation. “I’ll take it.”

“And how would you like that?”

“In nickels, please.”

“Huh?”

“Nah, just kidding,” I smiled. “Anything. Twenties, hundreds. Doesn’t matter.”

She soon handed me a small wad of greenbacks. I thanked her profusely and darted out the door.

I raced back to the office, where I was late for a weekly Friday meeting. An editor for the Auto Club’s Publications Division (we produced the freebie magazines sent to all AAA members throughout California), I was tasked with reporting on the status of the various stories slated to appear in the next issue.

Despite the important nature of the meeting, I was up to something far more critical: a quick score, surely the easiest money I’d ever make.

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One day earlier, I’d learned about the official point spread in that Sunday’s Super Bowl XXXIX (“39” for those not versed in the silly Roman numeral system used by the NFL), a contest pitting the New England Patriots against the Philadelphia Eagles.

In any other situation, I’d be screaming myself hoarse in favor of the Eagles, though not because I was a fan of Philly’s team.

No, I’d root for any team competing against the Patriots. Judge me if you must, but if the freakin Taliban fielded an NFL squad against the Pats, I’d consider pulling for them.

Why? Let me count the ways.

1. Three years earlier, the then-upstart Patriots had upset the heavily favored St. Louis Rams – my St. Louis Rams – in Super Bowl XXXVI (“36” for those who count in “common sense”).

2. The Patriots competed in Foxborough, Mass., located within spittin’ distance (assuming you could expectorate 29 miles) from Boston. And, then and now, you couldn’t utter the word “Boston” in my presence without risking getting your ears boxed. Repeatedly. After all, Boston is home of the hated Celtics, a group of extremely tall sub-human basketball goons that former L.A. Lakers coach Pat Riley once astutely called “the Klingons of the NBA.”

3. The New England Patriots were coached by a stone-faced cyborg named Bill Belichick. Nobody, other than the delusional thugs who composed Patriot Nation, liked that guy.

4. Their quarterback, the comically overrated Tom Brady, selected as the 199^th pick of the 2000 NFL draft, managed to rise to the starting position on good looks alone. On top of all that, he’d been instrumental in beating my Rams in that earlier Super Bowl.

Why, then, was I pulling for the Patriots?

Because the point spread for Super Bowl 39 (“XXXIX” if you must, dammit) was only 7, favoring New England. In other words, the Pats had to beat the Eagles by just 7 points in order to pay out to those who’d bet on Boston’s Evil Empire.

And any football fan with the IQ of spinach knew that, on their worst day, the Pats could slap down the Eagles by far more than 7.

Easy money. A no-brainer. A sure thing.

Now let’s digress for a moment.

Question: If you could travel back in time to March 13, 1986, the day of Microsoft’s initial public offering, and invest $2,000 in the digital bully giant, would you? Hint: Today that $2,000 would be worth more than $10 million.

Answer: Like, duh… (Translated: Indeed, you would).

And you’d surely do anything – even run late for one measly work meeting – to nab that $2,000 in order to make it happen, right?

Like I said: no-brainer.

Which is why I’d ducked out of work: to shovel as much green in my pockets as possible, since pulling for the hated New England Patriots in Super Bowl 39 (I am done with this Roman numeral nonsense) was easy money.

A sure thing.

So I slithered my way out of the office to snag $2,000 from the bank

And I was frustrated beyond words that I couldn’t grab my elderly parents’ retirement a whole lot more.

The next day, I took my cash, drove 230 miles from Orange County to the buzzing megalopolis of Primm, Nevada (just across the California border) and bet on the Patriots.

The next day, a gaggle of friends and I enjoyed the Super Bowl while scarfing down bag after bag of Doritos, washed down with way too many Bud Lights. What a giddy way to witness a wise investment pay out, right?

As expected, the New England Patriots – the NFL team I loathed far more than any other – won the game ...

… by only 3 points. They didn’t cover the 7-point spread.

And I lost $2,000.

Even before I knocked down my final beer, I realized that I could’ve saved two tanks of gas and five-plus hours of driving (to lovely Primm, Nevada, no less) had I just taken a flamethrower to my 2-grand right there in the bank a few days earlier.

Better yet, I could’ve actually done my job, made the editorial meeting on time, and saved the money altogether.

Since then, I’ve understood that wagering on a “sure thing” – and cutting corners with any sort of quick fix – should be reserved for only two types of people: seasoned professional gamblers and mental pygmies.

And if anyone ever mentions a “no-brainer” sports wager, a “guaranteed” payout, you’ll see me heading – sprinting – in the other direction.

Bet on it.

Kudos to Kathy Ayers, Simon Emslie, Dana Allen and Genie Joseph, all of whom provided valuable feedback while I was conjuring this neurotic tale of woe.

My father, brother and I, along with about a dozen other members of Boy Scout Troop 75, had backpacked to a fairly remote campsite in Upper Bear Creek, located in Southern California’s San Gabriel Wilderness. Although, at age 10, I wasn’t yet old enough to be a Boy Scout, my brother had joined the troop one year earlier, and I was invited along for the weekend adventure.

Within a half mile of leaving the trailhead, however, my “adventure” had become somewhat of a death march.

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The trail we’d taken crossed swollen, fast-running Bear Creek at least a dozen times as we ascended our way past the sage scrub, chaparral, ponderosa pines and coast live oaks that populated the region. Between my far-too-heavy backpack, the blown-out sneakers that offered little support when negotiating the slick rocks found at every creek crossing, the unremitting July heat, and the fast pace set by the older, stronger boys, our three-mile jaunt felt more like 50 when I finally dumped my pack and collapsed onto the tarp my dad had spread out at our campsite.

“Let’s go get some water,” Dad said a few minutes later. “Drink a little, and you’ll feel better.”

Offering a strong arm, he helped me to my feet and we ambled our way toward a stand of ferns flourishing in the shade offered by two white alders that arched out over the creek. Dad was right. Within minutes of filling our canteens and drinking the cool, clean water, I felt rejuvenated.

We sat next to each other, blissfully cooling our bare feet in the creek and gazing up at the alders’ leaves, which danced and shimmered in the late-afternoon light as creek water sighed and gurgled over nearby rocks.

Then my father did something he’d never done before, something he’d never again do for the rest of his life: He put his arm around me.

I briefly twitched in shock at this new experience. What the hell is happening?

Then, as his fingers began to caress my shoulder, I felt an odd blend of confusion and tranquility.

I instinctively knew that my father felt the same. I sensed his apprehension, his hesitation. And beneath my confused state, I admired him for the risk he’d taken by expressing himself in this manner, something men of his era often avoided.

Dad and I spent a few awkwardly wonderful minutes together, two imperfect souls wordlessly connecting in a beautiful slice of paradise.

We soon stood and headed back to set up our campsite.

Forty-three years later, I sat in a chair next to my father, who lay in bed dying of an aggressive form of melanoma that had ravaged his body. He spent most of his time sleeping, waking up to let me give him a sip of water, occasionally mumbling something I couldn’t quite understand.

“What did you say, Dad?” I asked, confused.

I then felt compelled to do something I’d never done before: I gently took his hand in mine, feeling what he must’ve felt when he’d risked placing his arm around his young son so many decades earlier.

Once Dad fell back asleep, snoring lightly, I went outside to unwind, take in some fresh air and try to process what had just happened. My mom met me just outside the front door about five minutes later.

Looking up at me and smiling through the pain of impending loss, she said, “Your father just told me something you should know.”

“What?”

“He said, ‘Tell Larry I love him very, very much.’”

His mumbled words, those words I couldn’t quite comprehend ...

Part of me had always known that my father loved me, ever since he’d taken a chance and put his arm around his young son at Bear Creek so many years earlier.

Dad, wherever you are, I hope you understand this: The feeling is mutual.

Kudos and hugs to Dana Allen, Matt Cyr, Kathy Ayers and Genie Joseph, who provided valuable feedback while this essay was being written.

I hope this message finds you well.

I just wanted to thank you for a gift you gave me a long time ago, thousands of miles from home. It’s a gift that took me nearly 20 years to finally unwrap.

Like a seed that germinates only when it’s ready, your gift finally sprouted one March evening at Los Angeles International Airport. I made my way through a teeming throng of travelers in the Tom Bradley International Terminal, eventually lugging my two stuffed duffel bags to the Thai Airways ticket counter.

I’d spent the previous six months preparing for a trip to Nepal’s Mt. Everest region: hundreds of hours on bikes, treadmills and trails, sweating my way into the kind of shape required to climb high in the Himalayas. By the time I’d arrived at LAX, I’d checked all the boxes required by a trip of this nature: a current passport, visa, shots, updated equipment list … Matt, you’ve traveled the world, you know the drill.

I just needed one more item: a boarding pass.

And I wasn’t getting one.

A minute earlier, I’d handed the ticket agent, a diminutive young woman with almond eyes and a kind smile, my paperwork.

Her smile then faded, her brow creasing slightly with concern.

“Are you Larry or Lawrence?” she asked.

“I’m Larry.”

“Hmmm.” The crease in her brow became more pronounced. “Your passport says ‘Larry.’” She glanced down at her monitor. “But your reservation says ‘Lawrence.’”

I’d assumed, apparently without checking, that my passport said “Lawrence.”

She sighed, gave her head an almost imperceptible shake and added, “This could be a problem. May I see another form of ID?”

Feeling a growing sense of dread, I handed over my driver’s license.

“This says ‘Larry.’”

“Yes,” I replied.

“But, again, your reservation says…” Another sigh, this one with a measure of exasperation. “Lawrence,” she muttered to herself. “This isn’t good.”

I grew weak in the knees, deducing where this conversation – and my Himalayan adventure – might be headed.

“I’m really sorry, but there may be a problem letting you board,” she said. “It’s a security issue.”

Matt, you spent two months with me, years earlier, cycling throughout Europe, and we got to know each other pretty well. So, you can probably guess what I wanted to say to the LAX ticket agent: Something like …

“Listen. I need to get on that goddamn plane, and if you don’t stop this cross-examination and give me my boarding pass – a boarding pass I’ve already paid for – there’s gonna be hell to pay. I wanna speak with your supervisor. NOW.”

But I didn’t act in this manner. Rather, I thought of you … and Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Because, right then, I needed some Jedi magic.

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The Eurail Pass we’d each purchased for our 1994 European cycling trip was our ticket to freedom: unlimited train rides throughout the Continent. We could make our way to, say, Copenhagen, cycle around the region for a week or so, then hop on another train to Stockholm. Easy, right?

Wrong.

Nobody warned us how difficult it was traveling with bicycles, since most trains weren’t equipped to carry them. At nearly every station, there’d be the inevitable delay, sometimes for hours.

Matt, you must remember how, for whatever reason, I was the point person who’d inquire about the next bike-friendly train. And surely you must recall how, on more than one occasion, I’d get abrupt with the ticket agent upon hearing of yet another delay.

Acting in this manner never swayed any of the ticket agents.

“We’re sorry, sir,” they’d say. “The next train headed to Oslo, one that takes bikes, won’t be here for three … no, four hours.”

That all changed one balmy July evening in Brussels, when you first shared with me your gift.

We were headed toward Zermatt, Switzerland, home of the Matterhorn, and the next bike-friendly train wasn’t scheduled until the following morning. Right when we received the bad news, a regular Zermatt-bound train was taking on passengers about 100 feet beyond the ticket counter.

Matt, you must’ve seen my expression darken. This time, however, you put a hand on my shoulder, gently guided me back a step and addressed the ticket agent yourself.

“Sir,” you said in a slow, measured tone, “we really, really need to get on that train. It would help us a great deal.”

The ticket agent expression softened. “Okay, take your bikes and follow me.”

Stunned beyond words, my mouth hung open as my gaze comically moved back and forth between you and the ticket agent. Wha … Wha… What the hell just happened? I thought.

Your brief exchange reminded me of a scene in “Star Wars: A New Hope,” when Jedi master Obi Wan Kenobi used his powers to get past a checkpoint manned by Imperial Storm Troopers.

The magic you worked with the ticket agent wasn’t just a one-off, Matt. It occurred on several occasions during our trip. And though I soon learned to keep my pie-hole shut within a mile of any train station, I never fully acknowledged the simple but powerful magic you’d conjured.

The LAX Thai Airways ticket agent headed to the back office to consult with her boss.

And, right then, Matt, your gift – given to me 18 years earlier – finally emerged.

While waiting for the supervisor, I thought of you. Taking a slow, deep breath, then another, I actually tried to channel you.

Then something gently fell into place. Something just clicked.

A minute later, the supervisor, a portly fellow with wire-framed glasses and a comical combover, followed his subordinate to the counter where I stood. His eyes darted between my passport and the computer monitor. Larry, Lawrence ... Larry, Lawrence …

I went for broke.

“I’m really sorry about this problem,” I said slowly, calmly, tapping into my own inner Obi Wan. “They’re really the same name.”

The supervisor looked at me with a slightly befuddled expression.

I smiled at him.

“It’s like Rick … and Richard,” I said, slightly tilting my head left, then right, creating an unspoken rhythm that seemed to merge the two names into one, a rhythm that calmed my still-jangled nerves.

Then the names just flowed out of me, as I continued to rhythmically, almost imperceptibly, move back and forth.

Phil … and Phillip.
Maggie … and Margaret.
Ted … and Theodore.
Suzie … and Susan.
Bill … and William.
Mike … and Michael.

After sharing a few more examples in this manner, I took another deep breath, finishing with ...

Larry … and Lawrence. Followed by a shrug and a smile.

Without hesitating, the man turned to his subordinate and said, “Give Larry his boarding pass.”

Matt, by modeling calm, confident equanimity during so many stressful scenarios, you saved my trip to Nepal. And by showing me the positive effects of slowing down and simply being nice to people while asking for what you need, you gave me a gift for life.

And for that, I thank you.

A big, hearty THANK YOU to Dana Allen, Kathy Ayers and Linda Kaun, who went over an early version of this essay and provided valuable feedback.