It is 12:10 and I hate 2017. I can't wait until 2018.

[+ Truereview]

So you, fellow curmudgeons, are there siblings or other relatives with whom you have a lifetime of memories but nothing which glues you two together in the present?

A true curmudgeon...

http://www.awesomeinventions.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/11/truths-voicemail.jpg

[beachboy]

➕ 1

[kewtex]

Well, when I first heard his voice, I thought: Gee who is left to die? Checking off the short list of potential corpses was like a walk down memory lane to when all my Italian relatives lived within walking distance of my home. That time has long passed and so I would likely feel little regret no matter who was the victim of time's relentless march through the Greatest Generation and into the Baby Boomers.

 

In reality, though these relatives were still walking the planet, their impact on my life at this time was so minimal as to be non-existent. That is probably why my brother's message was so startling. "Hey this is your brother, Joe. (As though I had other brothers and needed to sort him out of the crowd) I just called to let you know.......(okay here it is, Aunt Virginia is gone or Cousin Rose, early line in Vegas had Rose as a 2:1 favorite to be the next to go)....I was thinking about you and decided to say hello."

 

My relationship with my sister is not unlike yours with your brother. I, too, wonder who is dead or dying when I see her name on my caller ID.

 

My sister once left a message on my answering machine without stating her name. I did not recognize her voice, and I must have listened to the recording a half-dozen times before figuring out who she was.

[+ purplekow]

So, with the weather being what it has been, I have not left the house for the last two days except to step out on the patio to call a dog back into the house. It is rainy and cold and just awful, which is great soup weather. I made a great chicken soup two weeks ago and ate it for five days in a row. It seemed to get better with age. While the soup was getting better with age, my reaction to bad weather has not.

I used to wonder why people moved to Florida. I mean, have you ever been to Florida. But the appeal of a warm clime with young people wearing little in the way of clothing has gotten a lot more appealing.

 

I must say however, that sleeping and staying in bed is a lot more fun when the weather is cold. If there is a hot partner to warm the bed, anyplace can be a holiday. However, when you are alone, there is something tremendously satisfying in getting under a comforter and feeling the warm security of a freshly made bed. Sinking to the reassuring embrace of pillows and linens, knowing a warm winter

night will be completed in rapturous, cuddly sleep.

 

Today I spent a few extra hours in bed, doing the NYT Crossword Puzzle, listening to music and glancing out the window to the streets below over a freshly fallen silent shroud of snow. I mean that Paul Simon has such a way with words, I so envy that talent. I may not have that expertise but I did have the view, the window and the four dogs making sure that a stray cold breeze did not find its way to my skin.

I keep a pair of flannel pajamas and a robe near my bed for just such winter mornings. I do not wear the pajamas to bed. I have always found that any clothing worn to bed at night winds up being a sloppy, wet mess strangling various body parts in the morning. So naked I will be when I am in bed, but I jump into the pajamas after a shower or if I am staying in bed but not sleeping. The robe further insures my warmth against the cold morning air.

 

The robe also seems to be a requirement of curmudgeonry. An untied robe, with dangerously slippery slippers are de rigeur for those curmudgeons who still get newspaper deliveries to the home. There is something about hold a newspaper that makes the news feel real. The smell of the print and the feel of paper and the expertise needed to fold the paper into a manageable mass of mass communication all add to experience that computer news never does. It is the difference between a book and an electronic reader, the difference between cream and Half and Half, the difference between sex and masturbation. There is just a satisfaction with one that the other can never quite reach.

 

So curmudgeon out there, are you in a robe in the morning? Are you cuddled up in a $29.99 Comforter special from Bed Bath and Beyond of a goose down blanket? Is the winter too cold for the bones?

[trav05]

When I retired a few years ago in San Francisco, I bought a condo in Ft.Lauderdale. Not so much for the weather, but for the costs. Now I'm living in Bangkok for 6 months out of the year. My sister and her husband live in Boston and asked if they could use my condo for February. Sure no problem. Last night she called me and said there is closed to 20" of snow in their yard up north and it's beautiful, sunny and warm in Florida. Can we stay for the month of March?

I won't be back till May so I said go for it. They spent a year asking if I really wanted to retire to Florida. It is worth it if you don't like Northern winters. Now it's sounding like I might have a hard time getting rid of them .

Florida heat doesn't bother me as it's much hotter in Thailand. Now I go to Florida to cool off.

[+ sam.fitzpatrick]

I must say however, that sleeping and staying in bed is a lot more fun when the weather is cold. If there is a hot partner to warm the bed, anyplace can be a holiday. However, when you are alone, there is something tremendously satisfying in getting under a comforter and feeling the warm security of a freshly made bed. Sinking to the reassuring embrace of pillows and linens, knowing a warm winter night will be completed in rapturous, cuddly sleep.

 

Not a better way to spend a Sunday.

[+ purplekow]

I was watching a documentary film on HBO, I believe it is entitled The Making of Warren Buffet, It is really well done and it nicely shows how Warren Buffet went from being a child in Omaha to being an old man in Omaha and how he made billions of dollars in between.

One of the more interesting points for me was a single line in which Mr. Buffett is speaking to students and he tells them that they need to use an internal scoreboard. While the rest of the documentary does not support fully his living in a way which supports his belief in that statement, the statement did cause me to consider my scoreboard.

 

I have generally been an internal scoreboard person. External trappings have rarely held much sway in my thinking. I have rarely wanted the newest, the prestigious or the most fashionable and I have held at a distance the judgments and acquaintances of those who did. That comes from growing up in a home where new, prestigious and fashionable were never possible and not valuing them and likewise the people who valued them, was my survival tool.

 

I have made life decisions based not on how others viewed them but on how well those decisions realistically fit into my general tenets about my life. I turned down well paying jobs for others which I thought may be more challenging or personally satisfying because money was not a high priority on my scorecard. I have made life decisions in which the obvious material trappings were sacrificed in order to keep true to my philosophy, for which I scored more personal satisfaction points. I have been outspoken when silence might have been a more prudent, because being outspoken scored at the level of bravery and I have held my tongue when I wanted to scream out knowing that silence was the kinder and more honorable choice, but perhaps only to score high on the tolerance section of my scorecard

 

Now, older and living with the consequences of the many decisions which have come before, in adding up the totals on my scoreboard, I am wondering if I should have been the one keeping score at all. Did I really know how to keep score or was I making up the scoring rules as I went along? Was I manufacturing the scoreboard results by making decisions which insured that I could judge them as superior to the decisions of others who used a different scoring system. I am considering whether I made some of the decisions I did just to avoid having to admit that I too placed value on things which I rationalize as shallow, a low scoring item, but which have meaning to most of the outside world. Did I make decisions which took the high ground because I did not want to score low in morality rather than an honest belief in that decision. Is my inner scoreboard my ultimate self hypocrisy? Were the decisions and choices for which I congratulated myself as being altruistic, a really high scorer, just decisions which allowed me to feel righteous and virtuous. Is doing the "right" thing the right thing when it is done to build up a scoreboard resume designed to allow smug judgment of others making other decisions? In essences, I have been considering just how big a pompous ass I have been in my scoreboard.

 

So I have come to this. In looking back, I am pleased with most of the decisions I have made and as a result I have scored well in decisiveness and consistency.

I have few major regrets about my choices. Most of the choices I have made, I would make again, even the ones with unanticipated bad consequences. It is only retrospectively that I see better options for those decisions. So I do not regret the decisions though I regret that at the time I did not have the knowledge to make a better decision, a high score in insightfulness.

 

I have been judgmental and smug, definitely low totals to the scoreboard, even though most would not see me that way, it is only because I would have to deduct points for insincerity if they did.

 

So fellow curmudgeons, have you been using a rigged internal scoreboard? Have you opted to go for the external scoreboard in finding self validation in the evaluation of others have of you and have you used the accumulation of material things become you guide? (He who dies with the most toys wins) Is there really a fair way to evaluated the life we have lived? Are we just left to admit that some of the times we did the best we could and other times we did not?

[+ purplekow]

Spring sprung here in the northeast, at least for a day it did. It was unseasonably warm and sunny. I went out to get the newspaper and felt the heat of a winter sun on my face. It was a renewal of the day and hope for the year, a renewal of my curiosity and a hope to learn something new and a renewal of my subscription which had been suspended for a few days as I changed bank accounts and the automatic payment for the newspaper went with the old account.

 

Yes, I get a newspaper delivered and like an old friend it had come for a visit. It had arrived for morning coffee on a warm February day. Some here would question why one would do that, hae a newspaper delivered. . Some here would question exactly what is a newspaper. The fact is, newspapers, like books, give the feeling that one is dealing with something important, considered and erudite. News on line is quickly flipped from page to page trying to separate wheat from chaff but I have developed a relationship with my newspapers. I read three. The Times for news and politics, the News for Sports and the Post for the laughs and gossip. I usually will peruse each page of each of them but I am selective when it comes to reading a full article. With a newspaper, this morning I was picking up the New York Times, you need to consider several things. First there is folding the newspaper in order to allow coffee to be placed, yet not spilled. At my age, the lighting must be just right. The New York Times was able to tell me, gently, that I had reached middle age when I found I had to drop the paper to the floor in order to see the clues for the crossword puzzle as I was laying prone on the bed with my face looking down at the puzzle. My arms were no longer long enough to allow me to lie supine or sit propped on pillows and do the puzzle. So the NYT crossword was the first t to tell me, gently, I needed reading glasses. I rarely do the crossword in the other two newspapers unless I have a balky stomach and am in need of entertoiletment.

 

The big thing for me about a newspaper is that it is a tangible, palpable means of getting news. People who write for newspapers know their words and thoughts will be going out to the world on trucks to stands and homes and those words will be carried on busses and trains. There is an intimacy with the writer and the reader newspaper. When you see someone reading a newspaper, well they are clearly concentrating on getting information. That may be political, local news, weather, sports, comics, opinions, but they are actively seeking out information and entertainment and usually people will respect that and leave them to it. You rarely will be interrupted when you are reading a newspaper except for serious discussion. June Cleaver may have interrupted Ward about the latest shenanigans of Wally and Beaver, but Ward rarely looked away from his paper and if he did, man you knew it was a serious problem. So waitstaff, fellow citizens taking public transportation, most family members and other people in a waiting room know that if someone is reading a newspaper they are busy. Electronic media has not earned this consideration. The omnipresence of electronic media and the constant bombardment of information from that media has allowed people to feel free to speak to people staring mindlessly at their phone. After all, if is just as likely to be cat video on that phone as anything else and waiting for them to disengage might require several hours. . When someone is reading a newspaper, well, they have signaled that they have made a commitment to knowledge and are not to be disturbed. Even if that newspaper is the National Enquirer and the person reading it is holding up the check out line at a supermarket, there is usually some respect offered because the person stopping you from getting home to cook dinner and watch Jeopardy is reading a newspaper.

 

So, I am a curmudgeon, a newspaper reading old fogey, (are there young fogeys and if not is old fogey redundant?) who enjoyed a warm and sunny February walk to pick up the newspaper at curbsid and got ready for the new day with an old reliable friend.

[mike carey]

Even if that newspaper is the National Enquirer and the person reading it is holding up the check out line at a supermarket, there is usually some respect offered because the person stopping you from getting home to cook dinner and watch Jeopardy is reading a newspaper.

I would have thought that seeing someone reading the National Enquirer would be evidence enough for you not to engage them in conversation the next time you saw them regardless of whether they were then reading at all.

[+ purplekow]

I would have thought that seeing someone reading the National Enquirer would be evidence enough for you not to engage them in conversation the next time you saw them regardless of whether they were then reading at all.

Oh no. No other way to find out if there are any local alien babies.

[+ purplekow]

Just to be clear Fpgeys are not necessarily old and just because you are old you are not a fogey so old fogey is not redundant.

[kewtex]

Just to be clear Fpgeys are not necessarily old and just because you are old you are not a fogey so old fogey is not redundant.

 

I still have the newspaper delivered daily, have a wired home phone, and drive a V-8. Am I am old fogey, or simply old-fashioned? My younger subordinates in the workplace probably think I am the former. I prefer to think I am the latter.

[+ purplekow]

Today I felt particularly down. I have not been out of the house for a few days and I have not had any phone calls and the few texts I have had have been brief. I must admit to most of the responsibility for this. I have not tried to break out of this funk and I have not called nor texted a friend nor have I gone out of the house, as there was no particular reason for it. I have had a sense of foreboding, but I think that lack of human contact can instill that in you. I now realize I definitely would have been talking to a volley ball if I was Castaway as Tom Hanks portrayed.

 

Today started as another day in that string of long lonely days, lonely nights of which the BeeGees sang. I decided to have a leisurely breakfast. I opted for three eggs, rather than my usual two and decided to go with the yolks in. Nice hot pan, a bit of butter and the first egg dropped perfectly into the center of the pan with a slight sizzle. The second egg similarly slid in as flawlessly. The third egg was cracked and into the pan dropped first one and then a second yolk. I have never seen a "double yolker." I have come to learn that about 1 in one thousand chicken eggs are "double yolkers" but the screening practices here in the US include candling of eggs and at that point the doubles are removed. So double yolked chicken eggs which are store bought are a rarity indeed, in fact, said one expert source I encountered, most of us can go a lifetime of egg eating without encountering a double yolked egg.

 

That auspicious start to the day that was all set to be unremarkable, led me to decide to break out of my shell. (See what I did there, breaking out of the shell, eggshell, well you probably got it but I hated for that to missed because hey it's funny) Just as I had decided that the double yolker was a sign of a great day ahead, my cel phone rang. My phone ringing was notable in two ways. First, I rarely get phone calls especially at 11 AM. Second, I had managed to turn off the ringer for my phone by mistake and after several weeks of failing to figure out how to turn the ringer back on, last night I found the magic combination. This call was from an long time friend, calling from Arizona, so 9AM his local time, whose first appointment of the day had cancelled and he decided to have coffee and give me a call. I was truly delighted to hear from him. I would have been pleased to hear from anyone, but he has always been a favorite person of mine and so it was particularly special. It was especially special in that it was unprompted by a social tragedy, a need to borrow money or a death in the family. It was just a "hello how are you doing?" phone call.

 

After chatting for about 15 minutes, I felt rejuvenated and ready to face the day. Right after showering, I noted my phone had a text on it, actually a series of texts from a friend who just decided to text and say that he was thinking about me and that he had wanted to tell me what a big difference I had made in his life. I texted back and we conversed for a while, ending with a plan to meet for a meal next week.

 

The rest of the day was relatively uneventful. A pleasant trip to the supermarket and a short trip to the bank. Lunch at a local delicatessen, with a particularly tasty Neat and Sloppy sandwich. Neat and Sloppy is a sandwich at the local deli which consists of lacy swiss cheese and ham with honey mustard on one side of a double decker rye sandwich and roast beef and cole slaw on the other. The sandwich is heated just enough to let the swiss melt over the ham. After a brief walk outside in the surprisingly mild February weather, I returned home to the warm welcomes of the four dogs.

 

So, just when I needed it, friends came out of the mist, food was particularly tasty and the weather turned unusually nice. Now I am not saying that the double yolker was the cause of all of this. But, I am not saying that it wasn't. The double yolked egg reset my thinking. It led me to believe that new and unusual things could happen. I lightened my load. I think it foretold of a change in direction. As good a good omen as Shakespeare could have imagined. So tomorrow, I will hope for the double yolked egg, but I know the power to have a great day is not in the egg but in ourselves.

 

Curmudgeons, have a double yolked day.

[LADoug1]

I got friend-zoned by a fuck buddy and stood up by an escort.

 

Sorry. I guess that wasn't very helpful in cheering you up.

What does "friend-zoned" mean?

[+ purplekow]

What does "friend-zoned" mean?

Friend zoned means visiting no visiting privledges. Like at Disney, you get to see the castle but you do not get to have dinner with the princess.

[+ WmClarke]

What does "friend-zoned" mean?

When someone you are interested in decides they just want to be friends.

 

In my case, it happened at 8 am during an overnight date after 12 hours of foreplay.

 

 

Friend zoned means visiting no visiting privledges. Like at Disney, you get to see the castle but you do not get to have dinner with the princess.

Yeah, pretty much. Perfect analogy. Just replace "Disney" with "fuck buddy's house", replace "dinner" with "sex", and replace "princess" with "fuck buddy".

[+ purplekow]

When someone you are interested in decides they just want to be friends.

 

In my case, it happened at 8 am during an overnight date after 12 hours of foreplay.

 

 

Yeah, pretty much. Perfect analogy. Just replace "Disney" with "fuck buddy's house", replace "dinner" with "sex", and replace "princess" with "fuck buddy".

I had 12 hours of foreplay, or as I call it, 1993 -1997.

[+ purplekow]

It seems as though there is a music to our lives which is made up of everyday sounds which can trigger memories and transport us back to a particular place and time. Certainly music can do this. We all have a song that will remind us of a lost love or a festive occasion or which will bring a very particular place and time to mind. There are other sounds, which make up the score of our lives and while they are not music, they too have the power to trigger emotions, memories, particular times and places and people.

 

Last night, as I walked to get a glass of water, I became aware of an instrument in my life's score that I had not heard in quite awhile. As I was walked, I recognized in the beat of the scuffing of my slippers against the floor and I was immediately transported back to my childhood home and my grandmother making her way from her wooden rocking chair to her bed. She was about 5 foot tall and weighed north of 200 pounds and she was already 70 years old when I was born, so she must have been 78 by the time I was cognizant of the sounds of her walk. I was suddenly acutely aware that I had the same beat. I was walking and scuffing in just the same way as an obese, elderly Italian woman with arthritic hips and a significant heart condition. Needless to say, this sound was not music to my ears. It was more the ominous sound of impending doom that plays just prior to the first victim being savagely slaughtered in a wide variety of teen slasher movies. That realization stopped me in my tracks, which has the beneficial effect of stopping the sound that had triggered the memory.

 

What was I to do next? I needed to move but I did not need that thought returning. I decided that I needed to be a bit more aggressive in my walk, more forceful, bigger steps with confident strides and definitely without shuffling. I move ahead and could then hear the slapping of my slippers against the heels and was reminded of walking with my mother to the store. She wore wedged heels shoes without any back strap support and when she walked the shoes gave a rhythm to her walk. You could tell her mood by the rhythm her shoes played on her heels. A brisk, happy walk would play a light, samba like rhythm and could easily have been a percussive accompaniment to a danceable Latin beat. When she was more somber, the music of the shoes was more somber. Perhaps it would have done in combination with a Wagnerian piece, accenting the strum und drang of his themes. I strode across the kitchen to that beat and got myself a glass of water and headed to shower and then to bed.

 

I got in the shower, turned water to just the right temperature and slipped on my shower shoes. I wear shower shoes because in designing the shower, I decided I liked the look of a river stone floor for the shower, not realizing that my sensitive feet would not tolerate the pressure of the irregular stones on my soles.

The shower cleared my head and my mood lightened. A few steps from the shower and the clap of the thin rubber flip flops seemed to trigger an unexpected effect. I was becoming aroused and I could feel a flood of blood rushing to my heads. I got in bed and the need for release became intense. This would not have been unusual in the recent past but in the last year, sexual urges haved not suddenly occured without provocation and encouragement. Needless to say, I was delighted and determined to enjoy it.

 

After lying back on my bed, I grasped myself as I have done so many times in the past, my hand started its familiar manipulations and my mind drifted. This time, for the first time, my mind drifted to the sound of wet flip flops smacking the bottom of a man's foot. The sound was clear and strangely sexual and the beat of the sound exactly matched the quickening rhythm of my hand motions. Then there, in my mind's eye were a set of flip flops, worn by Mr. Geiger. Mr. Geiger was a fireman who lived next door and his son was my age and a good friend during my prepubescent years. His son and I could often be found on a summer's day out in the small, above ground pool and Mr. Geiger would come out to check on us. He was usually shirtless with a smooth muscular chest and the strong upper body you would expect of a young fireman. His arms were well defined. As I recall, he always wore an olive drab bathing suit and flip flops and he strode like a man in the full bloom of his manhood. His bathing suit always had a significant bulge and the suit seemed way too small to completely contain something that large. The image of Mr. Geiger in his bathing suit and the bulge and the heavy muscular sound of his flip flops as he strode in my mind, was enough to convulse my body and leave me sweaty and drained and likely in need of another shower.

 

I had not thought of Mr. Geiger nor his son, with whom I had some youthful over clothes frottage the summer before he moved away, in years. I had never given any conscious sexual thoughts to Mr Geiger until last night. The beat of the flip flops was enough to bring back details and vivid recollections and unrealized desires and frustrations. The beat of those shoes unearthed more than a half century of repressed feeling and judging my the explosive nature of my response, these were desires that needed to erupt. I am pleased to say that it was the best eruption I have had in quite some time.

 

So fellow curmudgeons, have you noted some noises that bring out unexpected reactions? Are there any Mr. Geigers out there in your life? So while Boots may be made for walking, are flip flops made for jerking?

[+ purplekow]

I have resurrected this thread though I thought I would not. Yesterday, I attended the graduation from high school of my youngest nephew. Yes, the young people are all growed up, the middle aged people have growed old and some old people have growed even older, while others regrettably have not.

 

As a senior ranking relative, I was sitting in the shade of the while poplar by the pergola in the park at the barbecue volleyball game which was the theme for the graduation party. I had arrived late, having been lost for an hour due to mechanical failure and computer ignorance. Upon my entrance, a few relatives came over to say hello and it was nice to see those of us who have not been the guest of honor at our usual gathering spot, the funeral home. There were many people there who seemed vaguely familiar and others who did not. In any case, the shade and the pergola beckoned and I hobbled over to find my spot.

 

This was an unusual affair in that most family gatherings there is either a corpse or a bride. As it was, there was no quiet reflection and murmured condolences nor wedding festivities, to fill time gaps. No one was flinging themselves over a lifeless loved one. No whispers of how natural the body appeared. No garters thrown, no first dance, no drunken groomsmen from whom to try to wangle a blow job. It was just a bunch of related people and others who rarely see each other, standing and sitting and making small talk while eating franks and beans and cole slaw, and swapping stories we told one hundred times but which seemed all but forgotten until someone said the key phrase...water balloon, wedding dress, chocolate cake, 1973 Oldsmobile, baby bomber jacket Just that key phrase is enough and a deluge of memories comes cascading down from the mountains far back in the recesses of the brain and with those memories, the past emotions tied to them and the present emotions triggered by the presence of a lost loved one who is the star of the sweet, funny, tragic, strange, erotic or exotic story and whose visage is the same as the youthful hero or heroine of the story, but who sadly resides only there in the collective memory of friends and family.

 

After a few bites of food and few beverages, I was sidling past the volleyball court toward the men's room so that a senior bladder could get the attention it demanded. Nolan, the younger of my two greatnephews named Nolan, who is the youngest member of his generation with a vocabulary of more than 2 words, was running after the stray volleyball which had been smacked out of bounds by a muscular blond teen at whom I had been staring in an effort to determine if he was a relative or just a wandering hunk. Nolan grabbed the ball, tossed it back to the hunk and then turned to me and asked: Who are you?

 

Who am I indeed Nolan. Who am I? I was the greatuncle that made the call that got you transferred to the best children's hospital in the area. I was the uncle who danced with the bride when her father was in jail on drug charges. I was the brother-in-law who was never repaid the money he lent. I was the grieving husband and the obedient son with a secret wild side. I was the funny cousin. I was the trusted friend. I was the crying shoulder when everyone else wanted to say what needed to be done rather than listening to what wanted to be done. But mostly, I was the old man of whom most knew little, of whom some knew nil and who in short order will perhaps be finally, and only, the young hero of a almost forgotten story from a relative or friend who knew the person that I am no longer, in a time I can no longer clearly recall, and who will continue to be known, there, frozen in time, long after time has ceased to be of meaning to me.

 

I Nolan, am a living memory, older, wiser and more unknown then the memory I will become when I am gone.

[+ not2rowdy]

I might have to plagiarize, with minimal modifications, the last couple of paragraphs for future use. So true ….

[+ MostlyLurking]

I hope you found a way to share some part of this with Nolan. And I hope you became better acquainted with the hunk.

[+ Funguy]

So did you later jerk off to the thought of that young blond hunk?

Sorry but the flip-flop story got to me!

[+ purplekow]

So did you later jerk off to the thought of that young blond hunk?

Sorry but the flip-flop story got to me!

Still not sure if he is a relative or not, so I placed him on the no "fly" zone. That means, I will not look at his fly.

[+ sam.fitzpatrick]

PK - Perfect addition to this thread. Thank you.

 

Nolan feels like he could have been one of my 20-something nephews. Barely able to get even a "hello" when I see them in a group setting, and they don't return phone calls, text messages, or emails.

 

Unfortunately, they do not make any effort to stay in touch with their only living grandparent either. While I would not expect daily contact, just a text message on her birthday or Christmas would make her day. As Paul Lynde once sang, " what's the matter with kids today?"

[+ purplekow]

 

As it turns out, in the senior follies in my medical school graduation, I sang a parody of Kids though I was playing Ralph Kramden of the Honeymooners. My one shining moment on the stage.