Half Past Awesome

Smoking kills. Apparently, however,  it kills in a decidedly random pattern, as evidenced by my family. We seem to be tougher than cigarettes and there are quite a few of us who smoke like freight trains (present company exempt). We are the family that Big Tobacco wishes they’d known during all of those messy legal troubles a few years back. I’ve watched as my father, The Lyin’ Dutchman himself, swore on his grave to his pulmonologist that he’d never touch another smoke, only to pick up the habit within weeks of his discharge, blowing off his diagnosis of emphysema as “a bad cough”. Hard as a coffin nail, the old man refuses to give up his beloved butts, claiming that they’re really no big deal and that doctors, on the whole, are idiots.

As kids, this presented my brothers and I quite the conundrum. Most kids smoke as a form of rebellion against their oppressive parents who don’t know the meaning of cool. But we were actually encouraged to smoke from, like, age ten. I wasn’t a fan and never could manage to pick up the habit, something which no doubt brought my father great shame. He smoked during meals, in the car, in the shower, in other peoples homes, in stores, at work, at Little League games and any other time he deemed fit. To be fair, when I was growing up, smoking was NOT as socially frowned upon; in fact, if you looked at any faded pics from my youth, at least 87% of the adults are holding on to cigarettes, as ubiquitous as cell phones are today. Auto parts stores had a smoking requirement if you were ever to be taken seriously as a customer.

And this…..this was the environment that The Lyin’ Dutchman was born to inhabit – that era when it was thought that women really did appreciate a nice swat on the ass as they walked by, when veiled bigotry was a way of doing business and cars got 7 miles per gallon. There are pictures of him riding the carousel at Disneyland with a cigarette clenched in his teeth, eyes set with the maniacal intensity of a crusty sea captain, and me on the horse behind him, choking on the smoke and face twisted up tight to avoid his exhaust. All of our household furniture had the associated burns and smelling like Harry’s Cocktail Lounge upon arrival at school was the norm. Unfortunately, as society progressed and we left smoking to angst ridden teens and twenty-something models looking to cover up the scent of their bulimic lunches, The Dutchman chose to remain behind. He still enjoys referring to complete strangers as “sweetheart” and casually muttering racial epithets at dining establishments. And oddly enough, he still seems irritated when informed that he cannot light up in an airplane, an indignation that he’ll remedy by strolling around airports with an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips; this lets everyone know he’s both cool and insane.

Just like they won’t know about life before the personal computer, riding in the back of a truck or the fear we had of the Soviet Union, The Heathens won’t have to worry about growing up in a house where there is the deathly pall of faded yellow on the walls or the mess of ashtrays and the associated stench. On the side of town where I work, we see a substantial share of folks who are living in squalor, and I’ve come to associate poverty with a certain smell; it always reeks of piss, cigarettes and cat shit. I think that’s a universal odor, known to firefighters, cops and EMS personnel the world over. So where those of my parents generation viewed smoking as a sign of urbane sophistication, I see it as living in a socioeconomic condition where cat waste is considered interior decor. No wonder my father hates cats.

This is not to say there aren’t plenty of good people out there who smoke: we ALL make conscious, horrible decisions when it comes to our habits and vices. I can’t rationalize my partaking of a dip now and then, nor my copious abuse of the liver, but then, when can we rationalize our bad choices? At the very least, should I take up smoking, my family history dictates that I can inhale with impunity. I just need to get my mind around having a cat using my house as a toilet.

Last night on my way into the hockey rink, I noticed a vanity license plate on a non-descript car in the parking lot. It said, simply, “JRS PLS“. Most logical folks would assume that these are the owners initials, and rightly so. Not being logical, I began running scenarios through my mind, like “do they mean JUNIORS, PLEASE? Do they hate senior citizens?” And I wondered what their initials stood for. Are their names “Jamiroquai Rufus Steinbeck” and “Penelope Lorena Sanchez“? Or am I just completely out of my mind with idiocy for dwelling on something so inconsequential?  The answer is definitely, maybe.

But sanity notwithstanding, it made me think about vanity plates as a concept. First off, I doubt anyone who has vanity plates ever refers to them as such, because it would make you sound, well, vain, if you peppered your cocktail party conversation with “I was down at the Department of Motor Vehicles today and ordered some vanity plates for my new Prius”. You are therefore announcing to the world that you are, yes, vain enough to display the word “TREHUGR” on your new hybrid. You are spending double digits to make this proclamation. So I like to imagine folks with vanity plates probably refer to them as “custom plates” or they try and bullshit their acquaintances with lines like “oh that? That’s mere coincidence that I, Alex Sheldon Smith, got a plate that said ‘ASS MAN‘”. And I’m fine with that, I really am. How a person chooses to spend their disposable income is an autonomous joy; some people choose to spend $50 on a bag of weed. And I would gladly piss away 50 bones in one evening at Patton Alley Pub just to enjoy good Guinness and good company. Therefore, I’m in no position to define what goes through the mind of the individual who feels the need to display a license plate on his ’72 Corvette that states that this is, indeed, a “72VETTE“. Other Corvette aficionados should be able to discern this fact without needing to be told by the State of Missouri plate, and quite frankly the rest of the populace isn’t going to waste too much time wondering “now just what year IS that iconic piece of automotive history? I won’t sleep until I have the answer. WAIT! There, on the plate……AHHHHHHHHHH, okay, just as I thought – it’s a ’72. I damn well suspected that all along, Edith, I really did.”

Which brings us to the next logical step when considering the importance of vanity plates in the collective scheme of things: The Lyin’ Dutchman. The Dutchman had/has a special place in his heart for vanity plates, but only one will do; it will read, boldly and simply, “GULJE“. I suspect this is for several reasons. The first is that he always wants the world to know he’s coming. This in and of itself is totally unnecessary, because my dad always has a flair for garish automobiles that could never be mistaken for anyone elses’ ride. From the screaming banana yellow Mustang (which resembled an infant’s full diaper in color) to the battleship grey Dodge Colt with the hand applied black “racing stripes” and corresponding numbers painted on the hood, there was never a doubt as to who owned the weirdest pile of car in the neighborhood. And if the make, model and custom paintwork did not alert you, there was comfort in knowing that he ALWAYS took the time to glue miniature figurines across the dashboard for his own amusement. Amusing, sure, to him, but fatally embarrassing when you arrived at school having to explain the Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote chase scene taking place on the dash. Add to this some “custom” paintwork that he would apply to a spare tire cover on a beat up old Dodge Ram (usually it was the name he gave to the vehicle) and a Darth Vader mask that he would wear once in a while, and you begin to understand why my brothers and I preferred our bikes as a means of transportation.

Thus, our family had “GULJE” license plates in the old black and yellow colors of California, the blue and yellow ones, the white and red and other schematics that came out with each new vehicle purchase. By boldly pronouncing that “GULJE” was driving down the road, he was able to have a vehicular posse precede him, if you will. In fact, he was so enamored of the idea that he often referred to himself by his last name, and liked it when others did as well. That, or alternatively, “Mr. G“, which happened to ALSO be the name of his boat. So, conceivably, Mr. G could be driving Gulje to the lake so Gulje could take Mr. G out for a spin. It was a confusing time in which to grow up. This could also explain my love of random license plate numbers whose only purpose in life is to make it easier for the cops to expedite the ticket writing process. My last name is hard enough to pronounce, let alone explain and spell. So much so that it’s crossed my mind to take that old license plate off the shop wall and lug it around with me as a form of identification.

But, like clouds in my coffee, that would be pretty damn vain, wouldn’t it?

Whenever you and I scroll through books, magazines or articles, inevitably there will be references to how one must cherish friendships or, in the words of the Lyin’ Dutchman “you must cherries and culture your relationships, son” (that is a direct quote from the bowels of insanity). Now, while we ALL pay lip service to the value of friendship, and we ALL have those relationships that stand the test of time, most of us can count on one hand the folks who’ve had a direct influence on who we are as adults. Parents? Sure. Grandparents? Why not. The amigo with whom we always went to Denny’s at 3am after a bender? Of course. And the list goes on: kind parents of a classmate, that evil Spanish teacher who threw very heavy dictionaries at your head while you tried to sleep in class (you know who you are), etc, etc.

But once in a while, we have someone in our life who defies conventional paradigms. The kind of person who challenges all your deeply held beliefs, challenges you to think for yourself, to not just regurgitate the party line. This person is dangerous, because he or she will be a radical departure from your upbringing, the kind of person your folks warned you about. Often times this guy or gal comes in the form of a college professor, a first boss, that dude down at the Food Co-Op who rails against fossil fuel consumption then roars off in his mandatory Volkswagen hippie-bus. For me, that person is Steve Watt.

Being from a small town, I knew Steve as a local builder and craftsman since I was a kid, but didn’t really get to know him well until my freshman year in college. This is a time in your life when you are genetically pre-disposed to pissing everyone off. You annoy your parents with your platitudes of wisdom, you irk your girlfriend with the constant humping of the leg, you enrage the neighbors with never-ending parties and 1am bonfires and you make an ass of yourself on a constant basis. The shame you bring on your family is palpable. Despite engaging in all of the aforementioned crappy behavior, Steve and his wife Joanie gave me the one thing that every single angst-ridden teen needs: affirmation that I was alright. Steve brought me into his group of aging guitar slingers and encouraged me artistically and philosophically to explore the world outside of my safe confines. He helped to ease the transition from short board wannabe surfer to a more mellow style of longboarding and fellowship with your friends in the ocean. His gift of melding artistic vision and wooden creations led to many hours of my watching and learning in his shop. And always, always, he and Joanie were there with a smile and a hug, fresh food, a cold beer and a willingness to listen. This in and of itself is amazing – I mean, who wants to listen to some punk ass kid who claims to have the patent on heartbreak? They did. In the process they gained my respect and admiration, and despite the years that have passed, they remain close to my heart.

I bring all of this up because I recently learned of Steve’s battle with prostate cancer. From what I’ve been told, the cancer was detected early and, thanks to the efforts of Joanie, their amazing daughters (one of whom is a pediatric ICU nurse – mad props Darcy!) and their support system of friends, things are looking as good as can be expected. We talked the other day, and it made me so happy to hear his voice again; I was suddenly eighteen, wanting to confess my devious deeds, seeking his counsel and approval. There he was, cheerful, upbeat, asking about life in the middle of the country while we conspiratorially whispered about the quirks of the hyper holy-rollers. And it dawned on me, only afterward, that maybe he gains as much from my friendship as I do his. I’ve looked up to Steve for almost 18 years now, never thought that maybe I brought him some semblance of friendship that gave him fulfillment as well. At best guess, I figured I just amused the guy. If there was anyone I’ve ever met who deserves a healing grace, who has the ability to whip this cancer while smiling all the while, it’s Steve.

I’m writing this now because I think that too often we wait until someone passes before we let them know just how important they’ve been. We heap praises on the dead, and it makes the family feel good, then we raise a glass to them down at the pub. But none of that benefits the person you intend to honor; for all I know they’re busy becoming worm food and have no time for such tribute. And there’s nothing like a good cancer scare to jar it all into perspective, if only a little. So Steve, I just wanted to say thanks. Thanks for being a good friend to a mouthy, cocky kid who didn’t feel deserving of any respect. Thanks for pushing me to explore the music, both literally and figuratively. Thanks for showing me what it means to be a stand up guy, one who doesn’t back down from his beliefs, even when it’s raining bullshit. You’ve been a greater influence than you’ll ever realize, and I’m honored to call you my friend.

A sinus rhythm is defined one way as the normal regular rhythm of the heart as generated by the sinus node. This is what you want to see in a patient when an EKG is performed- five healthy waves in a single heartbeat. But like each beat of the heart, life happens in these up and down waves that define our interactions with others.

I thought about this while I was enduring the cardiac event known as “training run” today. Currently at the end of week three in a twelve week cycle of sado-masochism, I’m attempting my first half marathon in December. Back story -the event is for St. Jude’s Childrens Research Hospital in Memphis, and I committed to it for a couple of reasons; on October 18 of 2007, the beautiful daughter of a coworker of mine passed away at three years old, the victim of a brain tumor. St. Jude’s was instrumental in helping the family, and I’ve been impressed with this organization since I first learned of it. Secondly, if I am gonna do more than just TALK about being in better heart health, there’s nothing like setting a seemingly impossible goal to guilt me into running.

While experiencing undoubtedly abnormal rhythms, my mind was wandering all over the place, focusing on the peaks and valleys that happen to us at this age. The craziness knows no limits: one classmate of mine is in jail for allegedly murdering his wife in the heat of a bitter custody battle, we have folks with marriages on the rocks or ending, The Lyin’ Dutchman has ostracized each and every member of his family (except Bones), The Wife broke one ankle and sprained the other two days ago just walking down our driveway; hell, I even went nuts to a minor degree this past spring, sold off the excavating business, lost my mind and took up yoga. On the plus side, Heathen #1 is rocking kindergarten, this site has been a fulfilling outlet for my creative impulses, RoJo welcomed a baby boy into this world, Lyrical Jackass is back with an old crazy flame, Dirtbag is busy building out in the northwest, JoBoo just got him a new Harley and my first tattoo is on the horizon.

And so it goes. These various waves in our lives give it spice, meaning, passion and heartbreak. When compared to asystole (also known as “flatline”), sinus rhythm is not such a bad option, even with all the valleys. Living a flat line life would be boring, repetitive, secure to the point of mad doldrums. I’m not advocating abandoning family nor commitments, but rather, learning to accept the valleys as just another point in my life’s rhythm. Caring for a temporarily crippled wife? That’s not too bad, especially when taken in the context of having a person in my life who is willing to even be seen with me. Mile 5 of the training run today? Well, there was nothing good to say about that one, save for that it’s about 4.75 miles further than I’ve run in nearly a decade.  As the knees were snapping, the sweat pouring down like a monsoon, and the feet protesting with each stumbled step, it actually brought a smile to my face. My shuffle might embarrass the hell out of me if I ever were to witness it, but least I’m out there, and not flat-lining here on the couch. I’ll never be a runner’s runner – I know this. To survive this thirteen mile race without congestive heart failure will be nothing short of a medical miracle. But I’ll take the unknown inconsistencies of this run, this life, over the alternatives any day.

Bones Ink

I have five brothers. Between them all, there are something like 683 pieces of art tattooed on their bodies. If you count The Lyin’ Dutchman, you can throw in another three or four to the mix.  When it comes to ink, my body is something of a hairy, blank canvas. I am the lone holdout.

The line of reasoning I’ve chosen to employ is not too unlike that of an aging virgin: it’s not that I haven’t wanted a tattoo, I just haven’t found the right tattoo. If you’re gonna make a commitment that you will literally be taking to the grave, then it needs to be right for all time, not right for right now. This is precisely why the names of lovers, movies, movie stars, phases you’re in, bands you dig, vehicle manufacturers and video game platforms are all bad ideas for a tatt in my opinion. How awesome are you gonna feel with “Spice Girls” boldly screaming across your chest in ten years? Or in ten minutes, for that matter?

Chewie Ink

For years, I wanted to have a piece of art that would reflect my tastes in a location that could be kept in private if I chose and would not bring the shame upon my mother that she’s no doubt feeling upon reading this post. So, of course, the Bob Marley cover art that I might have wanted plastered on my back (complete with vague references to the religious implications of smoking pot) would not qualify as such. Nor does my hardcore love of the red Peterbilt oval. As for my favorite movie, “Snatch“? A bad idea all around.

No, I’ve never been able to decide on what exactly I wanted inked on to me; as such, I’ve resisted all the urging of brothers and friends, waiting till the idea came to me in a revelation-kind-of-style. Being in a family that inks like an octopus in an ambush, I HAVE come up with a list of all the things I don’t want. Here’s a few:

Buns Ink

• ANYTHING with gangsta-style olde english style script. I’m not a Crip, in case you hadn’t noticed.
• Bicep ink. I have no guns, and there is no need to highlight that fact. None at all.
• Any art work that my brother Barbara has. I think he employs the Jackass methodology of selecting pieces.
• Tribal Style. Unless I start dating Pam Anderson, and then you can throw some barbwire tatts and Hep-C into the mix.
• Hometown dedications. I once asked a fellow trucker named Cricket why he had “Los Banos” tattooed all across his back (in gangster-script, no less), to which he replied, “So they know where to bury me, esse”.  I know where I’m from, and Santa Barbara and Cayucos aren’t exactly towns that need any more advertising
• The Wife’s name. She will eventually wise up and leave me and this will surprise no one, including me. And the Lyin’ Dutchman has proved that you can’t ink your way back into a failed marriage. So ix-nay on that crap.
• Patrick Swayze. As good an idea as it might seem in a drunken stupor, it ain’t. Ever. I must try very hard to resist this urge.

Barbara Ink

And then without any preamble, the idea washed up in my mental tide one day: I’ve been a fan of pinup art since I saw the Memphis Belle for the first time in the early eighties. As a kid, WWII-era aircraft nose art was as close to pornography as my dad’s tattered copy of The Joy Of Sex that my brother and I stumbled across one day – minus the creepy factor of THAT discovery. As I’ve grown older, it seems that there is less and less that people won’t do in the name of lust, but there was at least an element of subtlety in the risque yet suggestive artwork of that time. I am a big fan of the detail found in the works of Vargas and Gil Elvgren. Combine it with a respect for jazz music that came in my late twenties and I’m damn near ready for three martini lunches, traveling by train in a snazzy three piece suit and buying war bonds. There’s also been of late a healthy resurgence of the pinup girl look mixed with a little hot-roddin’ rockabilly,  and a dash of Gothic tramp – an all-win situation, as far as I’m concerned. The revelation had finally, FINALLY manifested. There was only one thing left to do.

I approached The Wife with the initial idea, and then the final kicker… “How would  you feel about being the subject of said pinup tattoo? No names – just the model……” (see earlier stances on names)

Long story short? As soon as the very talented Sarah Rasul finishes up her sketches, I’ll be hopping a flight with Heathen #2 to the West Coast to continue a family tradition. Details to follow.

Few things can be ingrained in young minds as severely as shame. We are taught at an early age to be ashamed of letting our parents down by cracking a sibling across the head with a croquet mallet. We felt embarrassment when caught in a heinous lie as to our whereabouts at 3 am (ps- where ELSE would a teenage boy be?) When the other kids mocked you for being  – insert here - tall, short, thin, round, weak, strong, mustachioed, you name it – you’d look down at the pavement and kick your Vans in the dirt, hoping the attention of the group would soon turn on another, weaker member of class, while secretly wishing you had the ability of Mr. T to crush them against the cafeteria walls.

So tell me, if you can, why on earth some folks insist on naming their kids with a one-way ticket to an ass-kicking? I am a certified authority on the subject; not only is the Johnny Cash song “Boy Named Sue” relevant to me on a personal basis, I survived grade school through this very day with a name that still makes people say “huh?”

Somehow, in May of 1974, my sweet mom decided it would be a “good idea” to name her first and only son after his father: thus Ulrich W. Gulje, jr. was hatched into existence, more commonly known as “Uli“. Let’s get the first part out of the way. It’s pronounced “oooo-leeee” (uli), “ool-rick” (ulrich), “goool-yay” (gulje) and joon-yur (junior). The Lyin’ Dutchman (aka “senior”) somehow was able to get by with being called “Bill” when he arrived stateside, and while there are plenty of jokes centered around Bill, nothing makes you a marked target like a name that people think is pronounced “ooleygooley”. My own loving bride even made the comment to several people while we were dating that she would NEVER date someone named UleeGulee. As the marriage certificate states, I showed her.

So Uli it was through grade school, with teachers all taking great pains to announce on the first day of class, “myyyy, what an INTERESTING name, why don’t I subject you to further humiliation by making you talk to the class about such an UNUSUAL and UNIQUE name?” Then, after being drug out from under the desk of shame, and compelled to make up a reason why I had such a jacked up moniker (“my folks are international assassins, and I’m only here to hide out from the KGB while they’re at work, maam”) she would no doubt refer to me as “you-lee” for the rest of the school year. And I never quite looked like a “Rick“, “Rich” or “Ulrich“, even. When I first moved to Alaska and got a job with NAPA Auto Parts, my bosses all wanted me to go by “Ulrich”, because “Uli” sounded like too much of a kids’ name. WHAT? Who in their right mind would name their kid “Uli“? My parents, that’s who. And to say they were in their right mind is a bit of a stretch.

All of my siblings from The Lyin’ Dutchman’s other nuptial endeavors managed to escape serious harm; there’s Daxter, Trevor, Davis, Alan and Matt. Oh yeah, I also have an older brother and sister I’ve never met named Reggie and Penny. Get married enough times and I guess the law of odds mandates that ONE of your progeny is gonna end up with a name that seemed like a good idea at the time, but in reality, just sounds like something you might cough up. The situation was only exacerbated by moving to the Ozarks, where to stand out with a name like mine, you might as well declare that you’re currently engaged in a love triangle with Rosie O’Donnell and her cat. I’ve gotten all sorts of comments ranging from “You got some sorta disease, or is that yer name, son?” to “Man, your parents must have HATED you, to name you something like that.”

Any diseases I might have are long gone thanks to the advent of pharmaceuticals, and no, my parents did not HATE me per se, they just have an appreciation for a lifelong practical joke. I’ll never lack for conversational material with strangers, who often believe I am making up my name. I still get the treatment from cashiers and bartenders who want to know where the name originated, and I still tell them lies to amuse myself.  As we’ve all gotten older, and I am no longer the skinny little kid getting picked on, fewer third graders take liberties with mocking me to my face. As well, I took care to give the Heathens names that are easily recognizable in the Western Hemisphere.

After all these years, though, I think I’m gonna stick with Uli; I’ve earned the right to use it. Brad, Adam, David and Mike may well be fine names for fitting in in this world, but then, I’ve not been one for whom fitting in is a priority. Just don’t call me Sue when I crack you over the skull with my croquet mallet.

One of the advantages to relative insanity is that there is never a shortage of material from which to draw. Disadvantage? No one believes you when you try to describe family dynamics, because it sounds like utter and complete cockamamie. I would like to cite my own pater familias as an example. Those of you out there who know him can vouch that my following description of him is accurate to the point of being tragicomic. In upcoming essays, I’ll go into details that’ll make your back hair curl and your tea turn bitter. But for now, play along as I try to paint you a picture of the man I refer to as the Lyin’ Dutchman.

The man who is known as my alleged father was born in Indonesia in 1934, one of the few facts my brothers and I have found to hold up to the passage of time. There was some migration involved following WWII, time spent in Holland, some more roaming and a (seemingly) final stop on the west coast of California. He’s been married something like seven times (kind of like Elizabeth Taylor, minus the White Diamonds) and has all the traits of a good fisherman: tall, tall tales injected with a lot of variety and loose facts. As a child, I was informed on more than one occasion that all good things in life are Dutch; therefore, music groups that were in continuous rotation on our hi-fi were all Dutch. I trundled off to lower elementary declaring bands like Pink Floyd, ABBA and Supertramp were all from Holland, resulting in more than one schoolyard fight. Do you realize how hard those kids can hit?

Some aspects of his fabrications were harmless: he convinced us that he had control over all the red lights in town by means of his cigarette lighter. By craftily staring out of the corner of his eye, he’d time it so all he had to do was hit the thing when the opposing light went yellow, then BOOM! MAGIC! How did he harness such mysterious powers? At this question he’d likely scoff that it was a trick he picked up as a tank commander in the Royal Dutch Army (……did he serve there? Outside of a few pictures, all we have are stories.) This pre-internet environment was perfect for setting up these wild delusions. We were kids without the ability to vet the stories. For all we knew, he was spending those years inventing the internet with Al Gore.

Other sides to his tales were not as harmless. There is a trail of broken marriages, lies and offspring as screwed up in the head as I am. I suppose I should be grateful that there are facets to his humor that have spilled over into my own parenting: I’ve convinced both Heathens that Darth Vader was once my neighbor and I turned him in to Planning and Zoning for building a Death Star in his backyard without a permit. These things make me laugh and convince my boys that I need help. Frankly, they’re right. I could use help trying to mend a disconnect in my mind between what I THINK a father-son relationship should be (between him and me), and the reality with which I am left. It’s not healthy and it’s based on an appallingly distasteful sort of narcissism the likes of which leave no one laughing.

There is a running joke in the family that there’s a “Wheel of Fondue Shame” (don’t ask…..we’re a weird bunch). It would be invoked each time the Lyin’ Dutchman declared one of the six boys dead to him. Pictures came down off the wall, proper names were replaced with “whats-his-name” and there was to be no mention of the incident that had offended the old man until the transgressor came back and begged for forgiveness. I once spent over a year on The Wheel because I could not attend his (7th) wedding picnic reception at a certain time. I pleaded with him to understand that I would be there the MOMENT I could get out of class, but was informed that I would be there “or else”. A stubborn bastard, I chose “else”. More than a year later, when I realized just how ridiculous the whole thing was getting, I knocked on his door, hat in hand; he greeted me as though I’d just returned from forty years in the desert.

Right now I am currently serving a life sentence on The Wheel for crimes linked to speaking my mind with regard to his pending (7th) divorce. This one has all the hallmarks of a good soap: heroes, villains, harlots and scorned sisters, stepsons disowned, medication mixups, international intrigue and at least one pseudo-suicide attempt. Stay tuned.