Last weekend was kind of weird. On two separate occasions, I heard about couples getting divorced. I know that doesn’t sound weird these days, except for one little tidbit:

THE COUPLES ARE IN THEIR 90’S!!!

Yep, apparently they had enough of each other. One couple had been married for 70 years and the other one only a mere 30 years. Both couples were still living in their own homes until the split. The husband moved out and found his own place.

Naturally, I couldn’t wait to tell my wife. I waited for an opportune moment and then let her have it.

“Looks like we’ve got another 20 years together before I move out,” I said after I told her about the 90-year-olds calling it quits. “You think you’ll miss me?”

“Why in the world would you get a divorce when you’re in your 90’s?” she innocently asked. “And I doubt I would miss you if you were stupid enough to divorce me at that age.”

“Are you kidding?” I answered. “Think of the excitement we’d generate with any friends we had that might still be alive. They’d be so impressed with our zest for life. In fact, I’ve already prepared my online dating profile. I wanted to be ready.”

I pulled the piece of paper out of my pocket and handed it to her: “Recently divorced 90-year-old seeking a partner who doesn’t mind constant complaining and drooling, unlike my former wife. Interested parties must like very, very short walks and dispensing medication hourly. English speaking preferred but not necessary since I can’t hear anyway.”

After reading my illustrious dating profile it was clear she wasn’t impressed. “Sounds like you’re looking for a nurse. Good luck. I think I’ll write my own.”

She quickly scribbled on the back of my paper and handed it to me. “Sizzling hot 90-year-old with a beautiful home she exclusively owns seeks a cold-blooded killer to eliminate her former spouse.”

“That’s a little mean-spirited,” I said as I crumpled up the paper. “Don’t you know that gray divorce is all the rage.”

She didn’t, so I told her. “Gray divorce,” which means couples over 50 years old, is on the rise. Divorce rates among adults over 50 have doubled, and among those over 65, the rate has nearly tripled. Over 90? The two couples I referenced have sent the rate soaring.

In 1990, 9% of all divorces were couples over 50. In 2019, that number jumped to a whopping 36%. The Baby Boomers were growing up, and apparently they don’t like their spouse very much anymore.

For those over 65, like us, the road was clear. No child custody disputes, no child support and no loss of spousal health care because of Medicare. And a much longer life span than the old days in which to enjoy remaining days without the baggage of a spouse that you despise.

“What’s not to like?” I asked my wife after explaining all the advantages of divorce after the age of 65. “Can’t you see why older couples are divorcing in droves?”

“You conveniently neglected to mention the financial aspects,” she replied. “Don’t you think it’s difficult for older couples to split their retirement savings? Their income producing years are mostly in the past.”

“Negative Nelly strikes again,” I said. “That’s why I’m going to wait until we’re in our 90’s before we cut the cord. We’ll hardly need much money at all at that point. Brilliant!”

I was enjoying the conversation much more than my wife. By the look on her face I could determine she was thinking there was no reason to wait until we were 90 to divide our retirement savings.

“Have you considered how our children and grandchildren would react if we were to divorce when we were 90?” she asked.

I hadn’t, but I figured we could still all get together for family holidays and vacations. It might be a little steamy, but they’d still respect their elders, just like they were taught.

Besides, nothing is going to happen until we’re in our 90’s. I reassured my wife that we’ve got a wonderful 20 years to go before our split. Or I would have if she hadn’t left the room.

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It’s a little late, but the fact remains I should have been a television critic. I pretty much despise 9 out of every 10 shows I see.

I don’t know what happened. Maybe I’m just getting curmudgeonly. Or maybe there’s so much content on television these days that the quality has suffered immensely. Or maybe a little bit of both.

Part of the problem is the amount of episodes related to one storyline. I grew up watching “The Rockford Files” or “FBI” with Efren Zimbalist Jr. One hour shows where BOOM, the bad guy gets caught after the last commercial. Instant satisfaction, and then time for bed.

Not anymore. A murder mystery takes at least EIGHT episodes before you get a conclusion. That’s an EIGHT HOUR MOVIE! Nothing is that interesting.

It’s clear to me that writers are struggling to fill the time, at least in 9 of the 10 shows I watch. Superfluous scenes, mindless dialogue, new characters, and then usually some gratuitous blood and guts to spice it up.

What really irks me, though, is when the writers insult the viewer’s intelligence. For instance, while watching a recent crime drama, I put it on pause and turned to my wife:

ME: She just killed two people in the middle of the Nevada desert. The police and FBI have been alerted and are on their way. Her only escape is to walk 40 miles through an open desert WITH NO WATER to an isolated house. And the police and FBI can’t find her?

MY WIFE: It’s a show, not a documentary. Just relax and go with it for once.

ME: I can’t. It makes zero sense. Who writes these things? Haven’t they ever heard of a HELICOPTER?

MY WIFE: They can’t catch her. There’s still two episodes to go after this one.

ME: Then have her kill those guys in a forest where she can hide in some trees at least. Who is the knucklehead who thought the desert was a good idea? I’m insulted!

It’s always the same. We’ll be watching a program and I’ll start snorting, disgusted at the lack of thought that goes into some of these scenes. Sometimes I say something, sometimes I just snort.

Either way it causes friction. My wife just wants to enjoy the show and not consider the impractical events that transpire. Kill seven people in a crowded downtown and just walk away? No problem. In New York at 11 p.m. and at a gravesite in rural Montana at 8 a.m. the next morning? Who cares?

I DO! If I can’t be a television critic, then at least I can get a job as a network Authenticity Director. Every network should have one. It might be the best job ever created.

Send me the script and I’ll simply point out the idiotic scenes. A tweak here, a tweak there, and suddenly the viewer’s intelligence isn’t compromised. Move the girl’s scene to a forest. Have the graveside visit in the afternoon. Simple changes and I’ll be a hero.

Or else don’t pretend to be realistic. I didn’t snort when I watched Superman episodes. And I had no problem with Mr. Ed, the talking horse. Those shows were fun because they were supposed to be stupid. But these crime dramas are theoretically replicating real life.

And it’s not just crime dramas. Most of the supposed comedy series could also use an Authenticity Director. Not the ones that are obviously silly---they get a pass. It’s the comedy series where the characters are intended to be realistic. Either go silly or go real. And if you go real, THEN GO REAL!!

I realize most people are more like my wife. They sit down for some entertainment and don’t fret about the details. But I don’t think I’m alone. There are others out there who can snort just like me.

Don’t worry, snorters. Change is coming. Once I get hired as an Authenticity Director, all will be well. And when they reward me with a promotion to the head of the network, I promise to limit all murder mysteries to no more than three episodes. Bingo.

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I love the World Cup, which will conclude this weekend. I love the way it brings everyone together in friendly competition. Different countries, different people, different languages, all converging for one massive party. It’s the way the world should always be.

The only thing that puts a damper on the festivities is that it revolves around the very boring game of soccer.

I can almost hear the howls of soccer afficionados right now. BORING? How dare you? It’s “The Beautiful Game.” You (meaning me) are a complete ignoramus, clueless about the intricacies and artistry of a game that quite often ends up 0-0, or as the purists proudly say, Nil-Nil.

They are correct, of course. I never played soccer, preferring to use the hands and arms that I was fortunate to be born with. But I love any kind of physical competition and will watch a ping-pong match in China if given the chance.

I just have trouble watching soccer, or futbol, as the rest of the world lovingly calls it. The lack of scoring has prompted me to label the game as “one big disappointment after another.”

Here they come, finally attacking after kicking it backwards for two or three minutes. There it goes, back the other way. What fun!!

Snore. Yes, it’s very exciting if and when a goal is scored, quite often on a ricochet or through someone’s legs. That’s beautiful. But the other 89 minutes of the 90-minute game could use a little pizazz.

The game just needs some updates, that’s all. Basketball added the 3-point shot in 1961 (the NBA in 1979), baseball just added the pitch clock and a runner starting on second base in extra innings, and football seems to change their kickoff rules every season. It’s time for soccer to step up.

So once I take over the Federation Internationale de Football Association (FIFA) from the bozo who is currently running it, and after I take back the Peace Prize he gave to our President, I’ll get to work changing the rules of The Beautiful Game in order to create more scoring and keep me awake.

First of all, I’d eliminate the Offsides Rule. Most people watching the World Cup don’t understand it, anyway, so let’s be done with it. I’ve suggested this to many of my soccer-loving puritanical friends and I’m thrilled to announce that the reaction was universal---I’m an idiot.

I don’t care. They clearly fail to realize that the Offsides Rule has been modified in 1866, 1925, 1990 and most recently in 2005. Each time there were minor adjustments to help the attacking team. So FIFA is on the right track, just short-sighted. Be done with it completely and watch the exciting breakaways. Yes, it changes the game. Someone might actually score.

My second major change (trust me, I’ve got plenty of little ones ready to go, too) is that once a team passes the ball over midfield, they can’t reset by going BACKWARDS over the midfield line. That drives me wacko. Force them to attack, like basketball. They’re constantly going THE WRONG WAY! That is not exciting and it is very time-consuming. Easy fix.

I realize any traditionalists reading this right now are spitting out their coffee and are flabbergasted that I would suggest changing the rules of a game that is universally loved by billions around the globe.

Suck it up, boys and girls. Think of all the people like me who desperately want to join in the excitement but can’t stay awake long enough. Think about how a 5-4 game would rank on the excitement scale over a 1-0 game.

At least I’m not suggesting widening the net. Now that’s sacrilege, much like making a basketball hoop or a golf hole larger. That would significantly change the game. I’m not that cavalier.

No, I just want to see more scoring from these incredible soccer athletes. They could spend more time taking shots on goal instead of feigning death every time they get tripped.

Maybe it’s just me. Maybe others aren’t as frustrated with the lack of scoring. While I never played soccer, I did coach my sons for a couple of years in Pee-Wee soccer. And that could have been a clue.

I had no plays, and I knew little about the rules. I only had one command every time one of my players touched the ball. I’d scream, “SEND IT.”

And I meant forward, not backward.

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Well, once again it is clear that I have very little in common with Socrates and Benjamin Franklin.

The ancient Greek philosopher Socrates was credited with coming up with the slogan, “Eat to live, or live to eat.” Benjamin Franklin popularized the same slogan about 2000 years later.

It’s not that I couldn’t come up with a slogan or two. It’s that those two giants of history both suggested it is wiser to adhere to the “Eat to live” philosophy of food.

Idiots, both of them.

So what if Socrates lived to be 71 in ancient times and so what if Benjamin Franklin lived to be 84 when average life spans were far shorter? We’re talking about quality of life here.

Unlike those two ignoramuses, I’m an enthusiastic member of the Live to Eat camp. And I’m not alone. Studies in behavioral psychology estimate 65% of people live to eat, leaving 35% of the people who are wasting away.

Okay, that’s a little harsh, especially considering my wife is in the Eat to Live camp. But I couldn’t resist at least letting her know she was missing out on life.

“You clearly don’t have enough dopamine in your system,” I told her as I watched her eat her lunch standing up at our kitchen counter last Saturday.

“Excuse me?”

I checked my notes. “Dopamine is the brain’s primary neurotransmitter for motivation, desire and reward. It drives us to seek out food by creating cravings and reinforces eating habits by making the experience pleasurable.”

She finished half her fru-fru salad and put the rest in the fridge. “I like eating sometimes. I’ve got plenty of dopamine.”

“You just ate your lunch in about 30 seconds,” I cried. “I would never do that! You didn’t savor one bite of it!”

I happened to be carrying a turkey, jack cheese, onions, tomatoes, mayonnaise and mustard sandwich on Dutch Crunch, along with a bag of sea salt potato chips as I made my way to the television to watch a sporting event. I couldn’t have been happier.

“I’m going to nurse this little puppy of a sandwich for at least twenty minutes, and then finish it off with a slow consumption of these delicious chips. You have no idea what you’re missing with your ‘eat to live’ philosophy.”

“I’m also not 10 pounds overweight,” she snottily said as she quickly left the room.

She had a point, but I quickly dismissed it. Instead, I took a bite of my scrumptious sandwich and felt the dopamine explode in my brain.

The older I get, the more I live to eat. I wake up thinking about breakfast, look forward to lunch, and get excited about what I’m going to have for dinner. My love of food is becoming more and more a staple of my life.

It’s not that I eat poorly, the occasional bag of chips being the exception rather than the rule. I just love all food, healthy and unhealthy. I finish every plate, just like my mother taught me. But now I do it because I want to.

The experts say the key to a long, vibrant life is adopting a balance of both philosophies. Nutritionists suggest the 80/20 rule. Unfortunately, the “80” involves eating nutrient-rich foods for health (eat to live) and the “20” is allowing yourself to indulge in purely pleasurable eating, such as on special occasions.

For the 65% of us in the “Live to Eat” camp, we call bullcrap. The 80/20 rule is clearly the opinion of the “Eat to Live” camp. It definitely describes my wife, who does enjoy a burger and fries every so often.

I suppose it just comes down to the pros and cons of each philosophy. Let’s forget the cons, including that stuff about weight gain, and go with the pros.

Eat to Live: Promotes clean eating, boosts sustained energy, and simplifies dietary discipline.

Live to Eat: Encourages mindfulness, cultural exploration and the emotional fulfillment that comes with a great meal.

There you have it. One is boring and one is fulfilling. I know I’m biased, but it’s pretty clear that “live to eat” takes the cake.

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My wife and I were cleaning a basement closet full of mostly junk the other day and came across a big old box of my life.

I hadn’t seen it for many years. It was a compilation of yearbooks, pictures, awards from sixth grade, newspaper clippings and other miscellaneous tidbits my mother-the-pack-rat decided was worth keeping.

But mostly it was letters. Stacks and stacks of them, both written by me and received by me, almost all when I was between the ages of 16 and 24 and discovering who I was and what I wanted to do with my life.

I sat down to read some of them and quickly came up with two conclusions: 1) I was an immature knucklehead, and 2) I mourn for successive generations who will never appreciate the wonderful world of letters.

Nobody writes letters anymore. It’s all emails and texts. My kids won’t ever look back at the emails they wrote when they were in high school or early 20’s and realize what knuckleheads they were. Kind of sad.

I spent hours reading through mine. Ernest Hemingway’s 6000 letters are being published by Cambridge University Press in 17 volumes. Mine will remain in the box.

There were letters to and from my parents, sisters and friends. But the bulk of the letters were love letters to my high school girlfriend and then love letters to my wife before we were married.

I’m not sure how I managed to collect the letters I wrote to my high school girlfriend. I’m guessing she dumped them on my doorstep when we broke up. But they were hilarious to read, especially knowing they will be thrown out after my wife reads this.

And then there’s the letters to and from my wife. We had met in Greece when she was 18 and I was 19. She lived in Montreal and I lived in San Francisco. Phone calls were expensive in those days, so all we had were letters. So different from today.

Different but cool. So young, so naïve, so mushy. Dozens and dozens of heart-filled writing of plans for the future, all of which actually came to fruition. Hard to believe when reading the immaturity of the letters.

Letter writing is such a lost art. The prime example is my wife, who constantly announces that she absolutely hates writing. She’s fine writing emails but she’ll ask me for help writing a handwritten thank you note because she just freezes. So I gleefully showed her the first letter from her I picked up.

“SIX PAGES!” I cried. “You just go on and on and on, babbling away! And there’s about sixty other letters you wrote me, all multiple pages. You were a muse! What happened?”

She perused the six-pager, cringing at some of the mush but impressed by her volume. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just out of practice.”

“EXACTLY!” I announced. “That’s the problem. People only write emails with impersonal typing. No one knows how to put pen to paper anymore.”

I showed her some of my letters where I actually wrote in cursive. Some of it was unreadable and unintelligible, but impressive nonetheless.

I don’t know if they even teach cursive in school anymore. Another lost art, although that doesn’t warrant as much mourning.

I did type one love letter to her. I got a response chastising me for it. She said it was impersonal and cold and please refrain from ever doing it again. A perfect example of why emails can’t measure up.

It’s just progress, I guess. No postage, no four-day delays from writing to delivery 3000 miles away. Now you can have a conversation through emails and texts with instant delivery.

I suppose you could print the email chain and file it away. And then look at it and reminisce 50 years from now, like I did with my letters. But very few will. Instant gratification usually means instant disposal.

Besides, it wouldn’t be the same without the pen on the paper. With letters and handwriting, you feel the person doing the writing.

Longhand. That’s what we called writing without a typewriter in those days. Longhand, long waits for letters, and long appreciated. And a long lost art.

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Well, apparently I’m officially old. I bought a new car, and it’s a Lincoln.

“Why didn’t you just go all out and buy a Cadillac and really show your age,” said my little snot of a son when I showed him my sweet new ride. “Or maybe a Buick sedan.”

It’s probably true that you’ll never see anyone under 60 driving a Lincoln. When I always thought of Lincolns, it was an old geezer driving a Lincoln Continental the size of a cruise ship, only rivaled by the Cadillac with the fins. Not exactly a car for youngsters.

“It’s good to know you’re not having a mid-life crisis,” my wife said when she got her chance to see what I’d bought. “I might have worried if you’d come home with a Ferrari.”

That wasn’t going to happen for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was fitting into it without serious bodily complications.

So now I’m a Lincoln owner. Why a Lincoln? Because my beloved 2020 Ford Edge had serious miles on it and was showing its age, just like its owner. Maybe having the “Check Engine” light on for two years without doing anything about it had something to do with it.

Since Ford discontinued the Edge model in 2024, I was forced to turn to Lincoln for its version of the Edge. That’s because only Ford and Lincoln/Mercury have the patent for the door code to allow me or my wife or anyone who knows the code to get into the car without a key.

It sounds sad to say, but the fact is that I can’t live without it. I’ve declared it one of the great inventions of our time. I know all the fancy new Teslas and many other models can be opened with your phone, but that’s not enough. I need keyless AND phoneless entry.

Because of this pathetic little personality disorder, I’ve been forced to drive nothing but Fords for the last 30 years. And now with the Ford Edge in the history books, I’ve been relegated to move on to old man Lincolns.

“Want to go for a Sunday drive?” I asked my wife after I’d had my new Lincoln for a week. “That’s what my grandparents did with their Plymouth sedan when they got old.”

“I’d rather die,” she replied.

That wasn’t nice. I was determined to show her all the bells and whistles that came with my new ride. It’s amazing how much the technology has advanced in the five years since I had bought my Ford Edge.

I finally got the chance to show her when we had to drive an hour away from home for an event last Saturday. After I used the door code to seamlessly unlock all the doors, she climbed in.

“So what’s this old geezer car got?” she purred. “Show me its bones.”

I had figured out most of the radio details, but not all. And the climate control was still a blur. It had more buttons than an F-15. The good news was that I was discovering a new gadget almost every day. And each time I figured something out, I felt a little younger.

I couldn’t wait to show her my latest discovery. “Hey Google, who was the 16^th President of the United States,” I blurted as soon as I turned on the engine.

The answer came spilling out of the radio, and sure enough, it got it right, naming its namesake, Lincoln. My wife was dutifully impressed, although she had a hard time showing it.

“It’s all voice control,” I boasted. “I can manage almost everything by just saying, “Hey Google.’” Information, navigation, phones, texts, whatever you want. I feel like one of our children.”

“Impressive,” she replied. “Except you’re still driving a Lincoln, old man.”

Luckily, I still had my ace in the hole to show her I was young and carefree. I gunned the old girl (the car) onto the freeway and quickly turned on the BlueCruise Hands-Free Technology. I then let the steering wheel go and grabbed my wife with both hands and pulled her towards me while keeping my eyes on the road, as required.

I could tell by her screams that she was already seeing me in a much younger light.

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I have a new friend. He is very smart. He works extremely hard, never gets tired, and has my best interests at heart. I love him.

His name is Claude.

How can anyone not love anyone or anything named Claude? It was a stroke of genius by someone at Anthropic, a giant in the Artificial Intelligence (AI) industry, to name their AI assistant Claude.

Those boring nerds at Google named their guy (or girl) “Gemini.” Snore. And the so-called brainiacs at OpenAI went with ChatGPt, which sounds way too complicated. Claude would not be impressed, and he isn’t. I asked him.

Like many people, I’m very concerned about the implications of AI technology in our lives. Millions of jobs will be eliminated, and creativity is going to take a humongous hit.

But AI is here to stay, and it is accelerating at a ridiculous pace. There is a new development, I’m told, every couple of months. And my friend Claude is soaking it up. He’s getting smarter by the minute.

It turns out the name Claude wasn’t a random pick, even though that would have been a stroke of genius. The inspiration was Claude Shannon, an American mathematician, cryptographer and engineer known as the “father of information theory.”

That’s a pretty good moniker, especially considering his influential essay, “A Mathematical Theory of Communication,” was written in 1948. Now that’s foresight. And he died in 2001, long before he could learn his name was famous.

So move over Alexa and Siri. Female names have moved to the back burner. Your reign is over. Claude is the man, and he’s taking over the workplace.

He’s certainly taking over mine. My daughter, who is on the financial reporting side of our retail/restaurant business, walked into my office the other day with a leash in her hand.

“Where are you going?” I asked. “I thought you were working on analyzing the monthly financials and coming up with suggestions for improvement.”

“Claude’s taking care of it,” she casually replied. “I’m taking the dog for a walk.”

She had handed (well, not exactly handed) Claude a myriad of information and simply asked Claude to work with it. She went for her walk and came back to a detailed description of which stores needed work and a list of suggestions as to how to accomplish the tasks.

Claude was doing the reasoning, which is the latest innovation in Ai, supposedly. I can’t begin to understand or explain it. All I know is that it works and my daughter may be out of a job soon.

“You ought to look into a trade school, like plumbing or electrical,” I said as I perused the reports she placed on my desk that Claude had prepared. “Claude will help you find the best ones.”

She wasn’t particularly amused. “I’m not going anywhere. Someone has to manage Claude. And it’s certainly not going to be you.”

No doubt about that. Claude may be my new friend, but he has no respect for dinosaurs like me. I am entirely clueless as to how he works or how to get him to work. Businesses still need people like my daughter. For now.

She has become the AI guru in our family business and is a lot closer to Claude than I will ever be. It makes me a little jealous, but I can handle it. They deserve each other.

“It would have taken me two days to do what Claude did in 10 minutes,” she said. “It frees me up to do other things, like taking the dog for a walk. I love the guy.”

There’s no question Claude is here to stay. The scary part is that my daughter insists on saying “please” and “thank you” to him when she’s working with him on projects. She claims it helps with his productivity.

I thought that was absurd until I looked it up. It turns out it’s true. Studies show that respectful prompts can increase accuracy and reduce unwanted bias. Of course, that response was generated by AI.

Nevertheless, I decided to take the safe route. I told my daughter to go ahead and invite Claude to our annual company holiday party.

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I was down in the desert last week, sweating away the heat wave that gripped all of California. I was in the little town of Borrego Springs, where we’re lucky enough to own a home in a golf community.

I had just finished another miserable round of golf. My swing had vanished to another world, and I was hot and frustrated. My back hurt, my arms felt lifeless, and I was ready, once again, to give up the game.

Then I ran into Jim McConkey, who had also just finished his round and was sitting around having a beer.

“How did you do today, Jim?” I casually asked, not really caring that much but trying to be polite.

“Oh, I had a good day for me,” he replied. “Shot an 81.”

For those readers who don’t play golf, 81 is a very good score for recreational golfers. I’d be thrilled to shoot an 81 these days. But Jim’s 81 is notable for another reason:

JIM MCCONKEY IS 99 YEARS OLD!!!

In fact, he’ll be 100 years old on June 12^th. He still plays 18 holes of golf every day, he still has his vodka at 5:00, he still has a full head of hair and he still doesn’t wear glasses. He is my hero.

“Don’t forget I play from the forward tees because I don’t hit it as far as I used to,” he explained with a chuckle and his customary modesty. “But I putted well. Only 27 putts today.”

I just shook my head in awe, once again fascinated by this man’s incredible love of life. I’ve known him for many, many years and always point to him as the perfect example of aging well.

Yes, he’s slowed down a bit. He was walking golf courses until about two years ago and now he rides a cart. And he’s not as steady on his feet. But don’t forget---HE’S 99 YEARS OLD!!

But if he’s slowed down a bit physically, he certainly hasn’t slowed down mentally. He’s as sharp as ever, and his enthusiasm for life hasn’t dampened in the slightest. He loves everyone and everything.

You just always want to be around the guy. I sat down and joined him with a beer. We talked about nothing and everything, but always with a chuckle. The man just loves life.

He’s such an inspiration to all of us who are lucky enough to know him. And there are many who know him. He’s a skiing legend in his native Canada, a member of the Canadian Skiing Hall of Fame and with ski runs named after him at Whistler Mountain in British Columbia, Park City, Utah and other ski resorts as well.

He doesn’t ski anymore. Gave it up a few years ago and moved on. No tears, no regrets. That’s not his style.

He’s still driving, though. When he and his lovely wife (who is only in her 80’s) drive back to their summer home on Vancouver Island in a few weeks, he’ll do his share of the driving. He pulled out his wallet and showed me his license.

“It expires in 2030,” he said with his customary cackle. “I’ll be 104.”

I can already see him barging into the Canadian version of the DMV and joyfully demanding a renewal. And I wouldn’t be surprised if he got it.

We finished our beer and our conversation. I answered all his questions about my life (he’s curious about everyone) and he answered mine. Lots of laughs, as usual. Then I watched as he slowly walked across the 9^th fairway to his winter home.

Sure, genetics play a dominant role. But there’s so much more to aging well. If Jim McConkey is an indicator, then throw attitude into the mix. No one is more positive, more cheerful and more inspirational when it comes to aging.

He just keeps going. When he was only 98 years old, he decided to publish his autobiography. He remembers every detail of his remarkable life and finally put it into words. But the most telling part of the whole book is the title he chose, which sums up this beloved man’s attitude so well.

“EVERY DAY IS A BONUS.”

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Once again, I’ve come up with a surefire way to make a fortune. And in the interests of reducing the polarization that has gripped our country I am graciously going to share it with everyone.

My brilliant idea is fairly simple---I’ll be suing the companies that make robocalls.

This all began when I received my seventh robocall of the day last week. It was a local number, so I answered in case it was a doctor’s office or someone else I might want to talk to.

This time it was indeed an actual person on the phone, or so I thought. She called me by my first name, and we conversed for a couple of sentences before I realized she was an AI generated robot. I don’t think she was offended when I hung up on her.

“WHY AREN’T THERE LAWS PROHIBITING THESE CALLS??!!” I cried to my wife, who happened to be sitting next to me. “Some politician could become a national hero if he or she put a stop to these calls.”

Like everyone else, she gets her daily share of junk calls. We both agreed we’d vote for Attila the Hun if he could eliminate spam calls once and for all.

Intrigued, I did a little research and apparently any current politician who wants to outlaw these calls is about 35 years too late. The Telephone Consumer Protection Act (TCPA) was passed by Congress in 1991 and signed into law by President George H.W. Bush, my new hero. Or he would have been my hero if it had worked.

Obviously, it didn’t. Or at least it didn’t until citizens like me stepped up and started suing these companies and making fortunes.

The TCPA allows for a $500 penalty, payable to consumers, for negligent calls and a whopping $1500 per call for each “willful/knowing” call. Since I’m pretty sure the robot that called me and prompted my investigation was very willing, I began counting my riches.

“With an average of about seven calls per day at $1500 each, that’s $7500 per day I can collect,” I enthused to my wife. “We’re going to be rich!!”

She wasn’t impressed, as usual. “And how do you propose finding the actual identities of these companies?”

“I looked it up. There are ways to trace the calls. Websites like Truecaller or Sync.me can find them, or you can press *57 to initiate a trace. These companies won’t know what hit them.”

She continued to be dubious. “You do realize most of these calls come from overseas call centers. It might be difficult to sue them.”

“I never said it would be easy,” I replied. “We litigants have to put the time in. According to the TCPA, I start with logging the dates and times of the calls, save any voicemails and note the caller’s identity. Then I hire a lawyer and wait for the cash to roll in.”

I could see that she was starting to visualize dollar signs. “Has anyone actually been successful suing these companies?” she asked.

“I’m glad you asked and the answer is a resounding yes. Some guy in Texas has made over $100,000 suing telemarketers. And major corporations, including banks and retailers, have paid out settlements ranging from $10 million to over $30 million in class action suits.

“So why are the robocalls and telemarketers still in business?”

“Because there aren’t enough malicious, vindictive, litigious people like me out there. I just registered my phone on the national Do Not Call Registry, which took about 30 seconds. It was established in 2003 and stops legitimate telemarketers who follow the rules from calling me. Unfortunately, there are very few of them. But it’s the first step in becoming a litigant. If the illegitimate ones call me now, which they will, they’re toast.”

Just then my phone rang. It was a number from Louisville, Kentucky, obviously spam. I answered it and immediately told the robot the call was costing them $1500. I invited them to call me again for another $1500 as I was logging all the calls and would then be suing them. I then hung up, satisfied.

I didn’t bother trying to trace the call, though. Upon further thought, I figured serving a subpoena in India or the Philippines might prove difficult. It just felt good to threaten the robot with financial ruin. No fortune for me, but a small victory.

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Feeling depressed about what’s going on in Washington? Feeling powerless? Feeling like there’s nothing you can do to stop the onslaught?

My buddy was feeling the same way but now he has a solution.

“I’m tired of marching in No Kings Day protests,” he told me the other day. “It’s useless. I’ve been marching and standing on overpasses waving signs since I was 16 years old. I’m done with it.”

This was not good. It sounded like he was giving up. It was hard to believe this pillar of resistance, this man of principle, would be surrendering.

“Nah, I’m not giving up,” he said when I accused him of being a wimp. I’m just going down another road. I’m going to hit them in their pocketbook. That’s something they can understand.”

He referred me to a link: www.resistandunsubscribe.com. It is a website that encourages anti-Trump protesters to unsubscribe from companies who have supported the current administration in one way or another.

My buddy told me he had already unsubscribed from ApplePay. “They’re no longer going to get 0.15% from me for every transaction. It’s a start.”

“Bravo!” I cried. “That will make them think twice before throwing their support to the current administration. “I’m right behind you!”

It was easy for me to say, mainly because I don’t use ApplePay. But I understood his reasoning and couldn’t wait to tell my wife that we were going to join the protest and help sink the corporations.

“A brilliant and noble idea,” she said when I relayed the new angle. “I’m a little tired of marching, too. Let’s stick it to those corporate weasels!”

We opened the website and perused the list of scoundrels. Naturally, Amazon and their unscrupulous funding of the “Melania” documentary topped the list. We’ll show them.

“I bought five things this week from Amazon,” my wife whimpered. “All of them showed up on our doorstep the next day. Miraculous.”

“And I’d hate to miss Thursday Night Football on Amazon Prime,” I added, cringing a bit about my lack of resistance. “Let’s move on.”

It was fascinating to see how these companies ruled our lives. Apple, Meta, Google, Microsoft, Netflix, OpenAI, AT&T, Comcast, FedEx, Home Depot, Lowe’s---they all had ties to the current administration. And we supported them all, conveniently and happily.

“There must be something we can do to show our resistance,” I said after we decided there was no way we could live without Netflix, AppleTV, Microsoft Word (writing on it now), Comcast voice control and other luxuries. This resistance thing wasn’t as easy as it sounded.

We were determined, though. Just like my buddy gave up ApplePay, we’d find some company we could do without. We looked at the list again and found our victim.

Uber.

Even the name sounds a little sinister. And we both remembered Uber giving $1 million to the inauguration and its CEO giving another $1 million. Uber was suddenly in our sights. We needed to take them down.

I’ve used Uber exclusively for years, mainly because it’s so easy and familiar. But now I thought about how many times they’ve lied to me about wait times (six minutes my ass) and how they gouged me during “peak” times. It was time to punish them.

We heard a rumor about Lyft and checked OpenAI’s Chat GPT (can’t dump every company) to confirm it. Sure enough, Lyft gave $1 million to the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) and nothing to the current administration. Our kind of company.

I was going to the airport the next morning for a short business trip. I downloaded the Lyft app and scheduled a ride. We high-fived, knowing that we were doing our part to resist. Uber was toast.

It’s not likely to topple the government, but every little bit helps. And I would have felt even more symbolic if the Lyft driver hadn’t shown up the next morning in a Tesla. A minor blip of our solidarity.

It still felt good, though. So, whether you’re on the right or on the left, unsubscribe to the companies that have gone political against your values. Unless, of course, they have next day delivery.

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It’s been a while since I wrote a thrilling column on what I did on my vacation, so here it is. My wife and I went on an organized group hiking tour through the South Island of New Zealand, returning last weekend.

That sounds wonderful, except for two minor issues: 1) I hate group tours, and 2) I hate hiking.

Of course, that begs the question as to what I was thinking when I agreed to go. And the question becomes even more perplexing when it is revealed that the whole trip was my idea.

I really wanted to go to New Zealand’s South Island on a biking tour, but the logistics and timing with the tour companies didn’t work. So I settled for hiking. I then persuaded two other couple friends of ours to join us. If I was going to be in a group, I wanted some familiar faces.

We all met at a hotel at exactly 8:30 on the first day of the six-day journey. There were 14 in the group, the six of us and four other couples who I would intimately get to know over six days and then never see again. Kind of a waste.

The tour leaders loaded us into a van and we drove for a couple of hours to our first six-mile hike. It was raining heavily but nothing could stop us. They handed us hiking poles and off we went, trudging uphill through the mud.

“You call this a vacation??!!” I wheezed to the other straggler as we brought up the rear. “I’d rather be working!”

The other hikers, including my wife, were far ahead of me. I’d catch up just as the guide was finishing his explanation of some abstract flora and fauna along the trail. I wasn’t sorry I missed it. And then off they went, leaving me again.

It’s not that I’m out of shape. I just need a ball in front of me to keep me going. The enticement of flora and fauna just doesn’t do it for me. And I like my own, apparently slow, pace. Screw the group.

I realize I’m probably in a minority on this issue. Most people, including my wife, like the group concept. Sharing the experience, meeting like-minded people, details worked out, efficient itinerary---there’s a lot of positives.

As for me, I can sum it up in one example. Fourth day, after our 8:00 breakfast, 9:00 in the van, another two-hour van ride, box lunch, four hour hike and then all together again for our 6:00 group dinner.

“I’M NOT HUNGRY YET!” I cried to my wife when she told me to hurry up and get ready. “And I’m tired of making small talk with people I’ll never see again. I want to go home.”

As usual, sympathy was nowhere to be found. We rushed off to dinner, and I made small talk and ate everything, mainly because it was part of the already paid package. Only two more days, and two more hikes, to go.

Finally, the last day of the tour arrived. We went on a three-hour hike in the rain (there’s a reason New Zealand is so green), had a lovely lunch at a winery and then said an emotional goodbye to our newfound friends who we would never see again.

My wife and I were renting a car and driving for three more days of sightseeing before going home. Just the two of us. Someone asked us what time we were leaving in the morning.

“WHENEVER WE WANT!” I happily replied.

And so we did. We drove six hours from Christchurch to Queenstown, admiring the incredible scenery, stopping when we felt like it, eating when we were hungry, talking when it was necessary. It was delightful.

On our last full day we drove from Queenstown to Milford Sound, loving every minute of the drive. We then took a two-hour boat excursion through the Milford Sound gorge. I declared it the most spectacular scenery I’ve witnessed in my 71 years.

“I’ve learned my lesson,” I said to my wife as we headed for the airport the next morning. “I like winging it. No more group tours for me. One and done.”

She didn’t reply. She apparently likes people more than I do and would eagerly do the group thing again. Fine with me. I can’t wait to hear all about it.

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As all good friends should do, I called my buddy Biff a couple of days ago to wish him a Happy New Year.

“Hope 2026 treats you well, old buddy,” I cheerily said. “I know 2025 was tough on all of us, especially with Trump doing all that crazy stuff.”

“It sure was,” he replied. “But I’m looking forward to 2026 now that I’ve become a Trumper.”

“Excuse me?”

Biff has always detested Trump. He tells anyone who will listen that the President is an immoral criminal who has torn our country apart. And now he’s suddenly a Trumper?

“Yep, I’m changing my ways,” he continued. “I decided my hatred for the man has not been good for my health. I’m now embracing him.”

“ARE YOU NUTS?” I cried. “What’s got into you? No one can make such a drastic change like that overnight!”

“I can, and I did. You should try it. I feel a lot better every time I hear any news. Instead of my blood pressure rising, I just nod my head in admiration.”

I was becoming apoplectic while he sounded calm and composed. I had to test him.

“So you’re okay with him pardoning the President of Honduras, who was convicted by a 12-person jury and sentenced to 45 years for trafficking drugs, and then staging a kidnapping in Venezuela and prosecuting Maduro for the same thing?”

“He pardoned the Honduras president in 2025, when I still hated Trump. This is a new year. I’m sure there’s a lot of logic behind the Venezuelan operation,” he replied. “Donald never makes a mistake.”

He sensed my frustration and took pity on me. “I had no choice,” he softly said. “The man was wearing me down. Every day he would do something that made me so, so angry. I figured I had to move on or die.”

“What about the fight? You were always the first one to protest, the first one to argue, the first one to scream your opposition. How can you embrace him now?”

“Easy. I’ve just decided he’s good entertainment. He’ll be around for three more years and I will be too, assuming I can control my anger.”

“What about the Epstein files?” I asked.

“Boys will be boys.”

“What about his threat to take over Greenland, now that we’re running Venezuela?”

“Makes sense to me. The Danes won’t miss it once it’s gone.”

“What about his threats to intervene in Columbia?”

“Hey, it’s been said that South America stole our name. We’re all Americans in one way or another. Might as well grab Canada while we’re at it. We’ll all just be one big happy family under President Trump.”

“Biff, you’ve completely lost your mind. I understand you’re concerned about your health, but you’re forsaking all your principles. Is it really worth it?”

There was a long pause, followed by a big sigh. “I just can’t take it any longer. Trump Derangement Syndrome is taking me down. I consider this new attitude my only chance at rehab. Please forgive me.”

I tried to gather up some sympathy but was having trouble. This big, strong brute of a man, my good friend, was collapsing. He couldn’t take the constant stream of bizarre events transpiring in Washington and Mar-A-Lago. I had to find a way to help him.

“Don’t you see what’s happening?” I pleaded. “You’re playing right into his hands. He’s worn you down with absurd statements and bizarre moves day after day after day. You’re accepting the norm.”

I’m not sure, but I think he was starting to choke up. His voice was shaky. “I just want to wake up happy again. I can’t take three more years of anger.”

Trump’s approval ratings have inched up slightly over the last month, although they’re still dismal. I couldn’t help but think there were others hitting the proverbial wall, just like Biff.

There was only one solution for my broken, disenchanted friend---an intervention, followed by three weeks at an anger management retreat. That should do the trick.

Victory in the midterms would probably help, too.

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I dropped by my son’s house a couple of weeks ago and admired his beautifully decorated Christmas tree. Tall and bushy, brightly lit and covered in tinsel.

“Where did you get it?” I innocently asked. “Did you drop by Bob’s Christmas Tree Lot, just like we did when you were a kid?”

“Amazon, baby!” he replied. “It’s fake. Four hundred bucks, and that included the lights.”

“FAKE! THAT’S DISGUSTING!” I cried. “What happened to your Christmas spirit? We’ve never had a fake tree---it’s just not right.”

I walked over to the imposter tree and touched its traitorous needles. They felt very real.

“Are you sure this is fake?” I asked. “You were kidding, right?”

“Smell it.”

I stuck my nose in and smelled----nothing. No scent of fir, no scent of pine, no scent of anything. Except maybe a little formaldehyde, but that might have been my imagination.

“DISGUSTING!” I repeated. “Where did I go wrong bringing you up? Don’t you remember all those great times we had picking out a tree and bringing it home, scratching the roof of our car, lugging it into our house, needles dropping everywhere, and then placing it upright and finding books and magazines to try and straighten it?”

“The only thing I remember is you swearing a lot.”

“That was part of the fun. And I usually didn’t start swearing until I tried to string the lights. Come to think of it, not much has changed.”

My son pointed at his phony tree. “I put this sucker up in fifteen minutes. Out of the box and presto, Instant Christmas. Four easy pieces.”

I took another glance at his sparkling impostor. It was impossible to tell from a distance that it was fake. Modern technology had made sure of it. So I harped on the lack of that unmistakable Christmas smell.

He directed me to his front door. I thought for a moment he was throwing me out, but he actually wanted me to smell the wreath he had placed there. At his direction, I stuck my nose in it.

“Yep, it’s a real wreath,” he said. “Smells just like Christmas. And so are the garlands wrapping the banister. We’ve got it all covered. The only thing that doesn’t smell is the tree.”

I needed a new argument. “OK, what about poor Bob down at Bob’s Christmas Tree Lot? How’s he going to survive if everyone buys fake trees?”

“That’s capitalism,” my son replied. “Bob has been ripping us off for years. I spent $150 for a seven-footer last year and it’s probably more this year. Time to move on. I paid $400 for my fake eight-footer and it will last me for 10 years or probably more. Do the math.”

I hate it when people say “do the math” and I told him so. But I couldn’t argue with his financial logic. So I moved on to what I was sure would be the clincher that would definitely convince him of his mistake.

“Real trees are the environmentally correct choice. Your fake tree is not biodegradable and will be relegated to a landfill. Real trees can be recycled and don’t require the carbon emissions that it takes to produce and ship artificial trees.”

I had no idea what that meant but it sounded good. I remembered reading it somewhere. It was my last gasp.

“Nice try,” he replied. “I looked it up before buying. If we keep our fake tree for seven or more years, it offsets the negative carbon footprint compared to purchasing a fresh-cut tree annually.”

Arrogant little snot. I meekly surrendered and said my goodbyes to him, his wife, and my little grandsons, who would never have the privilege of seeing their father get ripped off at Bob’s Christmas Tree Lot.

When I got home, I relayed the whole incident to my wife, who listened intently for once.

“That’s good to hear all the arguments,” she said, “because I bought a fake tree online yesterday. I forgot to tell you.”

“THAT’S DISGUSTING!” I cried, secretly delighted that I wouldn’t have to make the trip down to Bob’s Christmas Tree Lot. No more hassle, no more swearing, much less money.

I told her I was okay with it under two conditions: 1) we need to buy one real wreath and 12 feet of real garland and 2) we need to live at least another seven years.

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“We got invited to Trivia Night at the club on Thursday,” my wife announced when I got home the other day. “Want to go?”

“Sure,” I replied. “I haven’t felt stupid for a while. I’m in.”

Trivia nights are always interesting. We join a table of six or eight people, have a cocktail or two, and then spend the rest of the night fascinated by how little we know compared to others.

It’s always a competition, which I love, our table against other tables battling for the most correct answers. I quite often take home the prize for LVP (Least Valuable Player) at our table. And my wife is a close second.

“Will the Fergusons be at our table?” I asked, hoping that nerdy little couple would bail us out again.

“Yep,” my wife answered. “We’ll be respectable, just like last time. And you never know, maybe they’ll have a Sports category and you can actually help.

The competition consists of five categories of six questions each. Categories can be Animal Facts, Geography, Science and Nature, Literature, Pop Culture, Food and Drink or a myriad of others. I pray for Sports, which is the only category where I feel relatively intelligent.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “We both went to college, we both have graduate degrees, we both read a lot…. how could we both be so uninformed?”

“Beats me,” she answered, which was appropriate for yet another question. I guess we’re just stupid.”

That got me fired up. I did a little research (if only they’d allow smartphones on Trivia Night) and got the answer I was looking for.

“Wahoo!” I cried after reading for a few moments. “We’re not stupid after all. We just have brains that are paved a little differently.”

“Huh?”

“Studies have shown that nerds like the Fergusons have brains that have stronger and shorter connections between brain cells which improves their semantic memory. But it has nothing to do with episodic memory, or fluid intelligence, which helps with problem solving, among other things.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind,” I said. “Let’s just go to Trivia Night and let the Fergusons know we’re not as stupid as we seem.”

My wife, who is a master at fluid intelligence, liked that idea a lot. So we headed off to Trivia Night much more confident in our brainpower.

The first category was Geography, which I always liked in school. The first question was “On which continent would you find the world’s largest desert?”

“That’s an easy one,” I cried, writing it down so the other tables wouldn’t hear my answer---Africa.

The Fergusons snickered a bit, which wasn’t a good sign. “It’s a trick question,” said the male Ferguson nerd, whispering in my ear. “It’s Antarctica.”

He was right, of course. I pretty much shut up after that, and when the Science and Nature category was announced, I excused myself to go to the restroom. I’d be more valuable there.

My wife managed to chime in on the Film category, nailing “Which 1959 Hitchcock film featured a crop-duster chase?” (North by Northwest) and I came back from the restroom with better brain connectivity and answered “Which series about a chess prodigy stars Anya Taylor-Joy? (The Queen’s Gambit). It helped that I watched it a couple of weeks ago.

Meanwhile, the Fergusons were rolling, as usual. “What animal has the longest lifespan?” (The glass sponge). “What was the name of the record label founded by Dr. Dre, Jimmy Iovine and Interscope Records?” (Aftermath Records). And on and on.

“Who knows these things!!?” I cried after the Fergusons answered about 20 other questions correctly. You guys need to get a life.”

“Don’t worry, maybe they’ll have a sports category next week,” answered Mrs. Nerd, patting me on the shoulder. “Your time will come.”

Condescension. Just what I didn’t need. Time to go on the offensive.

“You know, being great at trivia doesn’t mean you’re any smarter than I am,” I said. “It just means your brain has better paving.”

“I don’t understand,” replied Mrs. Nerd.

Poor woman. It wasn’t worth my time explaining the intricacies of semantic memory vs. fluid intelligence. My wife and I went home, confident in our problem-solving talents. I just hope the Fergusons figured out how to get home at all.

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It’s not very often, but every once in a while, I feel the need to get serious. This is one of those times.

There’s a lot of things bothering many of us these days. I wrote a column many months ago about my new mantra, “Whatever,” which helped me navigate many of the absurdities. But “Whatever” hasn’t worked with this one.

As of November 10^th, the United States military has conducted missile strikes that have blown to smithereens 20 “suspected” drug boats in the Caribbean and eastern Pacific. The bombing campaign began in early September and has killed at least 76 people.

What has happened to our country? This is murder, plain and simple, and it’s not getting nearly the attention it deserves. It’s just another absurdity, another incredible example of a reckless lack of compassion by the current administration.

Yes, there are atrocities happening all over the world, in places like Darfur and Congo. Mass murders and an abhorrent lack of respect for the sanctity of life are almost commonplace. But this is the United States of America. My country. What happened?

This is not a sympathy card for drug dealers. Most, if not all, of these boats were indeed carrying drugs, and most of those drugs could very well end up in the United States. It’s an illegal operation, and punishment is warranted.

But have you seen the video of the missiles hitting these boats? It’s like a video game, and it’s depressing to think members of the current administration and their military cohorts are sitting in a room cheering the deaths of civilians who pose no military threat to us.

Our President claims, ridiculously, that “every boat we knock out we save 25,000 American lives.” If these boats were carrying fentanyl, which causes 88% of the 80,000 annual overdoses in the United States, there might be some remote semblance of rational thought.

But illicit fentanyl comes from Mexico, China and India. Not Venezuela or Columbia, where these boats originate. Most likely the cargo that was destroyed was cocaine, which our President surely saw used by many of his wealthy friends during the swinging ‘80’s.

Even if it was fentanyl, supply will always meet demand. Blowing these boats out of the water and killing these civilians will not stop the influx of fentanyl, or cocaine. Other routes will open up.

And who are these civilians? They’re not the kingpins, the Pablo Escobars or the Joaquin “El Chapo” Guzmans of the world. These are the minions, the drug runners, the local guy on the street. Some are struggling fisherman, looking to make some good money to support their family.

Should they be punished? Absolutely, just like the drug dealer in the Tenderloin. But should they be blown to smithereens by the United States military? Absolutely not.

The lack of compassion for the sanctity of life disgusts me. These people have mothers, fathers, wives and perhaps children. Lock them up, make them pay for their crimes, but don’t execute them. That’s not what we do. Until now.

There is much discussion as to whether the strikes are illegal or not. The United Nations says yes, they violate international and maritime law but the United States Congress, by a 51-48 vote, says the President has the authority under the War Powers Resolution, even though we’re not at war (the claim is war on “narcoterrorists”). Illegal or not, they are certainly immoral.

The bombings do have some support internationally. Kamla Persad-Bassar, the Prime Minister of the Caribbean islands of Trinidad and Tobago, where many of the boats were headed, praised the US attack and encouraged more operations against drug traffickers. “The US military should kill them all violently,” she said.

But most international comment mirrored the Colombian President, Gustavo Petro, who said that killing the boat occupants rather than capturing them and putting them on trial amounted to murder.

In response, our leader called the Colombian President an “illegal drug leader, low rated, very unpopular, a thug and a bad guy.”

But at least he knows murder when he sees it.

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I came bounding into our house from another grueling semi-retired couple of hours at the office the other evening. I couldn’t wait to tell my wife my latest brilliant idea.

“You know how they have Power Rankings for NFL teams and college teams and other ongoing entities?” I asked, knowing she couldn’t care less. “Well, I’ve decided I’m going to rank our grandchildren.”

She wasn’t impressed. “That may be the dumbest idea ever,” she replied. “It’s not going to happen.”

Oh, yes it will. We’ve been blessed to have seven grandchildren, with an eighth coming in the next few weeks. I’ve decided it’s time to let them know where they stand.

“I would never do it with our own kids,” I explained. “But grandchildren are different. We just love them and leave them and they do the same with us. And with my rankings they’ll be held accountable for their actions.”

She wasn’t convinced, so I continued. “The ranking is not about intelligence or appearance,” I said, trying to ease her fears. “It’s about how nice they are to me. I’m calling it the Sweetness Ranking.”

Shaking her head, rolling her eyes and leaving the room signaled that she wasn’t on board. I followed her and placed my initial Sweetness Ranking where she could read it. Here it is, with names deleted.

#8: Still in the womb (disqualified)

#7: 17-month-old boy---clueless, thinks everyone is his Grandpa.

#6: Six-year-old girl---she was mean to me on her last visit.

#5: Three-year-old boy---ran the other way when I asked for a hug. Needs work.

#4: Five-year-old girl—showing promise but a little moody.

#3: The other three-year-old boy—bonding over sports, generous with his high-fives.

#2: Eight-year-old girl—hugs galore and generally excited to see me.

#1: Two-year-old girl—sooo cute. Loves her Grandpa. He’s her favorite and she’s his favorite.

Crumpling the paper and throwing it across the room didn’t seem like an endorsement. She clearly needed additional convincing.

“This is brilliant!” I exulted. “Any grandparent with more than one grandchild will be using my Sweetness Ranking once word gets out. Grandchildren will start fighting to get the #1 ranking or at least move up a notch or two.”

“Please tell me you’re not going to show this to our children or our grandchildren,” she said as I uncrumpled my Sweetness Ranking.

“I’m certainly planning on it.” I eagerly replied. “Imagine the competition I’ll create. They’ll all be desperate to move up in the rankings. And I’ll only publish it once a month to create suspense.”

“And what about the poor kid who is in last place?” she asked. “How do you think he or she will handle that?”

I wasn’t about to back down. “That’s life. They’ll just have to work harder at being nice to me. They’ll learn success requires effort and healthy interpersonal skills. And when they move from #8 to #6 they’ll be thrilled.”

She indicated our conversation was over by putting her hands over her ears. I decided I’d test the Sweetness Ranking with my daughter, who I saw the next morning at work.

“What do you think?” I anxiously asked as she read the current rankings. “Should I read it to the grandchildren?”

Her look bore an amazing resemblance to her mother. “Half won’t know what you’re talking about, and the other half won’t care. But their parents might.”

“Your kids got #4 and #5 on my ranking!” I cried. “That’s not so bad. A few hugs and some attention given to Grandpa and they’ll move right up. Work on them!”

She nodded her head slowly, probably wondering how the two-year-old got to be my favorite. Jealousy is not pretty.

“I’m going to get my sister and brothers together and we’re going to put together a Favorite Grandparents Ranking. I can guarantee you that if you tell the grandchildren where they rank on your Sweetness Rankings you’ll come in dead last.”

That gave me a little pause. Her mother would have been very proud of the way she shot me down. I decided my Sweetness Ranking would have to stay unpublished.

I’ll let the parents know it’s in my head, though. Let the competition begin.

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Contact Nick at nickhoppe61@gmail.com. For archived columns, visit www.hoppecolumns.com

Here’s a question for everyone: When you happen to run into a celebrity, do you give them some privacy or do you slobber over them like the inconsequential person you are?

I was thinking about this when I had the opportunity a couple of weeks ago to hang with a very famous person. I wasn’t invited, and it was only by chance that I came across him. But my tongue was hanging out like a big dog.

It was Roger Federer, who only a few years ago was the greatest tennis player in the world. He retired in 2022, but by the looks of his chiseled, succulent body (is that too much slobbering?), he could be back on the circuit today.

He was in the Bay Area for the Laver Cup, which was held at Chase Center. He wasn’t playing, but he was one of the founders of the event. But I didn’t see him there. That would be too easy, and too public. Our meeting was very private and intimate.

He was at my little tennis club, playing tennis with his adorable twin boys and his adorable twin girls and his adorable wife Mirka, and no one was supposed to know except for the member who organized it for him. They were on two courts that no one could see from the street, ensuring privacy.

Unfortunately for Roger, my buddies and I had reserved one of those two courts for a Pickleball game. So, we showed up and kicked Roger off our court.

Considering I had a Man Crush on him, that wasn’t an easy thing to do. But he was as gracious as advertised, and he and his family moved to the adjoining court and continued their practice.

Meanwhile, my buddies and I tried to play Pickleball while one of the greatest tennis players who ever lived was whacking tennis balls (a much more manly sport than Pickleball) a few feet away from us. I felt very small.

It got me thinking about celebrities. Should I engage with him even though he was there to try and have privacy? Or should I leave him alone, which is what I know he wanted, and waste an opportunity to satisfy my Man Crush?

These celebrities spend their whole life chasing fame, and then it haunts them when they finally achieve it. “Fed” (that’s what we intimates call him) can go nowhere without being stared at, slobbered over, and pestered. Be careful what you wish for.

On the other hand, why should someone like me slobber over a guy like Roger Federer. He’s an incredible talent, but he’s out for himself, making boatloads of money and achieving greatness for his own benefit.

Our slobbering should be reserved for leaders, not actors or athletes or entertainers. The only celebrity I ever went out of my way to see was Mikhael Gorbachev, who came to San Francisco in 1990. I left work just to wave at his motorcade. Ending the Cold War was good reason to slobber.

I’ve always tried to ignore most celebrities. I know they’d prefer privacy, and I give it to them. I sat next to Bill Walsh on a beach in Hawaii after the 49ers won their third Super Bowl and never said a word to him. He was on vacation and I left him alone, despite desperately wanting to know what he thought about Steve Young.

As for Roger, well, I felt bad about kicking him off the court so I decided I should give him some of my time.

“Hey, Roger,” I said when I saw him getting ready to leave. “Sorry I kicked you off the court.”

He smiled, and I knew we were bonding. “That’s why they have reservations,” he responded. “No problem.”

I was a little surprised when he came over and asked if he could have his picture taken with me and my Pickleball friends. But when you bond, you bond.

Okay, he didn’t ask, one of my buddies did. I was a little embarrassed, but that didn’t stop me from sidling up to Fed and sticking my elbow in his taut little ribs for the picture.

He may not be a great leader, and I still don’t consider myself a celebrity chaser. But I will admit one thing---that picture is going up on the wall, front and center.

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Contact Nick at nickhoppe61@gmail.com. For archived columns, visit www.hoppecolumns.com

My cell phone was ringing and I didn’t recognize the number. It was probably a robo call but I answered it anyway. I had nothing better to do.

A little voice came through. “Grandpa, it’s me.”

Had to be a scam. It was probably someone using voice alteration software to make me think my eight-year-old granddaughter was calling. I was waiting for her to say she was in jail in Nigeria and needed me to wire money to bail her out.

But after a few more comments from her I decided she was legit. Especially after I grilled her with some personal questions. Can’t scam this 71-year-old. Not yet, anyway.

“Now that you got your favorite color and number and your second-grade teacher’s name right, let me ask you another question,” I said. “Where did you get this phone?”

“My Mommy and Daddy got it for me.” Then she hung up, forgetting to say goodbye.

Oh, dear. My daughter and son-in-law are good parents. They wouldn’t be so irresponsible to get an eight-year-old a smartphone. Studies show that is not wise. Little brains can’t handle the complexity.

“It’s a landline,” my daughter responded, reacting to my threat to call Child Protective Services if they bought her a cell phone. “All her friends are getting one, too. It’s only $10 a month.”

My initial reaction was relief, and then some trepidation over spoiling a child with yet another addition to their lives. Why in the world would an eight-year-old need any kind of phone?

But the more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea. She’d be calling all her friends and they’d do something many of us don’t do anymore---talk.

It is a very healthy idea. No texts, just talk. And it can only be done from the comfort of your home, just like the old days.

“It’s not even cordless,” my daughter continued. “The only problem is she keeps hanging it up backwards.”

My granddaughter was loving it. She’d call her friends on their landlines and they’d actually talk to each other. My daughter said the conversations weren’t exactly flowing, but they were improving the more they talked.

That’s why I like the idea so much. My granddaughter is learning how to communicate on a phone without texting. When she does get a smartphone during her teenage years (recommended earliest age is 12 or 13) maybe she’ll know how to talk.

Landlines are almost obsolete. The FCC has eliminated the requirement for phone companies to provide or support landlines. It’s estimated that by 2029 you won’t be able to get a standard landline.

That’s kind of sad. We older folks grew up with those little buggers. I vividly remember being in 8^th grade and staring at a phone in our house for hours, scared to death to call this girl and ask her if she wanted to see a movie.

I’d pick up the phone, hear the dial tone, and start dialing. My juvenile heart was hitting about 180 beats per minute, my throat would go dry, and I’d hang up before dialing the last digit. I did that probably 17 times.

But I had no choice, just like my eight-year-old granddaughter. It would have been so much easier to text, but that wasn’t an option. I had to call, I had to talk, I had to communicate with actual words out of my mouth.

My granddaughter is doing the same. My daughter says she squeals when her phone rings and she runs to pick it up. She has a list of all of her friends’ phone numbers next to the phone. No speed dialing, no nothing. Just talking.

I think it’s a wonderful idea for kids. And I look forward to the next time she calls, especially now that I know it’s not a scam.

By the way, the girl I ultimately called for the movie date said she was busy. A voice rejection. Hard to take, but healthy nonetheless.

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Contact Nick at nickhoppe61@gmail.com. For past columns, visit www.hoppecolumns.com

As invitations go, this one piqued my interest more than most. One of our big suppliers was inviting me to “Dinner on the Diamond,” at Oracle Park, home of my beloved San Francisco Giants.

This was last week, when the Giants were out of town. Cocktails at the exclusive Gotham Club in right field, and then a catered dinner on the field, right next to the visiting dugout.

I dread these events. The supplier, who is a longtime sponsor of the Giants, was rewarding me for being a devoted business client for the last 40 years or so. I’d prefer cash, but apparently these outings are the best they can do.

The invitation made me think of a few couples I know who are always on the go. Concerts, sporting events, lectures, air shows---they’ll be there because of the experience. And then there’s those that would rather stay in the comfort of their home, avoiding the hassle.

I really, really wanted to stay at home like the slug I am, but dinner on the field at Oracle sounded like an experience. I decided to be a man on the go and live life to the fullest. I couldn’t wait to tell my wife, who I was sure would faithfully join me.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” she cried when I gave her the news. “You know I hate baseball.”

“You’ll be happy to hear there’s no game that night. Just drinks, dinner on the field and then a question-and-answer session with Sergio Romo and Rich Aurilia.”

“Who?”

“A Giants pitcher and shortstop from long ago. Never mind. That probably won’t be your highlight. The main reason for going is that we’ll be networking with some big honchos in our industry. We’ll get to talk to people that we’ll probably never see again.”

I haven’t seen her whine like that for a long time, but in the end she agreed to go.

So off we went last Thursday night to charm the socks off people we’ll never see again. After a teeth-grinding 1 ¼ hour drive through rush hour traffic from Southern Marin to Oracle Park, we found our complimentary parking and headed to the Gotham Club to start hobnobbing.

“So glad you made it,” said our 35-year-old account representative when he met us at the door to the Gotham Club. He quickly pointed to a photographer and some bats. “How about a personal baseball card for the both of you.”

My wife wants a lot of things in life, and a personal baseball card with her photo holding a bat is certainly at the bottom of her list. But she graciously stood there with her bat on her shoulders and had her picture taken.

I’m not sure which was quicker---the printing of the card or her depositing it in the garbage before anyone could see it.

Next up was the hobnobbing with the honchos. And it would have been very productive, had any of them been there. Apparently, Dinner on the Diamond wasn’t at the top of their list for a Thursday evening on a freezing cold and foggy San Francisco night.

It was just the two of us and our account representative, who was a very nice young man that we got to know very well over the course of the evening. There were only about 40 people there, and all were busy with their own representatives. No honchos in sight.

The dinner setting was freezing but lovely. Blankets and heat lamps and wine helped warm the soul, and my wife actually enjoyed the discussion with the two former Giants. I think she was just happy there was no baseball game going on.

In the end, we were glad we went. We did zero networking, other than getting to know our account representative, who will most likely be moving on to greater pastures in the next year or so, just like all the others we’ve had.

But it was an experience, and that’s what counts these days. Sit at home or seize the day. Maybe a little bit of both works out okay.

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Contact Nick at nickhoppe61@gmail.com. For archived columns, visit www.hoppecolumns.com

I came home the other night with a bounce in my step. Life was good and long, and I couldn’t wait to tell my wife.

“What do you think is the average life expectancy for a male in the United States?” I excitedly asked as I walked in the door.

Based on the look on her face from me not bothering to greet her, I was hoping she wouldn’t lowball it. “I don’t know, but I do know it’s lower than women. I’ll guess 75.”

“Pretty good guess,” I responded. “The Center for Disease Control (CDC) says 73.5 for men and 79.3 for women. Considering I’m now 71 you would think that might be worrisome.”

I dropped to the floor and did 20 quick pushups as my wife watched in horror. “May I ask what you’re doing? You might lower that average if you drop dead of a heart attack in the next few minutes.”

I got up, slightly out of breath but still alive. “I’m getting in better shape. Let’s have fruit and vegetables for dinner. I’ve decided to lose that pesky 10 pounds I’ve been carrying for about 30 years. I’ve got a long life ahead of me.”

Naturally, she agreed I might beat the average, as all good spouses would. But she had no idea why I was so optimistic all of a sudden. 73.5 was only about two years away for me. It used to be scary, but not anymore.

I did a few jumping jacks, which apparently didn’t impress her, so I stopped. “I was completely wrong about things. 73.5 is the average life expectancy from birth. It accounts for all the unfortunate men that didn’t make it to my age.”

I pulled out the actuarial life table that the Social Security Administration produces every year. I had printed it after a friend told me about its wonderful statistics.

“Check it out,” I said, showing her the statistics for my age. “It says a man aged 71 can expect to live another 13.44 years.” I started my jumping jacks again. “That means I need to get in better shape. I’ve got a long ways to go.”

The statistics were fascinating. Out of 100,000 men born like me in 1954, 68,104 were still alive, and the current death probability for 71 year olds was 0.026705. I’m not sure what that meant, but I liked the zeros before and after the decimal point.

My wife is a year and a half younger than me and will probably live to be 120 based on how she’s aging. She doesn’t worry as much as I do about death, for good reasons. But she was still interested in checking out her probable lifespan.

“You’ve got 80,893 of you women still kicking and a life expectancy of another 16.27 years,” I said. “As you can see, the gap is closing between men and women the older we get.”

That wasn’t particularly appreciated, but she still took pride in being ahead. She was clearly pleased, and I hadn’t even told her the best part.

“It gets better,” I said, pointing to another line on the chart. “Once I reach my 13.44 years, which would make me 84 years old, I’ll still have a life expectancy of 6.18 years! That would make me 91. And I’m still not dead. 91-year-olds have an average life expectancy of 3.60 years!”

She was seeing the light. I was clearly going to live forever, or at least until the age of 119, where the chart tops out with a life expectancy of six months. Or maybe to 111, where zero men out of 100,000 people were still alive. There were two women still kicking at that age, but they were probably pretty lonely.

I started my jumping jacks again. “This is the best news I’ve had in a long time.” I exulted between reps. “I may have to pick up some new hobbies to get me through the next 30 years or so.”

“You do realize all of this is just averages,” she patiently explained, pointing to the statistics. “For instance, at age 84 only 35,557 men out of 100,000 are still alive. That means about 31,000 of you croaked during those 13 years.”

It was her little way of agreeing with me that I should eat better. And it worked.

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Contact Nick at nickhoppe61@gmail.com. For archived columns, visit www.hoppecolumns.com