In Memory




I have never lost a loved one on the field of battle.

I have never received a call, or a visit, from someone telling me that someone close to me was killed in action.

I have never had to face the overwhelming grief and pain such a message would surely bring.

Some of you, though, have, I’m sure. And my heart goes out to you.

You had to say goodbye to a parent, brother, sister, husband, wife, girlfriend, boyfriend, son, daughter or best friend long before you were ready, if one ever really is.

You knew this was a real possibility, one that you lived with every day he or she was gone. You knew you could get that terrible news, the news that would shatter your world, and suddenly leave a huge void in your life.

And yet, you stood right by him or her, steadfast in your support, believing because they believed.

This Memorial Day weekend, I’m not just thinking about all the men and women who made the ultimate sacrifice throughout this nation’s history, as well as in our time, now.

I’m thinking of all the loved ones they left behind.

I’m thinking of you.


War is a polarizing subject. There are those defend it, those who protest it, believers and doubters.

But, this weekend, as we fire up the barbecue grills, or head for the lake, or whatever we have planned to celebrate an extra day off, may we all remember those who gave their lives in battle, whose courage was tested and proven in the crucible of war, whose graves will be marked with American flags in memory of their sacrifice.

And may we offer our heartfelt thanks to the families and friends that remain, carrying on with that same courage.

This grateful civilian salutes you all.


Fun at the Airport




If you’ve traveled by air lately, you know the above title is an oxymoron.

One thing I grasped very quickly as a chauffeur was, airports pretty much aren’t fun. Many of you will discover, or rediscover that this weekend.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen as many stressed-out folks in one place, mostly trying to figure out where the blue blazes they were supposed to go. Where is check-in? Where is Gate ___? Where am I getting my luggage? Where’s my connecting flight? Where the devil is my chauffeur? (Not referring to me, of course.)

And where is a freakin’ Starbucks?

Surprisingly, though, I have had a few experiences at the airport that were, if not mildly amusing, downright hilarious. To wit:

People leave stuff at security checkpoints all the time: laptops, ID’s, wives, etc. Once, walking through the airport with a client I had just picked up, we heard a voice over the PA system announce: “Your attention, please, will the passenger who left a hammer at Security Checkpoint ___ please return to claim your item?”

My client and I looked at each other, incredulous. Did he just say a hammer??

Who would leave a hammer at a security checkpoint? Tim “The Tool Man” Taylor?

Furthermore, why would anyone travel with a hammer? The nuts available on the flight are already shelled, right? You don’t need the thing!

It would’ve been different if the guy had said,”Would the passenger who showed up hammered at Security Checkpoint…”

Oh, another time, I heard the PA announcer say, “Would the flight crew for ___ Airlines Flight___  please report to Gate ___? Your flight is ready.”

Seriously? The passengers are on board, the bags are loaded, everyone’s ready to go, and the flight crew isn’t there, yet??

Say, does anyone aboard here know how to fly a plane? I’ll man the snacks and the drinks. Have a nice flight.


I always dreaded when an arriving passenger had checked baggage to get. We would wait for that baggage long enough for me to grow a beard, most of the time. I swear, the baggage handlers must have rerouted it through New Zealand.


And, of course, sometimes, it did get rerouted to a different Bag Claim than originally announced, so we would have a group scavenger hunt for it. Lots of fun. One time, I kid you not, we got sent from one bag claim to another, then back to the original one. I’m sure somebody got a laugh out of that, but it wasn’t the passengers, or me. We did get some good exercise, though, I guess. Not that I’m a fan of that; my idea of a good workout is getting up from the dinner table.

Anyway, I’m waiting with a client for his luggage, and a Baggage Service person comes over to our bag claim and starts telling everyone that their baggage can be picked up at another bag claim. Only, nobody can hear what he’s saying. So, standing next to him is another Baggage Service person, yelling everything the first guy is saying.

Absolute truth, folks.

If you’ve ever seen Chevy Chase and Garrett Morris on Saturday Night Live‘s “Weekend Update”, doing the Top Stories for the Deaf, you appreciate just how hysterical a sight this was. My client had seen it, and we had a big laugh over it.


I’m walking through the airport one day, and I pass one of those little shops that has stuff like candy, books and magazines, toothpaste, hair products, snacks, drinks, what have you, and I notice they sell suitcases at this one.

Now, I know we all end up forgetting one thing or another when we travel; it’s practically inevitable. But, has anyone ever showed up at the airport and said, “Crap!! I left the suitcase at home! I’ve been walking around with my clothes and toiletries in my arms, and I just knew I was forgetting something! Thank God I can get one here!”


Many times, though, I got to see some great things. Lots of joyful, tearful reunions. Lots of children running excitedly into their mommies’ or daddies’ arms. Lots of barking, tail-wagging, face-licking dogs. Lots of endless hugging. Lots of laughing. Lots of crying. Air travel may not be fun, but the arrival can be so worth it.


One last funny story:

My friend, Gary, (who I hope doesn’t mind me telling this) was at the airport one day to pick up the 80’s rock group, Loverboy, in town for one of those ever popular Night of the Has-Beens concerts. Sounds innocent enough, right?

Okay, picture a middle-aged man, in a black suit and tie, standing alone in the middle of the airport, holding a sign that reads, LOVERBOY.

How suspicious would you be?

Bon voyage, everybody.

Sorry, Kids


I am not a parent.

I am, though, old enough to be one. A grandparent, even.

So, for a moment, I’d like to claim all the children of America as my own, and offer this message to them:

Kids, I’m so sorry. You certainly do not deserve this country you’re inheriting. Unfortunately, it’s what I’m passing on to you.

I’m passing on to you an environment that is only just beginning to get payback for all the abuse that’s been carelessly, shamelessly inflicted upon it by its human inhabitants. Payback that will continue, and get steadily more merciless and widespread. Because your planet is melting.

I’m passing on to you an economy made of straw, just waiting for some Big, Bad Wolf to blow it completely to smithereens. An economy with an ever widening chasm between the outrageously wealthy and everyone else, with greed and resentment both growing unabatedly.

I’m passing on to you a hopelessly dysfunctional government that cannot accomplish anything significant due to its exasperating, everlasting compulsion to sabotage itself, and struggles to produce even one single person worthy of being elected to lead it. Those who deem themselves worthy try to prove it, not through substance and character, but through rhetoric and demagoguery.

And, worst of all, I’m passing on to you a society in which manners, courtesy, civility, respect, compassion and unselfishness are all endangered species.

A society that cares more about its own entertainment than anything else; that can barely afford to look up from its smartphone for so much as a second; that can’t wait for the premiere of the next reality show, which will surely appeal to an even baser instinct than the last one.

A society that believes most everything it hears, with little time or use for such trivialities as facts and truth, which are treated even by the “news media” as amorphous, malleable objects, to be molded and shaped to fit personal agendas.

A society that unapologetically shovels more food into its collective belly, even as it’s surrounded by hungry, even starving people.

That increasingly views anyone of a race other than Caucasian as worthless, irresponsible, inferior, even evil.

That bombs abortion clinics and murders gays and transgendered people, all “in the name of God.”

I cannot tell you how deeply sorry I am, children. For all of it.

Obviously, I had no regard whatsoever for your well-being, or your future.

And I absolutely could not be more ashamed.

I don’t expect forgiveness; these atrocities I’ve committed against you are difficult, if not impossible, to forgive.

All I can do at this point is commit the remaining days of my life, however many there may be, to doing whatever I can to right this terrible, terrible wrong.

See, I long ago talked myself into believing my own individual actions would make no difference. The problems were just too overwhelmingly large and complex, and too many other people would continue to do nothing. I convinced myself I was powerless.

And maybe, I am. Maybe, my actions won’t make any difference. The problems haven’t gotten any smaller, or simpler. And still, there will be plenty of people who choose to do nothing, perhaps because they feel, like I have, that there is nothing they can do.

But, I really just need to quit using that as an excuse. There’s no time for that, anymore, and besides, it’s a lousy example to be setting.

You deserve better.

Good luck, kids. Good luck.



My 2nd Favorite Roommate


At the beginning, we were complete strangers.

Our first meeting was the weekend before the start of college. It was an orientation weekend for freshmen. Dad came with me to help move my things into my new home, a simple, nondescript room in one of the dormitories. Two desks, two closets, two extra-long twin beds, one sink, one window. I didn’t know a thing about my new roommate but his name and address, and a picture I saw of him in some mailout I got from the school.

He wasn’t in the room when Dad and I arrived, but it was evident he’d already been there and dropped off his things. We unpacked all my stuff, went downstairs and outside, and that’s where I found him. We introduced ourselves and shook hands. He was this tall, outgoing, basketball-playing dude from New Jersey. I was this incredibly handsome (liar), suave (liar), athletically gifted (pants on fire) genius. (pants in ashes, working on the shirt)

But we hit it off from the minute we met. As we stood there with our parents, discussing suitable window treatments for our dorm room, he offered the following helpful input:

“I think pink would be nice.” And we all laughed.

Bingo. This guy has a sense of humor, like me. We’re gonna be fine.

And we were. For the next four years.

Bob (e-Bob, Bob-o-lene, Bobcat, shish-ka-Bob), this one’s for you.


I gotta say, we had a blast living in the dorm the first two years of college. We became friends with all these other crazy guys on our floor: Scott, Brad, Fred, Mark, Bob (another Bob), Dick, Tony, Rob, Goat, Walter, and others whose names, unfortunately, time has erased from memory. We played cards, watched Saturday Night Live, ate together in the cafeteria, threw frisbees down the dorm hallway, even bowled a few times in that hallway. All kinds of fun stuff. We were “adults” now, but still, very much kids. And Bob and I were sort of the jesters of the group, supplying most of the funny lines, keeping everyone else laughing as often as we could.

We kept each other laughing, too. We were both brought up with basically the same beliefs and values, and we both grew up in funny families, so we found the same things humorous, more often then not. We constantly cracked each other up; we each had our own habits and rituals which, over time, the other knew well enough to imitate. We improvised our own lyrics to popular songs, making them much funnier. We each tried to prove to the other who could be sillier. I don’t know who won, but it was a fun competition.

One thing that eventually became funny, though it scared Bob a little at first, was when he could hear me talk in my sleep. Bob was a very dedicated student; I didn’t know anyone who hit the books harder at college than this guy. That meant he was often up late studying, while I was getting my (totally unsuccessful) beauty sleep. So, in those late hours, the silence of the room would be broken by my completely nonsensical, sleep-induced declarations, totally freaking out my roommate. He worried that I might be an alien from outer space. Sometimes, I would even have full conversations with him, having no memory of them the next day, when he would delightedly fill me in on what I missed. (“We gotta get rid of Diane…”)

Bob became my brother over the next four years. My own brothers are older than me, and I didn’t really grow up with them, because they were husbands and fathers by then. Bob was my age. (Well, actually, he is about a year older; just a reminder, dude.) We did things together. We trusted each other with personal details about ourselves. We got to know each others’ hopes, fears, strengths and weaknesses, and we supported each other through tough times. We were there for each other, anytime.

Now, that doesn’t mean we always got along. There were a few times when I pissed the guy off; seems I’ve always had a knack for that. Fortunately, he would always forgive, and we moved on, a little closer from the experience. There’s no denying, we became the best of friends.

But, of course, at the end of those four great years, we went our separate ways, getting jobs, finding new “roommates”, and settling into the rest of our lives. We don’t stay in touch as often as we probably ought, and that’s not really anyone’s fault. That’s just what life does; it’s a play, evolving from one act to the next, with different scenes and characters, and the previous one just recedes into memory.

But, boy, I’ve got some great memories of the time I spent rooming with this guy. Whether it was destiny, divine intervention or just plain good luck that brought us together, I’m just so glad it happened. No question, I’d do it all again.


My favorite roommate is, of course, my wife. More on her another time.

Sorry, Bob. But, you’re the best runner-up I could ever have asked for.

I love you, brother.