Anthropology and Expensive Rocks

In the words of Charlie Brown, during Halloween Trick or Treating, “I got a rock.”  

To level set this story, I’m not a social media superstar, not a rising star, not even a mundane asteroid.  When people ask me if I’m on social media, I get queasy.   There are just way too many screens and buttons that can lead to angst.  And considering my complete lack of technical aptitude, I’m sure I’d have an easy time breaking it.  Then I’d have to crawl to my wife and beggingly say, “look what I did, can you fix it?”  

So, my annual gift-giving trifecta from hell is fast approaching.  In less than a month, I have to come up with three creative, and thoughtful gifts to address my wedding anniversary, the wife’s birthday, and Christmas.  According to my calculations, I’m more than a little past middle age, and as much as I’d like to think of myself as creative, I’m not.  After thirty years of this torturous gauntlet, I have no tricks left up my sleeve.  I can do maybe, one clever gift a year, but three in less than a month?  Sure, and if Pigs could f...What I should do is have a LLADRO commissioned that depicts a bunch of pigs flying around.

It’s now the night before Thanksgiving.  My daughter and her husband have come over for dinner and some pre-Thanksgiving beverages.  After dinner we’re sitting in the family room talking.  My daughter announces to my wife that she wants to give her Mom her birthday gift early, as they won’t be with us during the actual day of her birthday.  I’m holding my breath, praying that she doesn’t go overboard with the gift, and thus wind up embarrassing me.  (Remember, it’s all about me.) 

My daughter is exuberant.  She explains that this gift is something she knows my wife was looking for, and really wanted.  Oh Crap!  This is not going to be good…for me.  My wife is very excited.  As she’s ripping the paper off the box, she says, “Colleen, you didn’t?  How did you get one?  They’re sold out everywhere!”  Now I know I’m really screwed.  I should have just gotten her a thoughtful card, taken my lumps and found an acceptable hotel to live in.

As the gift is emerging from the box, my wife, almost jumping out of her skin with enthusiasm, asks my daughter, “Colleen, how much did you pay for this!?!”  I tried to remind my wife that it’s not polite to ask how much a gift costs, but I was too late.  My daughter quickly responds in a proud tone, “Well it wasn’t too bad, I got it as part of a pre-Black Friday sale.  It was $300, but I got it for $150.”  The excitement between my daughter and wife was palpable.  

My wife reaches into the box and pulls out…a rock.  Yes, a rock.  It’s about five inches long, about three inches high and two inches thick.  It’s speckled, white and gray-ish, heavy on the ish.  And, it smells like perfume.  My daughter proclaims, “It’s an Anthro Rock!” from the Anthropologie store, which I’m guessing, must be a wonderful thing.  When I think of the Anthropologie store, the only thing that comes to mind is overpriced clothing which I’m unable to appreciate.  My next thought was, if the world economy collapses, I wonder how much the Anthro Rock will be worth.  I bet it’s more than a bitcoin. And along with that thought was, what is the return policy for the rock?  

My son-in-law is looking like he’s either very confused or in shock.  He offers up, “So we can use it to hold down napkins on the dining room table during dinner tomorrow?  My daughter replies, “No, it’ll be the center piece!”

I know better than to open my mouth and offer my opinion, as I’ve ruined many a family gathering by saying exactly what’s on my mind.  These days, even if I’m aggressively questioned, I no longer take the bait and speak.  I just do my best imitation of Marcel Marceau, and nod in agreement.  You can teach an old dog new tricks!

My daughter and wife are giddy as they ogle over the rock, discussing details about it.  Then my daughter, in a very jovial tone, asks us, “But you get why it’s so special, right?”  And with that, I took the bait and swallowed it whole.  I’m thinking, well I have a good shot at blowing up Thanksgiving this year, but she did ask. So I said, “I feel like I’m being punked.”  And with that, both my wife and daughter broke out into uproarious laughter.  

The Anthro Rock gag is being played out worldwide and videos of these events are being put on social media – mainly, Instagram and TikTok, neither of which I subscribe to.  My daughter dug this rock out of the garden in front of her building.  She washed the dirt and grime off said rock, and perfumed it with a scent she hadn’t worn in years.  And the cherry on top, to video this deception, she secretly placed a camera on our fireplace mantel amongst the turkeys and pilgrims.  All parts of the diabolical plan to deceive and embarrass us, on Thanksgiving. 

Fair warning my friends, evil lurks among us.

50th High School Reunions & Fossils

Sometimes life will send us to unexpected places.  I recently received an email from some entity who claimed to have gone to high school with me.  I recognized the name, but being the overtly paranoid soul that I am, I was sure it was a scam.  So, I decided to perform my own forensic due diligence, and miraculously, when I eventually clicked on the link, my laptop didn’t erupt into a flaming mess.

The last time I had seen this person, he was streaking across the quad during our senior year.  He informed me that we had a 50th Pascack Hills High School reunion coming up shortly. There are two people that I still see with from high school.  One of my concerns was that people would approach me and I’d look back at them confused, as if I had dementia, which my wife says can’t be too far away.   (Note: latest science says only 30% of your dementia destiny is tied to your genes. 70% is tied to how well you take care of yourself.  So get those walks in and have a salad!)  

The morning of the reunion, they had scheduled a tour of the high school and then a lunch.  I thought they were joking.  I told them that in my current state, I could either do the morning/lunch events or the main evening event.  My tank no longer holds enough fuel to do both.  Notice I say fuel, not gas.

So, it’s now three days before the reunion, and I’m signed up for what has the potential to turn out to be a magnificently awkward evening.  With that, our daughter finally received her summer wedding photos.  She emailed them to me – great!  I was amazed.  I could not figure out how they got ahold of a picture of my grandfather and had him walking my daughter down the aisle.  A commensurate amount of sobbing ensued. 

During the reunion people were commenting to me, “What, no wife, or did you get a hall pass?”  I told them it was not a problem.  As I was driving away, I looked back at the front window of our house, and could see my wife doing cartwheels in the living room. When all was said and done, outside of not being able to lie to anyone about my age, I actually had a very good time at the reunion.  My famous wrestling coach, Bucky Rehain showed up. On his birthdays, he does his age in pushups.  The last one was 82…so I hate him. I could do that too; it would just take me a couple of weeks to complete.   In the end, I’m pretty sure I was coherent the whole night and I drank a lot coffee which kept my spirits high.

Ten days after my high school reunion, I made a trip down to Glassboro, NJ and connected with three close friends at our college for a mini 46th reunion.  Back when we were enrolled, it was Glassboro State College.  Then in 1992, Henry Rowan donated a $100 million to the college.  This gift created a juggernaut that propelled the college into becoming a diverse, outstanding University.  Rowan University is a great example of what millions of donation dollars can do, “IF” it is used wisely.  We got a very personalized tour that not only impressed the bejabbers out of me, but also left me quite jealous.  Long gone are the days when breaded mystery meat, aka New Hampshire, was the main dish at the dining hall. Now, with all the choices they have, the students might as well be at Epcot in Disney World. 

Having parked our cars at the hotel, a new Marriott, we toured the town in the evening.  When we were students back in the 70s, the town was a…let’s just say there was no reason to go there.  But now, because of the strong partnership between the university, the town, the state, and private business, extensive reconstructive surgery was performed in the downtown area, and this rebuilding continues today.  Rome wasn’t completely built in a day.  Our last stop at the end of the evening was to a massive sports bar where I was brutally reminded of how old I am.  We stayed too long, and I’m pretty sure I was overserved. 

The next day we went to the Edelman Fossil Park & Museum…of Rowan University.  Ric Edelman and his wife Jean are significant donors to the University and especially Fossil Park.  It’s about 10 minutes from the main campus, and an hour and thirty-five minutes from Bedminster.  The Park opened in May of 2025 and is run by world renown paleontologist and explorer, Dr. Ken Lacovara. (Ken went to South America and unearthed the largest, and never before found dinosaur, which he named, Dreadnoughtus…meaning “fears nothing.”  At 65 tons, it weighs more than seven T.rex.)  Ric, Jean and Ken are all graduates of Rowan University / Glassboro State College.

The Park has an area where digs are continually happening.  If you uncover a 66-million-year-old fossil, you can bring it home.  One of the exhibits in the Museum, talks about a 1000-page book on the complete history of earth.  In the book, the dinosaurs appeared with 41 pages left.  Human History, are the last five LETTERS of the book!  We’re newbies, I don’t feel so old anymore.

Dr. Lacovara also makes a point of dispelling the notion that dinosaurs were unintelligent, slow-moving, unable to adapt creatures.  Think about it, whenever a company is thought to be losing their competitive edge, they’re referred to as, “A Dinosaur Headed for Extinction.”  Now don’t get me wrong, the dinosaurs weren’t solving complex math problems, but dinosaurs existed and adapted for 165 MILLION years.  Let’s see if we can find any country or company with that kind of longevity. 

In conclusion, ‘It’s a small world, after all.’  Or is it?  The person I went to high school with, who alerted me to the reunion…for the last 25 years, we’ve lived two miles from each other and never knew it.

Snail Farming for Fun & Profit...and Tax Evasion

Recently, I was reading about a real estate tax scam that criminals are using in London.  It goes something like this: They set up a shell company that breed snails in an empty office block. (the snails are actually bred in shoe boxes, seriously.) Then they claim that the office block is legally, against all indications to the contrary, a farm, and therefore exempt from paying real estate taxes.

This sounds so familiar, where have I heard this before?  Ah yes, the New Jersey Farmland Assessment Act, where wealthy New Jerseyans offload their real estate tax burden onto the vast majority of the middle class.  I need to reread the Farmland Assessment Act and see if Snails qualify.  This would be great for ALL New Jersey residents.  We would just need to buy a pair of shoes, avoid recycling the box and instead, start a snail farm – Genius!  If you want to go big, think about those boxes that printer paper comes in.  You could become the snail king or queen of Somerset county.  The only problem in doing this, we’d run the risk of collapsing the thriving escargot industry.  But fair is fair.  You win some, you lose some.

The above situation is real, as is the situation in New Jersey where people who own at least five acres of property, often claim that they are farmers…against all indications to the contrary.  The Farmland Assessment Act was originally implemented to help poor farmers who could not afford to pay their rising real estate taxes.  Unfortunately, the skinflint wealthy are using it today to avoid paying their fair share of real estate taxes.  Instead, they want their neighbors to pay their taxes for them.  Nice, right!?!

Listed below is the gist of a recent letter I sent to the Governor asking him for a small measure of help to right the wrongs being put upon the large middle class of New Jersey.

Listed below are some reasonable solutions for your consideration:  

1) Increase the Inspection Fee from $25 to $295 ~ (The current $25 fee established in 1964, makes doing inspections unaffordable for the towns, due to current costs)

2) Increase the minimum acreage requirement from Five to Ten acres 

3) Establish a $400,00 ceiling for applicant’s New Jersey Gross Income (Line 29 on the NJ 1040) ~ (Most New Jersey social programs like ANCHOR, Medicaid, SNAP, etc. have income limits to be able to use the program)

4) Increase Fraudulent Claim Fines from $5,000 to $25,000

These simple, easy to implement changes will have a major, positive impact on New Jersey’s middle class.  At the same time, it will not affect the larger properties that are actually working farms.  Hoping you see the merits to these actions, and can execute some, if not all of them.

Folks, if this does not work, I say we give snails a shot.  Worst case we avoid having to add them to the endangered species list sometime in the near future.

The Sedition Act of 1798 Reincarnated

Just like bringing back bellbottom jeans, or the mohawk haircut, it appears that, “the man who would be king” is trying to reincarnate John Adams’ Sedition Act of 1798.  Quick refresher: In 1798 president John Adams tried to ban what he considered "bad press" by signing the Sedition Act of 1798.  The Sedition Act made it a crime to publish or print "false, scandalous, and malicious writing" against the president and his government. Fortunately for John, late night TV was centuries away.  Conveniently forgetting about the First Amendment, this controversial law was primarily used to suppress and prosecute newspapers that supported Adams political opponents, especially the Democratic-Republicans, aka the Jeffersonian Republicans.  Isn’t it scary how quickly people in political office forget the pillars of our democracy, and do whatever it takes to stay in power.

The Jeffersonian Republican party eventually became today’s Democratic party.  Today’s Republican party was established around 1850 with the collapse, or thinning of the Whigs.  I’m in my late 60s, and for crying out loud, where’s a good Whig when you need one?

There is hope for us and the First Amendment.  John Adams was the last of the Federalist party to hold the presidency.  The Sedition Act was wildly unpopular and Jefferson crushed him in the 1800 presidency elections.  I know this all to be true, as I just saw the play, Hamilton.

Jefferson was not a perfect man, but again, I say, “For crying out loud, where are the Jeffersons of our day?”  We need them.  Doesn’t the Smithsonian have one of his hair or tooth brushes?  And can’t we gather some of his DNA from those brushes and create ourselves a modern-day Jefferson?  I’ve watched every Jurassic Park movie that’s been released, we have the technology to make this happen.  As long as the scientists don’t accidently mix a smidge of T-Rex DNA in Thomas’ we should be good to go by the next election.

If we want to seal the deal, there is another DNA sample we can look into acquiring.  If we step back into the 1630s, around Boston and what is now Rhode Island, we’ll find Roger Williams.  Initially a puritan minister, Williams arrived in Boston in 1631.  He had a strong belief in free speech, including the dicey thought that a person had the right to worship as they wished.  He was also a strong proponent of the concept: “Separation of Church and State.”  Thomas Jefferson studied some of Williams’ writings.  

Williams also preached and wrote about it, a lot.  So much so that he established a large following.  And if you think we have rigid folks in political and religious office today, let’s just say the folks running the show back then lacked any sense of humor.  Think about it, have you ever seen a picture of a smiling pilgrim?  The answer is, no.  They always have severe looks on their faces.  You try being seasick for weeks, arriving in a blizzard, and spending the next three months dodging arrows and chopping down trees for housing.  Not too much to laugh about.

One thing the Bostonians always seemed to have was an ample supply of was tar and feathers.   And unfortunately for Willams, the ruling party in the quaint New England hamlet had enough of his act, tried him in 1635 and convicted him of, you guessed it, “Sedition.”  Free Speech, Separation of Church and State…Heresy!  Luckily for Williams, there was a shortage of feathers that winter so they decided to banish him instead.  Within a year of banishment, he established a settlement which he named, Providence.  Within Providence, Baptists, Quakers and Jews could all worship as they pleased.  And one of the first rules of the settlement was, Separation of Church and State.  Providence became the first town in modern history to separate church and state.

So, we’ve had a long history, almost 400 years, of authoritarian rulers who have tried to control free speech because it threatened their power.  Luckily, over time, we’ve had dedicated, insightful leaders who fought against this control.  These leaders had in their minds, the main tenets of the First Amendment of our Constitution: protecting freedom of religion, speech, press, assembly, and petition, which they fought for with their lives.  I believe our challenge today is to speak up when we know the main tenets of our Constitution are being broken, (write to your Congressman & Senators) and do not accept lies as fact.

Hoping we all avoid banishment this winter, unless it’s to some place warm – and inviting.

The ICEmen Cometh & Superman Too

To be fair, we did need better control at our borders.  During the previous administration, our country was exposed to the world like a Moroccan fair (Thank You, Schitt’s Creek).  

And it would be naïve to think that we weren’t letting a number of what I call Very Bad People, (aka the VBP-13 gangs going forward), waltz into our country with identification paperwork written in crayon. 

The VBP-13 gangs have a violent history, and are undoubtedly doing harm to our country and the people within it.  Thank goodness we have the new, flush with cash, Immigrations and Custom Enforcement (I.C.E.) Machine.  

Depending on what AI search tool you use, their new budget is anywhere from $10 to $29 billion, all the way up to $170 billion for 2025.  Not millions, but Billions!  For comparison purposes, the budget for the National Parks system, with over 400 locations is ~ $3 billion.  That’s before any further defunding happens.  

Remember the wealthy need every penny of those tax breaks, they’re saving for a private island.  (Note: A subset of National Park staff, “The Erasers” are now trying to repair our majestic parks that have been defaced.  There aren’t enough park rangers employed to keep the bad actors in line).  

In any case, with that kind of massive ICE funding, I have to think that we’ll not only be able to scoop up every VBP-13 gang member in existence, but we’ll also get every jaywalker strolling across all fifty states.  I can’t wait for the glorious headlines!

Make no mistake though, this job that the ICE Agents have is a tough one, seriously.  And recruiting is not easy.  Rumor has it that signing bonuses for new ICE agents is rivaling those of major league baseball.  

But fear not, we now have Superman on our team.  Or at least Dean Cain, the guy who played Superman in the 1990s.  He’s 59 years old now.  I’m not sure how old that is in Crypton years…somebody please, google that one.

Here’s the thing, for most men, even super men, at 59 years old, the need for a 2 PM nap becomes nothing short of critical.  And add the need to pee, more than frequently, and you’re creating a mission impossible situation.  With that, I’m picturing an aging superman about to make a major bust on a nasty bunch of VBP-13 gang members.  It’s 4:30PM, way past nap time, and he’s been crouched down for three hours drinking coffee.  To make matters worse, there’s not a bathroom in sight.  This is not going to end well.

But there should be light at the end of the tunnel coming for Dean and a good number of ICE Agents, as well as the National Guard.  First, keep in mind that the current administration, many of them with extensive reality television backgrounds - really enjoy good press.  It’s in their DNA.  You would think that any arrests against the VBP-13 gang members would be on the news in bold flashing lights.  I have seen none.

Even with the mayor of New York City negotiating away his indictment, and agreeing to vigorously help ICE – There are No big headlines of VBP-13 arrests.  How can that be?  They have enough funding to put a man on Jupiter and simultaneously feed every child on our planet, and probably Jupiter’s too.  And they have Superman.  What more could they need?

Well, this might be the reason:  The vast majority of Mr. Freeze’s ICE men are not going where the VBP-13 personnel hang out, and create mayhem.  

Instead, our ICE men are positioning themselves at the doors of Home Depot, picking off outdoor workers carrying bags of grass seed – the kind that grows a lawn.  The vast majority of these ICE targets appear to be gainfully employed, doing jobs that the residents of the areas have no interest in doing themselves.  Hanging outside of baseball parks in Los Angeles is another area where ICE Agents have been seen stationed on the job.  Could it be they received a tip that the major league ball clubs are hiring non-union players that are actually illegal immigrants? Thankfully, Dunkin Donuts is unofficially off limits as coffee and sugary donuts are considered sacred by the enforcement teams.  That supply chain cannot be disrupted.  

In other, “Let’s waste our nation’s money” news, the National Guard is now stationed in Washington DC.  But to paraphrase the ex-police chief of Washington DC, Charles H. Ramsey, Yes, DC like other large cities has a crime problem. But the National Guard is not being deployed to those areas where crime is high.  Well that just doesn’t make sense, does it?

Instead, the National Guard is being deployed at the Mall in Washington DC…with nothing to do.  I’ve heard they are now relegated to doing some light gardening, picking up trash and posing for action photos with tourists.  We now have the best equipped, most expensive garbage men on the face of the earth.  We’re Great Again!  So we have that going for us, which is nice. – (Thanks Carl Spackler.)  But still, no headlines about sending these notorious VBP-13 criminals to the swamps of Florida or further South.

But what’s really bugging me is a different group of illegal aliens.  They’re infesting, if you will, our neighborhoods.  They came to America from South East Asia, cleverly hiding on cargo ships.  Their financial impact to our area has been devastating.  Of course I’m speaking of the heinous Spotted Lantern Fly.  He’s back again and I want to know why our tax dollars can’t be used to deploy ICE agents or the National Guard, and rid us of this illegal alien menace.  When that happens, then you’ll see headlines!

Musketeers and the Motor Vehicle Commission

I had an interesting experience trying to get the eye glasses restriction on my driver’s license removed.  A couple of months earlier I met an old friend from school who was in the same boat as me.  As he aged into his AARP years, his distance vision came back to almost perfection.  Of course, we have peepers strategically placed all over the house to ensure we can read.  My friend lives in Maryland.   He said that all he had to do was have his ophthalmologist contact the Maryland state DMV, verify that his vision was near 20/20 and voila, within two weeks he had a new restriction-free driver’s license.  I’m thinking to myself, “This is just too good to be true, finally something easy.”  

So I go to my eye doctor for a checkup, I’m 20/30, well below the 20/50 limit.  Heck, I’m thinking with 20/30 vision I could fly an F15 fighter – sure I could, but only after I finished screaming my head off and soiling every layer of clothing I was wearing.  Back to reality - With extreme confidence, I explain to my doctor that I’d like her to provide these outstanding results to the good folks at the DMV so I can have the restriction on my driver’s license removed.  And that’s when my house of cards started to implode right before my exceptional eyes.  She replied to me, that in New Jersey, you bring your vision prescription to a specific New Jersey Motor Vehicle Commission office, MVC.  (DMV is now considered offensive.)  

It was like someone stuck a pin in my positivity balloon, and blew it to pieces.  I sulked, and months passed.  It’s now time to get my Real ID driver’s license, so I figure I’ll kill two rocks with one bird.  You can only get the Real ID at specific offices.  After picking a wrong office, I drive 40 minutes up to Randolph with my six points of identity documentation, authenticating I am who I am.  FYI – unless you have a passport and an old driver’s license, getting six points in today’s world is near impossible.  At least now I have something to worry about.  

I arrived at the Randolph office and the line of wanting individuals was practically out the door.  I can feel the MVC dread begin to consume me.  I wouldn’t think this many people actually live in New Jersey.  And as my luck would have it, they all decided to go to Randolph today.

There are stages of lines you must negotiate before you eventually get to the MVC oracle of driving.  This person is responsible for submitting the mountains of paperwork that will eventually lead to a new license showing up in your mailbox.  Getting to this person is like finally reaching the Soup Nazi.  You’re elated to be there, but this person holds your transit fate in his overworked, sweaty hands.  One wrong move and you’re doomed.

I finally get to this last omniscient person.  We’re exchanging information, and then he proceeds to begin taking sad pictures of my head.  He had been working feverishly on his terminal for twenty minutes preparing the creation of my holier than thou, Real ID Driver’s License.  All of a sudden it hits me, the restriction, I want it removed!  When I tell this to the all-powerful man behind the counter, the look on his face was probably similar to the look I had when I got the fabulous news that I was going to need to come to his office.  He tells me that I’ll need to start the process all over again.  Since I didn’t bring my sleeping bag, that wasn’t an option.  That and I told him that I’d rather be lit on fire than do that again.

I come back two weeks later with my brand new Real ID.  I’ve enlarged my vision prescription so it’s easier for them to read.  I’ll be scoring big brownie points!  I’m figuring, with my new license and my user-friendly documentation, I’ll just drop it off with someone and be on my way.  Then, I’ll patiently await my new, restriction-free Real ID to arrive via mail.  I work my way to the first service window.  I’m in luck, I have a seasoned veteran manning my station.  I explain to this very capable person, the very simple service that I’d like performed.  She responds very matter of factly, “Let’s see what you have.”  She quickly tells me that they do not accept copies, it must be the original vision prescription.  I file that into the “No good deed goes unpunished” folder.   Then she tells me that the prescription can’t be more than 60 days old.  Mine is 75 days old – I need to go back and take another test.  I was a mildly disappointed, but did not break anything on the way out.

Long story long, I get another test, same results.  For my next attempt, I’m returning from a lunch in Denville.  I drive to the MVC office with my correct size and dated prescription info in hand.  This particular afternoon, office resembles a large sardine can – it’s packed, again.  And I just can’t fathom waiting another two or three hours.  I ask one of the crowd control officers, “When is it less crowded?”  He tells me, when it opens at 8:00AM.  Next day I head up and arrive at 8:00AM.  I go to the first station and there is a newbie behind the counter.  He is confused by my request, but eventually sends me over to “Window 16.”  I smell a rat.  

Behind window 16 is a very pleasant woman.  (Side Note: Everyone I dealt with at the MVC, on every flipping day I was there, was pleasant and helpful.)  This woman mans the eye test machine.  I see red and explain to her, “I don’t need to take her eye test as I have a doctor’s note.”  I felt like I was back in high school trying to get out of gym class. My fear is that I might have been staring at my iPhone too long and my vision won’t have had time to recalibrate for distance.  She wryly says, “Why don’t you give the machine a try.”  So, with no leverage, and a history of bombing big tests, I dive in.  All I can say is this, if I were blind, I could have passed this test. 

Now the lady behind window 16 is collecting all kinds of data.  She goes back and forth multiple times, checking with what seems like, senior management.  I’m thinking I either murdered this test or it’s the first time she’s had to do this.  I wait calmly with confidence.  I know I have them this time.  The pleasant lady finally returns with a smile on her face.  I reach my hand out to take my new license.  But instead, she says, “Okay, do you have your 6 points?  You need to go on the end of the line now and apply for your new driver’s license.”  I thought she was punking me.  But she was not.  I told her, “I don’t have my six points with me.  I just got this new license, I only want the restriction removed. “ I’m thinking if I pinch myself hard enough, I’m going to wake up from this nightmare.  But her hands were tied, this was the required procedure.  

I go home, frantically find my 6 points, and drive back.  Now the line is almost out the door again.  I’m not exactly sure when, but I am going to break something.  I grin and bear it.  I get to the final window and allow my tormentor to process my new license in silence.  I remind her about having my restriction removed.  The look on her face was akin to someone not understanding English.  She asked me if I have any proof or paperwork.  (This now becomes the scene out of the movie, “Planes, Trains, and Automobiles” where Steve Martin’s rent-a-car is not in the spot in the rental lot that’s miles away, and he get annihilated during his struggle returning to the rental sales counter at the airport.  I respond, I have none!  At this point, I’m pretty sure this is the first episode of the new Candid Camera series streaming on Hulu. Before lunging across the counter, and being tasered, I suggested she go to infamous Window 16, and verify my story.  

So with a commensurate amount of additional torture, my restriction-free Real ID arrived last weekend – a cake walk.

Major point here - when Musk and crew arrived at government offices with the mission to improve efficiency, they’d ask the current employees inane questions like, tell me five things you did last week.  What they should have been asking them was, “Tell me five things we could do to make this place run more efficiently.”  Just reducing staff is not nearly the best approach.  Especially when you wind up hiring back furloughed employees. 

When in Greece

So my daughter recently married…a very nice guy.  Her whole life, my daughter has been very laid back, and not a big fan of fanfare.  With that, I was thinking of, hoping for a tasteful backyard wedding.  One can dream, right?  As it turns out, her husband’s family all live in Greece and the horticultural facelift I had planned for my backyard was scuttled.  Instead, we had a destination event spanning continents.  Listed below are some lessons learned, and if anyone knows how to set up a “Go Fund Me” thing-a-ma-bob, I’d appreciate that info.

Pearl of Wisdom regarding how to pay for such an event:  Choose the “Death of a Thousand Cuts” methodology.  As much as the pain lingers for an eternity, it definitely beats experiencing a massive, heart stopping myocardial infarction from one large bill.

The Greek people are very warm and friendly.  And they speak and understand English a lot better than I do Greek.  (Granted, being the ugly American that I am, I’ve set the bar very low.)  My feeble attempt to learn key Greek words and phrases was thwarted in two main areas.  First, they have a completely different alphabet from what we use in America.  (I believe our current administration is trying to fix that, which would be nice.  It’s all part of the Make the World Great Again initiative, or MaWGA for short…catchy, right?)  But what makes it extremely vexing is that they have a number of letters in their alphabet that look very much like ours. Unfortunately, those similar looking letters have a sound in Greek that is nothing like our English version.   What kind of sadist thinks of that?  And then the second issue I have, which trumps the first is that I’m pretty sure I have a whopping case of shrinking brain.

We fought off the evil travel gods, and the wedding ceremony went off without a hitch.  As it turns out my father of the bride speech was a hit…would we expect anything less?  I ended my speech with an old Irish Blessing (available upon request).  During the wedding a number of Greek people came up to me and congratulated me on my daughter’s wedding and remarked what a nice time they were having.  After a few cocktails, the heat, my hearing aid batteries running out of juice, and my shrinking brain, I just went into autopilot mode.  When people would approach me, I’d thank them for their kind words and then tell them, with the biggest smile I could conjure up, “Well that’s great!”  Later in the evening a woman who looked to be about my age, went through the same routine with me.  But she especially like the Irish Blessing.  She made some remark about her family and Ireland.  I listened intently, not grasping a word she was saying.  I had an extra copy of my speech so I gave it to her.  For good measure, I again added, “Well that’s great!”   Later in the evening my wife ran into the same woman and as it turns out a family member of this person was to be married to an Irish fellow.  But unfortunately, he passed away the night before the wedding.  Clearly, I didn’t get that part of our conversation and can only imagine how many decades I’ve set back Grecco-American relations.

Drowning – Once the wedding was over, we hopped a ferry to an Island out in the Aegean Sea.  While on the island we chartered a boat to take us for a tour of the picturesque coastal area.  The trip was not as extensive as we had hoped as the winds were strong and the sea was choppy.  Towards the end, the captain parked his boat outside a beachy area and suggested we swim to the beach.  Shortly, he would bring his blowup, six-foot dingy with drinks, ice and snacks.  Note:  I am not a great swimmer.  My wife on the other hand is an excellent swimmer.  I look to the shore and it does not seem far at all – and to my credit, I had not been drinking.  The captain asks if we want a styrofoam noodle for the swim in. I ponder that thought for a split second, but my wife ignores that comment and dives in.  And that settles that, I dive in too.  I’m doing freestyle for a while and look over at my wife.  Outside of the butterfly, she’s going through every Olympic stroke you can medal in.  So I decide, maybe I’ll head to my back and pretend to do “the Squid stroke” and save some energy.  (Look for this event in next Summer’s Olympics.) My wife screams over to me, saying that I’m not heading to the beach, but swimming sideways.  Again, no alcoholic beverages involved.

I’m starting to get a little tired, so I drop down to see if I can feel the bottom yet. It's nowhere in sight – crap.  Then I start remembering a conversation I had with an old friend at the wedding.  With beers in hand, he remarked about how he’s had covid three time and the only after affect it’s had on him is that his lung capacity just isn’t what it used to be.  I start thinking to myself, as much as I’ve had all of the vaccines, I’ve still had four separate cases of covid.  (For a while I was thinking I might get into the Guinness World Record Book.)  I’m now treading water, and decide to just float on my back to regain my stamina.  That ends quickly when a windswept wave covers my face and I swallow half of the salty Aegean Sea. 

I looked back to the boat and then to the shoreline – both seem about 2 miles away.  I swear that original view of the shoreline from the boat had to be an optical illusion.  I’m now at a point where my lungs just aren’t processing oxygen any longer…could have been me hyper ventilating, but who knows.  I make a painfully humiliating decision to wave and call to the captain that he better hop in that dingy and save my bacon.  It was that or have my wife save me, but I made the decision early on that I’d rather drown than be saved by my wife.  Which is very understandable considering Ancestory.com says that at least 50% of my DNA is Neanderthal.   And the final piece of resistance:  Captain shows up with his rubber dingy that has a handle on the front.  I grab the handle which allows me to relax, straighten my legs out, and sink.  And with that, my feet firmly hit the sandy bottom with my chin still above water.