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It’s amazing what you can find out about a person online. For instance, there’s a remarkable website called PeekYou.com, a people search engine visited by nearly 6 million people per month, which recently informed me that it had collected all of my relevant public information.
Usually, my summer projects are not exactly grueling. Trim the hedge. Wash the car. Wax the dog.
As a victim of a dreaded, debilitating computer virus, I want to make this heartfelt plea on behalf of my fellow virus sufferers: Don’t blame the victim. I thought we had evolved, as a culture, beyond the Dark Ages, when sufferers of a disease were accused of bringing it upon themselves by consorting with the devil.
I have another deflating news bulletin for middle-aged men. Many of us suffer from something called “Hotness Delusion Syndrome.” It’s a common affliction, in which pot-bellied, balding guys with hair growing out of their ears/nostrils/toes believe that they are still babe magnets.
We went morel mushroom hunting three times this week. Yeah, it’s been grueling. Had to walk out the back door, take a couple steps to the garden, load up with morels and walk all the way back into the house.
As I was feeding canceled checks, 1993 tax returns and 1975 newspaper clippings into the shredder, the Dumpster and the fireplace, I was filled with the kind of satisfaction that comes only with a thorough spring cleaning. I was ridding my life of decades of accumulated paperwork. I was liberating myself from encumbrances. I was freeing myself from the dead past.
Our subject today is money and how it consists entirely of electrons. And how the electrons from my bank’s computer may – or may not – have zipped their way over to Avista’s computer in order to keep my furnace stoked and my lights switched on. Nobody seems to know.
There are a million crime stories in the big, or actually midsize, city. Here are two minor but entertaining ones. First, the Dine-n-Dash Sprint.
Today, I’m going to tell you a true-life golf story. I beg you, don’t fall asleep from boredom quite yet. This is actually a metaphor about the Great Recession, about our 401(k)s and our elusive baby boomer retirement dreams. Think of it as a fable, one that I find inspirational, although it’s just as likely to make you cry about the unfairness of life.
I’ve been obsessed with the 1960s recently. Or, to use a phrase I thought was lame even back then: My head is totally into the 1960s.
Women say this to other women all the time: “You don’t need a husband, honey. You need a dog.”