The Basement Dwellers

Through the years, our basement has seen a parade of trolls. Most of them are related to us. All of them looking for cheap rent in our college town.

The space is nicely furnished, and as good hosts we’ve always thrown food down the steps for them to gnaw on.

But we’ve come to realize something extraordinary is happening down there. Over and over, we’ve witnessed ordinary students emerge from that basement as something bigger. Something special.

It’s as though our basement is an incubator of greatness.

Here’s a partial list of what’s hatched:

-An entomologist
-A state representative
-An engineer
-A nurse
-A nonprofit professional working on international AI policy

So what’s really happening down there?

A theory: I believe that my genius is actually a contagious disease, spreading through the house, infecting all who occupy. Call it ‘the grip of greatness.’ It’s inescapable.

In the process leaving the cocoon at the moment is a niece who is heading off to medical school to become a physician’s assistant.

So, it’s transition time. And the new guest was a surprise.

A turtle. A slider turtle.

It belongs to a nephew who hasn’t fully moved in yet, but his turtle has. It lives in an aquarium and is named Tito. Even without any clear indication it’s a girl, I call it Molly Turtle, after the popular bluegrass musician, Molly Tuttle.

While a turtle is a technical violation of our no-pets policy, it won’t crap on the carpet, so we’re letting it slide. (Get it? Slider turtle… we’re letting it slide… That’s the comic genius I offer.)

I think a college-age dude with a pet turtle speaks volumes about that person, but I’m not sure I can interpret it.

Until he could get permanently moved in, he wanted us to feed it. No can do, pal. As Michael Jackson sang…

If you can’t feed the turtle
Then don’t have the turtle…

Something like that.

So he got his girlfriend to drop in and feed it.

Having your girlfriend drive across town every other day to feed your turtle also speak volumes, and I think I can interpret this one.

It says a college guy with a pet turtle can get a girlfriend.

I would have guessed otherwise.

Especially this one. He’s a genuine science nerd. Before he was shaving, he was building things with a 3-D printer. Already set up in the basement is a 6-foot whiteboard, just like Sheldon and Leonard used on The Big Bang Theory.

It appears he’s planning to attack something with ping pong balls.
I added the side note.

For all the teasing, I’m a bit excited to see what’s in store. He’s good at figuring things out. Plus, that ‘grip of greatness’ thingy. He’s already won just by being in the house.

I’m about to spring my first idea on him. The code name of the project is LTL.

Stands for Lunar Turtle Landing.

Farewell Tito!

Come to Jesus

In this house, we don’t fight. We rarely fuss. We figured out a long time ago we’re on the same team.

Besides, you reach an age where you don’t wanna be fussed at. For anything. If there’s a problem, let’s talk.

But there are different ways of talking, and when she gets all up in my face, we’uns is about to have a come-to-Jesus moment.

“There is no room in our refrigerator for food because of your beer and bacon. Fix that.”

I knew she was right. We’ve got stuff stacked on stuff on top of stuff in the fridge. I just accept it as a fact of life; no need to blame the beer and bacon.

Apparently, everybody does not feel that way, so let me defend my buddies.

Bacon, you’re first.

I shop at a warehouse store. You don’t just buy a pound of bacon; you buy eight pounds.

Further, my favorite bacon comes from a place in Madisonville, Tennessee. That’s not close to anywhere I am at any time. At best, an hour and a half drive. Therefore, Madisonville is a destination visit.

Hey kids, who wants to go to Bacon Land??

When we go, we buy LOTS of bacon. And we’ve been recently.

Counting, there are 11 packs of bacon. Still, packs of bacon lie flat, so I’m exonerating the pig from hogging space.

Let us bring on the next accused. Beer, please stand up and hear the charges against you.

You know how most refrigerators have two drawers? And how most people keep veggies and such in those crisper drawers?

Well, one of ours is a designated beer drawer. It’s full. I love beer.

Truly the drawer. The beer did not pose.

A deeper dive into the issue will reveal, first, as much as I enjoy it, I don’t drink it much.

My doctor told me I needed to control my carbs and suggested I ditch the beer for scotch or bourbon.

So, if I drink a beer at all, it’s one. Sure, there are exceptions, but I’m pretty good. It is after all doctor’s orders. Drink more bourbon.

Part two of the problem is, I seem to collect beers like a kid collects Legos.

Between visiting a friend’s brewery recently and some neighbors bringing me beer they think I would enjoy, I’ve outgrown the designated drawer, and a full invasion of the fridge is underway

I’ve stuck a couple in to pal with the pickles; another couple are cuddling with the condiments. I’ve got beer mingling with the milk and chumming with the cheeses.

Like the kid, though, what are you going to do with all those Legos?

I counted 31 cans. In the fridge. There’s more on the pantry floor. It’s a veritable amusement park!

Beer Land!

She is not amused.

As usual, I will make all the compromises.

To alleviate the situation, I will try to consume one a day and promise not to buy any more for the next two years or until there’s space in the beer drawer.

The end. Almost.

My apologies if you saw the title of this piece and thought it might be a Christmas story.

However, it is about beer and bacon. Some of us hold those sacred.

So, okay. It can be a Christmas story. Merry Christmas then!

Canned Walrus & Other Fun Facts

It takes anywhere from 308 and 1,018 pint jars to can a walrus.

A friend posted that recently, and I was intrigued. I mean, those are some pretty specific numbers.

I challenged her to give me a source, and it turns out, the information comes from the University of Alaska Cooperative Extension service. If you wish to see for yourself:

Canning Walrus in Pint Jars | Cooperative Extension Service

I didn’t read the whole thing, but I read enough to know you can eat walrus right out of the jar. I assume then that might be the reason pint jars are preferred. Less leftovers. Just a guess.

Getting to that information, it turns out people have Googled some interesting questions about walruses, so down the rabbit hole of knowledge I went. Allow me to share.

Walrus stomachs are used to make traditional drums for Eskimo dances.

A walrus propped up on its fins is considered ‘standing.’ (Not sure what I expected there.)

A walrus can sleep standing. And underwater.

Walruses mate underwater. (Raise your hand if… never mind.)

On land, a walrus can run as fast as a human. (Good to know in case I ever decided to pick a fight.)

Whales and polar bears eat walruses. Tastes like chicken. (OK, made that last one up.)

And our final nugget of information is - I believe - the reason the internet was invented.

Q; What would happen if I punched a walrus?

A: The walrus would kill you.

I believe that’s called winning a Darwin Award.

Something Stupid

My phone lights up. It’s that guy again.

He doesn’t call unless his hamster has hopped off the wheel. This is going to be one stoopid conversation.

“Have I ever told you how much I hate the fist bump?”

No, I haven’t heard this one.

“Fist bumping is just dumb. It’s stupid. Shake hands like a man.”

Now, there is also wrist bumping. You bump wrists, taking contact with the hand completely out of play.

He hates that. I mean, really hates it!

After listening to his rant for a couple of minutes, it’s time for me to do what I do best: Enhance a life.

I will do this by imparting knowledge and wisdom.

You see, when you play golf with dudes - especially old dudes - there are certain situations that arise. Situations that can be best addressed with a quick trip into the trees.

This is quite natural, of course, but weak bladders and aging prostates mixed with a couple or ten beers may translate into several trips during a round of golf.

Here’s where it becomes problematic.

At the conclusion of the round, it is customary before departing the 18th green to shake hands with all of your playing partners.

You see where we’re going with this, don’t you?

I know where that hand has been. And I may even know how many times it’s been there.

I like the fist bump here because the back of your hand is the contact I’d rather make.

Actually, just writing this is giving me the willies (so to speak).

I think from now on, I’m just going to start bowing to my partners.

Forever Young

The #1 rule growing up is your are not going to be your parents.

Think young, stay young. You are different; you are golden.

You’re still looking like a teenager into your 20s. You smooth your way through your 30’s, your 40s… even perhaps your 50s.

You are beautiful and getting better every-stinkin’-day. Everything’s going according to plan.

Then the 60s come calling.

It’s not sudden, but in your 60s you figure it out. You ain’t outrunning time, you ain’t outrunning nothing. You probably can’t even run.

Next thing you know, you’re at your 50th reunion surrounded by old people.

Old People (This may get me uninvited to the 51st)

I mean, you look great! Other than the few pounds and wrinkles. And the grey hair - or none at all.

Next thing you know… What the hell is that music they’re playing on the radio?

“Hey, grandpa! What’s a radio?”

What’s the next?

Paper skin.

What happened? No clue.

The bruises, where did they come from? Why is blood running down Uncle Al’s leg?

I’ll tell you why. Uncle Al came into contact with something. Could have been a sofa cushion.

Haven’t lifted a finger all day, yet the day must end with a shower because I’ve got to wash the blood off some part of my body.

Honk if you know what I mean. Honk if you’re bruised. Honk if you’re bleeding. Honk if you love Jesus.

Honk if you just want honk.

I’m going to the shower. My damn leg’s bleeding.

Fixin' Food

If you are not from the South, give me a moment here with my people. The title has probably thrown them off. They may think I’m about to feed them.

Fixin’ food in the South typically means somebody’s about to eat.

“What’re y’all fixin’ for supper tonight?”

It is in fact perfectly proper to say you’re fixin’ to fix dinner.

What I am proposing here is actually correcting what’s wrong with food. What we need is some good ol’ genetic engineering.

It can be done. There are scientists doing some cool food stuff.

Banana trees have been developed that can actually produce fruit as far north as Georgia. Science.

Science in citrus, too. I bought a tangerine tree last year that is cold tolerant down to 20°. Paid $60 for that sucker only to find out it’s the root ball that is freeze tolerant. The tree itself, not so much.

Left outside, the tree part will have to start over every year if the temp gets too cold.

My fix for that is to make a rolling platform. The tree will over-winter in the garage.

Meals on wheels. Orange and tangerine.

So the citrus thing isn’t perfect yet. However, if I’m growing tangerines in North Georgia, that’s progress.

And let’s us remind ourselves of a time when there were no seedless watermelons. Now, seedless is the most popular watermelon.

But there’s plenty of work that need doing on other food.

FLAWED FOODS

Cabbage.

Nobody - nobody - eats cabbage without serious alterations. It gets pickled, boiled or shredded and tossed with carrots, onions, pickles and mayonnaise into coleslaw.

I would argue that coleslaw is the only thing cabbage is good for. And let’s be real, coleslaw is all about disguising the cabbage into something edible.

Before we move past this subject, try Googling coleslaw.

It’s Cole slaw, cole slaw, Coleslaw and coleslaw. There seems to be no consensus on whether it is one or two words or whether or not it’s capitalized.

If you didn’t know that, please pause for a moment and thank me for the enlightenment.

Enhancing lives, it’s what I do.

Staying with the cabbage theme, here it comes again. Little cabbages. Brussels spouts.

I’ve said it before, I do not like Brussels sprouts.

I had them twice last week. I was taught to eat what’s served with no complaints. They were served, I ate them.

The first time, they were steamed. Everyone around the table complimented them. I poured a ton of ranch dressing on mine. Again, the disguising food trick.

The second time, they were roasted with bacon and a balsamic glaze. That helps but does not make it right.

BECAUSE THERE IS NO RIGHT!!

You know what the initials for Brussels sprouts are? BS!

Cabbage, sprouts, kale, broccoli, collard greens… They are all related, and they are all hateful BS. Can we stop pretending we like them??

Let me catch my breath so we can get on to fixin’ other foods that need fixin’.

Onions.

Onions need fixin’. Not the taste, the onion itself. We need an onion without skin.

How many times has this happened to you?

You cannot cook with an onion without the outer skin going everywhere. That needs fixin’.

Same with garlic. And while we’re fixin’ the skin on garlic, can we make it less sticky?

I love garlic! But working with it can be a mess. It sticks to your knife, it sticks to your fingers.

And you have to be very careful not to pick your nose immediately after working with garlic.

So I’ve heard.

Seems like that might need fixin’.

Just Another Day

My mom called. She wanted to borrow a hoe.

I hate to ruin your fun, but she wanted a garden hoe.

It was a sincerely lovely morning, about 70°, and the sun was shining, so I decided to walk it over. It’s exactly one mile to her house, and I could use the exercise.

Preparing to leave, I remembered a conversation with her from the day before. She’s started making morning smoothies - as I do - and wanted to know what liquid I use.

Coconut water. And since I had several extra cans of it, I grabbed one on the way out to take to her.

Our neighborhood is always full of walkers, mostly folks with their dogs. I knew I’d be seeing a lot of people and amused myself by wondering what they might think of this guy walking by with the luggage I’d be carrying.

Turned out, what I was toting was just the start of things usual. I was glad I had my phone with me for pictures.

There’s the neighbor who used home-bound time during Covid to do a little art. Three or four years later, it’s still on display.

I have often wondered how the conversation went in that house.

“What’cha doin’, Hon?”

”I’m making a model of a covid virus.”

”What’cha gonna do with it?”

“Stick it out in front yard and leave it for a few years.“

A lot of our neighborhood is heavily wooded and seeing wild animals is common. Turkeys, coyotes, deer, but I’ve not seen a fox in the ‘hood. Until now.

There were no obvious signs of trauma, but I was betting whoever hit it was pretty sad. Hitting a fox is different that hitting a squirrel or possum. Foxes are so cute!

A little further down the road I passed a pile of pretzels

Maybe it’s just my state of mind on this day, but WTH?

If it was somebody’s yard, maybe they were stale and fed to the birds.

Nope. No house nearby. It’s the edge of the woods.

If the pretzel bag was present, it would be as simple as littering, but no bag.

So what happened here? Pretzel farm perhaps?

I’ll check back and see if there are any new pretzels plants. I always wondered where those things came from.

Just past the pretzel farm, something whimsical! I’m a big fan of whimsy.

"I wonder what’s going to happen exciting today?" said Piglet.

It’s not just fun, it’s fun to think about. Somebody saw a hollow in a tree trunk and thought, “You know what would look good in there? Piglet.” Then did it!

It’s actually pretty brilliant. You’d expect to see Winnie the Pooh in a tree, looking for honeybees. But Piglet? That’s inspired.

Preparing to cross the street to my mom’s house, it occurred to me today would have been a pretty good scavenger hunt day. Let’s look at the list.

COVID virus ✔️
Dead fox ✔️
Pile o’ pretzels ✔️
Piglet in a tree trunk ✔️

Only one more thing left to check off:

Some yahoo crossing the street with a hoe and a can of coconut water going to see his mama.

And just like that…
✔️

tomatoes

I never liked tomatoes much. A strange thing to say given I love all the things a tomato dances in.

Ketchup, pizza sauce, salsa, spaghetti sauce, bbq sauces… you name it, it’s in my fridge, and I am a participant.

I just never saw much appeal in the tomato itself. That’s heresy for Georgia boy.

In fact, I think it’s fair to say that outside of fried chicken, the tomato is the #1 worshipped vegetable in the south. (Let’s not quibble details of that fact.).

I didn’t like tomatoes.

Certainly, I’d gladly accept your offer of a BLT, but honestly, it was about the B. You might as well have offered me a bacon sandwich. Or a mayonnaise sandwich. That’s the good stuff.

Yet somehow, in my 68th year of eating, I have suddenly developed a fondness for tomato on my sandwich.

Let me pause here to preach. Never ever quit re-trying things you think you don’t like. Your tastes are ever evolving. Yesterday’s crap is tonight’s dinner.

I don’t know why this tomato thing happened, but I suspect it’s been the creative ways my wife has presented lunch to me.

Her BLT made with bacon and pimento cheese is killer! And we hit a stretch when we had them for days in a row. Oh, and on sourdough bread. Maybe that’s what got me going.

Then I wandered out on my own. Fried bologna worked out well as a bacon substitute.

Ready to be cut in half and folded into culinary joy.

So if we can pause just long enough to dissect what’s happening here with the bacon and bologna and pimento cheese - or even smoked gouda instead of pimento, can we thoughtfully sort through the possibility this ain’t about the tomato?

An argument can be made, sure. But I want the tomato.

In just putting this admission on paper, I believe I’ve stumbled across my truth.

It goes thusly:

Slather the bread with mayo, add pimento cheese, bring on the bacon or fried bologna, top it with another cheese slice of your choice… it’s a heart attack sandwich.

But…

Tomato is good for you. It’s a neutralizer. It’s the yin to the yang. In the universal balancing act of good vs. evil in food-dom, tomato tips the scale into good for you territory.

Bottom line, I am a health nut.

This one features Swiss cheese and Benton bacon on tomato bread. And vegetation.

New Me Better

Here’s an interesting problem you’ve likely never heard before. I am sincerely happier now than I have ever been in my life.

PROBLEM?
It’s a problem because I don’t know if it’s real (permanent) or not real (temporary).

The conundrum:

REAL
After bouts with three different cancers over the last 30 years, could it be that through these episodes you have come to terms with the fact that you won’t live forever and need to live your best life now? And that love out loud is your chosen expression of happiness? Congratulations! You gotten mellow as you’ve aged.

NOT REAL
This change has mostly come about in the past year while being treated for prostate cancer. Drugs are involved. Specifically, hormones. You do not produce testosterone. No T = no machismo, no aggression. When your treatments are done and your testosterone returns, so will the old Tibby. Until that happens, you are basically a nice old lady.*

That last scenario has been discussed with friends and family members who have noticed the change, including my wife. The old lady comment aside, I can’t help but wonder if maybe it is very true.

WHY IT MATTERS
I am different. I’m kinder, more empathetic. I love more now, expressing love more openly than ever before.

If you are anywhere in my orbit, I want you to feel that from me. James Taylor sings ‘shower the people you love with love.” I’m trying.

THE EXAMINATION
Okay, if it’s not the drugs, the treatments, how did you get to this place?

Without going into a lot of detail, I’m guessing spiritual development.

In the last 20 or so years, I’ve gotten very interested in religious and spiritual thought outside of my traditional Southern Baptist upbringing. (You can raise your eyebrows over that. Tibby = deep spiritual thinker is not on anybody’s Bingo card.)

OK, maybe this one

It has brought me a very peaceful understanding that death is as much a part of the circle of life as birth. I neither dread nor fear it.

I also accept the reality that I’m likely playing in the 4th quarter of my life. Accepting that means there is less time to show you love and tell you I love you.

I’m-a gonna do both. So I sincerely want this to be real.

THE OTHER POSSIBILITY
Over the past 30 years, I’ve had radiation from my head to my butt, been juiced with whatever chemicals were in my chemotherapies and currently have various hormones coursing through my veins.

All that’s gotta affect me somehow, doesn’t it?

I WIN AGAIN
It appears I’m once again cancer-free.

What I was originally told could be multi-year or even permanent hormone therapy is coming to an end after one year since there is no evidence of cancer.

And while I’m thrilled that these #$@%$*! hot flashes will finally be ending, this brings us to the grand question of what will happen when Sir Tibby the Neutered is given back his manhood.

Before we run that scenario, how about some No-T jokes?

How many Viagra does a No-T guy take before a night of fun?
Answer: None. They are all expired.

What does a No-T man do when his hot wife steps out of the shower?
Answer: Keeps brushing his teeth.

Wheee! Now back to the question.

When the testosterone returns, will the old (but loveable!) grumpy, sardonic, sarcastic, cynical, snarky - and a bunch of other synonyms - me return?

I was really quite fond of that guy, but if I’m happier now than I’ve ever been, why would we want him back?

The title of this tale is a play on a fun Keb’ Mo’ song entitled ‘Old Me Better.’ The title in the song is sung, “I like the old me better.”

Not me. But we’ll see.

I’ve asked two friends who have noticed the changes to re-evaluate me in 6 months. I’ll even let them write that report here.

‘Til then, I’ll say it again. I like the new me better.

*When this latest journey was getting started, I wrote about The Girlification of Tibby. Enjoy it on your next bathroom break.

Tibby’s Guide to the Paris Olympics

Some of you will be heading to Paris shortly to see Olympic events.

Having been in Paris each of the last two years - for a total of 5 days - I am the expert you seek.

The basics - and let’s start with the most important one:

Toilet paper. Keep it with you at all times. In particular, restaurants and bars may not have toilet paper, some may not even have toilet seats and management doesn’t care what you think about it.

Side vent: WTH, Frenchy? And most of Europe, for that matter!

Every toilet in Europe has a swizzle stick beside it because your toilets don’t clear on first flush or clean after five flushes.

Dear god, people. After a couple of thousand years, it’s time to realize there is a design flaw.

Send a few of those cute Airbus cargo planes to America, land in Home Depot’s parking lot and load up. This ain’t hard.

This is the oversized cargo plane called a Beluga.

The TP/no seat issue is not as much of a problem outside of larger, touristy cities. Like Paris.

Be a good visitor. Learn to say the pleasantries in French: ‘Hello, thank you,’ etc. That goes for any country you visit. You are only an ‘ugly American’ if you won’t at least try.

The Louvre. Skip it. You’ll be there with the entire population of 15 other European and Asian countries.

The museum is the size of Montana, and the Mona Lisa you came to see is the same size as the framed picture of grandma on your bedroom dresser.

Getting around. Rent a car.

Ha ha! Just kidding.

First rule of driving in Paris: there are no rules. Second rule: don’t.

Walk. Even if you’re hotel is 3 miles from your destination of choice.

See the Eiffel Tower. C’est magnifique! Truly. See it at night, too. For 5 minutes at the top of each hour they light it up.

Finally, let’s talk food.

Escargot is delicious. Make sure it’s done so it doesn’t leave your plate.

In Paris, eat Italian.

I am in France while writing this story, and I came here this time to get out into the countryside and eat local.

Just as foreign visitors to the U.S. may turn their noses up at grits or sweet tea, you may find it hard to like a lot of traditional French cuisine.

And they suck at steak. Truthfully, they don’t. It’s just not going to be done in a way you’re used to or like.

That said, if you crave beef, get a burger. Not only are they very good at burgers, they have some creative options.

I had a burger with goat cheese and béarnaise that made me shout, “Viva la France and my underpants!” one night.

I was kicked out of the restaurant, but I had finished my burger by then.

Duck

Duck is always, always a good choice. So is octopus. I mean that.

But regardless of how adventurous you are, at the end of the night you’ll wish you had just ordered pizza.

I mean that more.

Bonjour à vous, and scooby dooby do!

Frill of the Grill

The #1 secret to being a great griller is to call yourself a great griller. Others can doubt, but the burden to prove otherwise is on them.

I’m a great griller.

Ask my friends how great I am and you’re likely to hear comments like, “I had his chicken once. I’m surprised that bird didn’t fly away when he took it off the grill.” Or…

“Don’t be afraid to ask him what he’s serving. It’s the only way you’ll know what you’re eating.”

Jealousy is expressed in many ways.

I’ve always taken a purist approach to grillin’. Charcoal, lit without lighter fluid. And let’s take a moment to discuss the various ways to accomplish that.

The easiest and quickest is the chimney. I use it when time is tight.

I have a couple of friends who use a torch. A nozzle attached to a gas canister.

Seriously, who does this? Two people in all of America. I just happen to know both of them.

I joined them for a while, but honestly, it seems a little goofy. And while you think it would be a faster way of getting the coals going, it’s not. And it’s a little goofy.

Those same friends also use the torch to light a fire in their fireplaces. No comment. I’ve used the word ‘goofy’ twice, and I’m too lazy to consult a thesaurus.

I light my fireplace fires with wax-wood starters and use a little piece of that to fire up the grill.

Get the wax wood started and stack charcoal around it. Cheap & clean.

It ain’t fast. Probably the slowest possible method, taking the coals about 45 minutes to be cook-ready. That’s a period of time we call Happy Hour.

In the past year I’ve added a popular outdoor griddle, which I’m struggling with a little. I have friends who love them - cook entire meals on them. My biggest problem is I’ve never really gotten mine properly seasoned, but I’m not giving up.

So with a charcoal grill and a griddle, do you I need another grill?

Yes I do.

I have now added a wood-pellet grill, and it has been nothing short of transformational. The grill gods opened up the heavens one day and angels dropped this wonderful contraption onto my deck, fully assembled (negotiated with the store).

It’s a grill that uses wood pellets instead of charcoal. The wood pellets are fed into the grill by an auger. Since an auger needs power, it’s a plug-in grill. Got an on/off switch.

But y’all, this sucker is wifi-enabled! It has an app!

You can name your grill. Since smoking is what I bought it for, mine is Smokey.

When I want to grill/smoke meat, all it takes is a little initial set-up work, and I can control the entire cook from my rocking chair.

Set the temp you want to cook at, set the time you want to cook or the temp you want to cook your meat to… and chill. The grill does the rest, and the app will notify you of anything you need to know, including when the meat is ready.

Praise the lord and pass the butterbeans!

For a grilling purist, though, this feels a little like I’m cheating.

But is it cheating because I can go to bed with a 15-lb brisket cooking while the grill regulates its own temperature, monitors the meat temp, sends a notification when it’s perfectly done, keeps it warm in the meantime, brings me a beer and washes and folds my clothes?

No. It is fire and it is meat. That’s what constitutes barbeque.

That, my friends, is the beautiful world we live in today.

And (dramatic pause)… I have clean underwear.

"Allen Tibbetts, You're an Idiot"

The title of this piece are the words I heard frequently from Russell, one of my all-time favorite radio partners.

We hated each other.

Russell was - make that, is - a big boy with a personality to match. We were brothers. And we battled like brothers when the microphones went ‘hot.’

If I could have worked my entire career with him, I would have.

He’d bring these silly, joyful stories to the show, and I’d sit across the desk poking holes in them. On the occasion I could actually get under his skin, he’d erupt into a frustrated outburst that would often, quite literally, bring me to tears laughing.

Ultimately, he left our morning show in search of a bigger paycheck, but we’re still in touch occasionally, usually when something truly stupid happens in our lives - the type of things we could hardly wait to share with our listeners the next morning.

Now that you know him, let me ask him to leave the room for a moment. He’ll be back.

Allow me to invite my wife to this party in present tense.

She and I have been working several days in a row on rebuilding and staining a deck, spending more time in close proximity in the daylight hours than usual.

She has noticed a ‘spot’ on the top of my ear, and it has kept her attention. She is especially not fond of its irregular shape and looks at it almost every night, insisting that I call the dermatologist ASAP.

I agree to that. For 30 years I’ve been playing golf with a bunch of old men, many who had little places on their ears removed for suspicion of being possibly cancerous or pre-cancerous.

Am I the next old man that didn’t take enough care to protect his ears from over-exposure to the sun?

And… I hate to bring this up, but when you’ve gone three rounds with three different cancers… hey, my Bingo card is getting pretty full. I’m not anxious to add skin cancer.

It takes 5 days to get back home and see my doctor. In the waiting room, she stares at ‘spot’ a few seconds. A few l-o-o-ng seconds. I’m a little anxious.

She speaks.

“Have you been painting or staining anything?”

My head drops + my shoulders drop = posture of guilt and shame.

The doctor - and her assistant! - are not trying to hide their amusement. They are LOL-ing all over the place.

Doctor humor sets in. She grabs a cotton ball, applies rubbing alcohol, wipes the spot off my ear and puts it in a biohazard bag and hands it to me for a keepsake.

Melanoma Carncinoma got no home in Arizona (hey, it rhymes). It’s also an exact match of our deck stain. Weird, huh?

Leaving the waiting room, other staffers are laughing. They’ve overhead and know I’ve just been diagnosed with not cleaning my ears.

Full disclosure: My mom accused me of that all the time when I was a wee lad.

Let’s bring Russell back. In our radio days together, this is exactly the sort of thing we would have been itching to tell, then blow each other up over. He must hear this story.

He answers the phone with clairvoyance. “Allen Tibbetts, you’re an idiot.”

“How’d you know?” (A completely unnecessary question. It’s why we call each other these days.)

When the laughter subsides and we’re wrapping up, he can’t help but drop one more on me.

“So it wasn’t melanoma, it was mahogany!”

Me hate him lots.

Potty Talk

I realize I have a lot to say about bathrooms.

Could be because I spend so much time in there, but let’s say it’s because so many people do so many things wrong.

Allow me to do what I do so well: enhance your life.

We’ll start with the hang. Toilet paper should hang over, not under.

Why would you want to go on a diggin’ expedition to find the end when it can be hanging right there in front of you?

Another gripe: cheaping out on TP.

I worked for a guy that bought the cheapest stuff he could find. It was just one step beyond plywood.

On a positive note, employees weren’t stealing it.

Sheet separation = cheap!!

Toilet paper is used on what is absolutely the most sensitive areas of your body. You should settle for nothing less than oh, that’s nice!

Skip a meal. Skip a house payment. Take a second job. Your bum deserves the best.

Speaking of ya’ bum…

Let’s revisit the bidet.

Since we travel Europe frequently, I am very much aware of bidets. They are a thing over there.

Personally, I shy away from using them. I’m just not sure why you want to get that area wet unless you're in the shower washing everything. Seems counter-intuitive.

A younger brother who spent some of his military time in Europe loves them. He’s gone all mack daddy on his toilet.

His super-duper bidet has a remote control that allows for setting water temp, seat temp, lower pressure for kids, auto-sequence for washing and drying, night light, deodorizing, sound, aerated spray during wash and massage effect (the butt spritz icon) during wash.

I did not ask him to explain the ‘sound.’ Seems like there’s already enough sounds in the bathroom.

Or is that just me?

Somehow, I got caught up recently in a discussion with my 20-something year old cousin and her friends about bidets. One had recently retrofitted her toilet with one and loved it. Another was considering doing the same thing.

It prompted me to prose.

I am not opposed to the French bidet
You find them in many nice places you stay
They tidy your hiney in their own special way
But so does toilet paper.

What Idiot...?

Scenario: you’re grocery shopping. Casually shopping. Noticing how much things cost.

For any given item you think to yourself, what idiot would pay that for that?

Example: what idiot would pay $10 for a 12-pack of cola/soda/pop (other words for Coke)?

Fortunately, it’s fairly easy to get the price of cola to about half that. Promotions vary, but there almost always is one. Usually something like buy 2 for $9 each, get a third one free, or buy spend $20 for 2 and get two more free.

Basically, just buy a 6-month supply and - voila! - the price goes to $5 or so.

In the last few years, I’ve noticed olive juice - or olive brine - for sale in grocery stores. For non-drinkers, olive juice is used primarily in a dirty martini. It is in fact what makes the martini ‘dirty.’

Olive juice costs as much or more than a jar of olives, so you have to wonder what idiot would pay for just the juice when you can get the olives, too.

Well, I just pulled this out of our fridge.

OLIVES, NO JUICE

I would love to have a dirty martini right now, but my wife has dirtied her martinis in complete disregard for my dirty desires.

So maybe we need to be the idiots buying olive juice.

But y’all, look what I just found!

THANK YOU, GOD!

I love pickle juice! If I had to give up beer or pickle juice, I’d…. squirrel! I forgot where I was going with that.

After working outside, whether cutting grass or golfing, there’s is nothing better than pulling out a jar of cold dill pickles and chuggin’ the juice.

In fact, if you look at our jar of dill pickles, you’ll see that there is just enough juice to cover the pickles.

That’s because I drink the pickle juice down. (Unlike my wife, I am considerate and have left the poor pickles a little water in their swimming pool.)

But back to the pickle juice. Did you catch the price?

Now, before you ask what idiot would pay $4 for a quart of pickle juice, you should remember… I have feelings.

Be kind.

YES, I DID

Death By Longhorn (Not the Steakhouse)

Not an ordinary day.

Beverly wants me to go with her to some thrift stores to find a metal headboard. She likes to grow them. Or at least plant them.

She plants flowers around them. Or vines.

Honestly, using metal headboards in the landscape is one of her best ideas, and I don’t mind planting them after she brings them home. I just don’t know why I have to be involved in finding them.

But time to suck it up, big boy. She knows I don’t enjoy thrifting and almost never asks me to go with her. Maybe today she just wants my company (snickers to himself).

On this excursion, she’s looking for one that will help disguise the HVAC unit in front of the cabin. With none of her girlfriends around, I agree to go.

We got lucky. At our very first stop, a single iron rail headboard was leaned up against the wall. No footboard, no bed rails, just the headboard.

It has not been priced, so the ladies at the desk suggest one. “How about $45?”

Unintentionally, we go all good-cop, bad-cop on them. Beverly seems willing, but I shake my head, figuring we can find one cheaper somewhere else.

I explain to them we’re basically looking for yard art, hoping to excuse what might be perceived as just trying to lowball them.

It worked though; they make another offer.

“How about $25?” It’s a charitable thrift for an animal shelter, so we accept with no further dickering.

Loading it onto the truck, we feel pretty fortunate. Not only did we find what she was looking for quickly, it’s pretty much exactly what she was looking for.

Even I’m a little excited. My day thrifting day lasted barely half an hour, we’re on our way back, and we can’t wait to see how this looks in the yard.

Such a great idea!

Being in the rural North Georgia hills, our route back to the cabin passes a pasture that forever has had nothing in it but a deer stand. Recently, that’s changed.

This pasture now belongs to someone that wants to raise cattle, mostly Angus, and I reckon for the fun of it - or the beef - has scattered in a few Texas Longhorns.

While we pass this place almost daily, it’s the first time we’re seeing calves. They are not newborns, but we’d not seen them previously.

Nor had we seen the new sign that is both whimsical and ominous.

What I know about Longhorns = nothing.

But I am curious. Is that large thing staring me down the mama or the daddy? It’s facing me so I can’t see the obvious identifiers. Do both have long horns?

Time to phone a friend.

Danny is gen-u-ine country. Lives in the country, talks country, loves Jesus, his mama, his truck and grows his own grits.

He doesn’t raise Longhorns, but he’s got an old Brahma-mix steer with significant hornage named R2. I’m thinking Danny will know the answer.

R2 The Great. (Named by a 3 year old.)

For the record, a steer is a dude cow.

Whoops! A ‘cow’ is a female. The dudes are steer. Or bulls. Steer vs. bulls has to do with certain man-parts and whether or not they still have them.

Danny’s tells me both sexes of Longhorns have long horns.

The problem, I tell him, is that this thing eyeballin’ me is standing in such a way I can’t tell whether it’s the calves’ mama or daddy I’m starting to p--s off by taking pictures so close to them.

Danny recommends a hand-check. I assume he’s suggesting I walk over to a beast with very large death-pokers on either side of its head and feel around on its underside until I figure things out.

Clearly, Danny wants me dead.

About that time, my wife Beverly yells out the truck window, “Gig ‘em!”

‘Gig ‘em!’ is the battle cry of the Texas A&M Aggies. Beverly’s first professional gig (pardon me for that) was with Texas A&M. But the point is, anybody with a nickel’s worth of football knowledge knows Texas Longhorns hate Aggies.

It’s official, Bev wants me dead, too.

Fine. But I don’t know who she thinks is going to plant her headboards.

Headboards in the yard… what a stupid idea.

Happy Hour

When neighbors are around, we gather at someone’s house at 5 p.m. for an hour of happiness.

I suspect we do this not out of boundless love for one another but rather because an hour of each other is quite enough!

In the beginning, happy hour was a simple, snacky time. If you showed up with any food at all it was use-your-finger-fare like nuts or chips. It was considered overboard to bring anything that required a knife to spread it on a cracker.

It was good and right.

Over the years, the food part morphed. Happy hour became a way to share an appetizer you thought was special - or perhaps the only thing you knew how to make.

Things got out of hand.

Stuffed jalapeños, sausage balls, deviled eggs, elaborate dips, little wieners on a toothpick, even crab cakes.

This was the feature at a recent gathering of six (6) people

What we wound up with at happy hour was a meal. Which lasted an hour or so, then everyone went home to…??

Yeah, eat supper.

You had been smoking a butt all day or had a big pot of spaghetti in the crock pot or had a ginormous steak waiting to be grilled, and you went home with no appetite left. Dumb.

Fortunately, my friends neighbors are friends neighbors with someone who is a voice of reason. Someone who isn’t afraid to stand up and shout, “enough!”

He demanded that happy hour become a little more practical and healthier. (Can ‘happy hour’ and ‘healthy’ be used in the same sentence?)

Apples and toddies?

Why not apples? After all, there’s Apple Crown, Jack Daniels Tennessee Apple or Angry Orchard Hard Cider.

There’s even a Busch Light Apple beer, though if you were to show up to happy hour with it, you’d see folks leave the room. So that they can talk about you behind your back. Without hurting your feelings.

We are polite Southerners, after all.

We are also a sophisticated bunch, as demonstrated recently when we staged a happy hour mayonnaise taste-off.

The idea born from a random conversation about which mayo most represented the South.

Fourteen participants sampled three mayos. There were actually fifteen of us, but one person sat on the sideline with a towel over her head, nauseated at the thought of eating naked mayonnaise.

Interesting results: Dukes and Blue Plate received an equal number of first place and last place votes, leaving Hellmann’s with a solid second-place finish.

For the most part, heavy snacking has slowed down though they still show up. Sometimes they are a fun or interesting something that needs to be sampled.

Basically, squid jerky

As much as I love calamari, dried squid is nasty! The one person that could eat it was not American-made. (Translation: Chinese.)

I’ve cooked up some Spam and cut it into little squares for sampling.

With Worcestershire sauce for more salt flavor

It was special Spam.

Oh yeah!

If you are not aware Spam also makes hickory smoke, jalapeño, maple and teriyaki flavors, perhaps you should spend more time with Spam at your local grocery store. They make so many flavors, the Spam aisle has become a destination aisle.

If it were my store, it would be a ‘destination isle. I’d invite travel writers and influences to visit and offer free samples while listening to reggae and sipping drinks.

Another recent happy hour…

Yeah, that’s homemade pickled peppers. And yeah, that’s a shot glass.

Did this happen after someone picked a peck of pickled peppers? Probably not since people can’t pick a peck of pickled peppers. But people can pick a peck of peppers and pickle them.

According to potentially pickled people.

At happy hour.

Footnote: for more on how our happy hours work, try this one: Gay Turtles

Searching for Blackbeard & Other Mysteries of the Caribbean

Readers: This is a research paper. As such, it contains, you know, scientific stuff and may not be for everyone.

First up, the word: ‘Caribbean’ and how to pronounce it.

In the states, we tend to lean toward cuh-RIB-ee-un, emphasis on ‘rib.’ That’s not the way most folks in the Caribbean say it.

They say, care-uh-BEE-un.

Think Billy Ocean’s ‘Caribbean Queen’ or Jimmy Buffett’s ‘Christmas in the Caribbean.’

So you can be a local, or you can be wrong. Your choice.

Our journey began innocently with a search for sea glass, little pieces of glass that most folks think are remnants of broken bottles because the colors and shapes often resemble broken beer and wine bottles.

Wrong! They are a natural product of oceanology.

If you haven’t seen the Reese Witherspoon documentary, Sweet Home Alabama, a scientist named Jake demonstrates how he assists nature in the manufacture of sea glass by driving metal rods into the sand during a thunderstorm.

What more evidence do you need? Science is a beautiful thing.

But that’s only how our adventure started. It quickly and unexpectedly veered into much more mysterious territory.

First the discovery of a giant prehistoric sea amoeba brain.

This unusual discovery was further supported by finding prehistoric sea amoeba poop floating in the waves.

prehistoric amoeba poop

Locals harvest these ancient, nutrient-rich blobs from the surf to fertilize their landscapes, as shown in the above photo.

Let me take off my lab jacket for a moment to give you a word here about our accommodations. Very primitive and dangerous.

We were in a lean-to infested with wiguanas, a little-known species of herbaceous lizard whose name is literally a cross between ‘wall’ and ‘iguana.’

Wiguanas live on walls. And look like iguanas.

We even saw a mating pair though we never saw them actually mate, which was fine by us. Lizard sex…eww!

Special thanks to local ornithologist Liza for pointing out this mating pair doing a hoochie dance

While wiguanas are not a threat to humans, we did encounter a sub-species that was once quite feared, the LUSH wiguana. LUSH is an acronym for Lighted Up Skull Head wiguana.

The LUSH iguana has the ability to stick its tail into an electrical outlet and make its head light up. Early Caribbean people saw this as some sort of voodoo and feared the LUSH, but it is now understood that it only happens at night and is quite harmless.

Sometimes the LUSH even falls down, helpless on the ground.

But back to the scientific stuff…

Scouring the beaches of the Caribbean, we knew we were on the trail of the pirate Blackbeard when we recovered a doubloon in the sand.

Using time-honored techniques of baking soda and vinegar, we cleaned it up.

Whoa! What was this??

Skeptics might point out the similarities between it and the Eastern Caribbean penny.

A local podiatrist told us current EC coins are based on the design of ancient coins pirates looted for booty and that we had indeed found something special.

Finding the doubloon would have been enough, but then…

Bam!

We come across the grand prize. It’s a treasure once belonging to Blackbeard his own self!

Wandering the shores along the seas the famous pirate once sailed and terrorized, our crew discovered a rusty machete.

rusty machete

Not just any machete. A closer examination shows us the handle is etched with the initials ‘BB.’

We took our finding to a local proctologist named Jesse who proclaimed this to be the holy grail of treasure hunters worldwide. Blackbeard’s machete! (He called it a ‘cutlass.’)

The initials on the handle were all the proof he needed.

Jesse told us Blackbeard’s initials were probably written in the blood of his victims, explaining that the proteins in the blood bind with the wood and basically become indelible ink.

He also pointed out how the Oldsmobile folks imagined the Cutlass automobile back in the 1900’s.

Artist rendering of the Oldsmobile Machete, later called Cutlass (Source unknown but probably ancient)

At this point our Bingo card is full, and we are the winners!

Conclusion: Blackbeard was a pirate, he likely invented the automobile, and we found some cool stuff.

I am available to speak to professional organizations and institutions of higher learning on these findings. Call me to discuss fees.

Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum, y’all!

The Girlification of Tibby

Have you ever woken up and wondered, is a sex change right for me?

I’ll let you know. That seems to be the path I’m on.

I’ve been a happy dude. I’ve been happy as a dude. But apparently I need to do what I’m doing in order to hang around a little longer, so this is a bit involuntary.

BEING TRANSFORMED=TRANSFORMER=SUPER-HERO?

As the wheel of life keeps spinning, I’ve landed on… cancer again. But a different one.

Hey, I haven’t had them all yet. Let’s roll.

I wasn’t going to take this one public. Cancer and me are old news, after all. Then treatment got real interesting.

My doctors have determined the best way to treat my prostate cancer is to starve it, cut off its food supply.

And what does this cancer feed on?

Testosterone. The stuff that makes a man a man!

Have you figured out where this is going?

If this was a 1930s gangster film, I’d be tied up, and the boss would say, “Turn him into girl!”

In the medical profession they call it hormone therapy.

There’s more than just hormones involved, there’s radiation. But here’s a big difference. While radiation treatments have a known beginning and end date, hormone therapy does not.

This cancer has jumped ship and begun roaming around my body. Hormone therapy will be ongoing for a few years .

No more testosterone for you!

It’s the end of an era. Or depending on how you view my life, the end of an error!

I imagine every girl I have ever dated has a smug little smirk on her face right about now. I guess that’s fair.

I’M STILL HOT. OH, SO HOT!

Taking hormones, I sorta hoped for something fun to transpire. Boobs, maybe.

Not happening.

How about no more shaving? Most guys detest shaving their faces as much as women hate shaving their legs. And pits. And anything else.

I haven’t gotten that wish, either. Although I must admit I failed to initially see the sunny side of radiation during my throat cancer treatment a few years ago. There’s a goodly portion of my neck that no longer grows whiskers. I’m not sad about that. Makes shaving quicker.

No, the only thing I’ve gotten from hormone therapy is hot flashes. Genuine, bonafide, certified, french-fried hot flashes.

I’m menopausal, y’all.

GIRL TIBBY: SHOULD WE HAVE SEEN THE SIGNS?

In recent years, we’ve made getting pedicures our thing before we travel. More recently, I’ve started adding flags of the places we’ll visit.

Perhaps another sign: I’m also prone to wear colors that manly-men tend to avoid.

I’m pretty in pink. And peach. And sea foam.

Wandering down a street in St. Louis a few years ago, my wife Beverly wanted to step into a Lululemon store.

Normally, I’d simply hang out in the sunshine and watch the world go by while she shopped, but this day was a little windy and chilly, so I went in with her.

People, I had no idea Lululemon had shirts for men. And they are so soft!

These days, a Lululemon store is like a siren song. “Hey, let’s just pop in and see what they’ve got.”

I get no argument from Beverly.

Wearing Lulu lavender while visiting a lavender store. Ironic? Nope, iconic!

“WELCOME TO MY WORLD”

What else I’m not getting from my wife is sympathy for the hot flashes. In fact, she’s mildy amused. It’s as though life just evened things up between she and I.

“You’re 15 years behind,” she said.

Okay then, if this is some sort of contest, I’ve got an ace up my sleeve she doesn’t know about.

With my current radiation being applied to the same general area as my colon cancer radiation many years ago, I fully expect to emerge from this with certain body parts that glow in the dark.

Let’s see if she can top that!

Why Do I Have To Wear Pants?

The End.

It could be the end if I’d just stop. But...

The Beginning: Autumn.

Fall in the South gives us a nice break from brutal summertime temperatures. There’s a lot to like.

Freshly-dug peanuts, flowing fields of cotton, apples, beautiful foliage and

…fire!

A good fire on a cool evening cannot be topped. It’s great company. You can just sit and watch it. Maybe while sipping a little warm apple cider or hot cocoa.

Probably not cider or cocoa

But as cool turns to cold, this is when I have trouble dealing. After 8 or 9 months in shorts, I’m allergic to anything on my legs.

I’ve tried different ways to deal with this ‘allergy,’ including pants with the zip-off legs.

Those pants are great for anything outdoors that begins in the cool of the morning and finishes in the warmer part of the day. Say, a hike or a round of golf.

On just such a day recently when I couldn’t make up my mind between pants and shorts, I experimented.

-photo courtesy of Mark Megaw’s Maybe You Should Just Stay Home. In stores everywhere.

Having one leg off and one leg on, not a great look.

But it’s not just pants. It’s everything. It’s clothes. I don’t like ‘em.

Most anything I wear anytime is lightweight, soft and covers as little of my body as I can get away with and still have friends.

Short sleeved shirts, footies and athletic shorts so that I don’t have to wear a belt. That’s Tibby style.

By the way, here’s the unspoken dealio with belts and older men: They’re useless.

The belts, I mean. OK, probably both. But belts for now.

They are meant to catch on your butt and hold your pants up. But whether a man’s butt slides down his legs or evaporates, it gets gone somehow. There’s virtually nothing for the belt to rest on.

There have been a couple of weddings recently I’ve been forced – forced, I tell you! – to attend, requiring nicer attire.

Nicer clothes require a belt. So I rummaged around in the closet until I found one.

It had mildew on it. Or mold. Perhaps it’s fading to dust.

I think the time has finally come to go to Waddle-mart, buy me some shorts with elastic waistbands and move to Florida.

Pickpockets in Paris, Part Deux: The Aftermath

Getting my wallet lifted by pickpockets was a sour start to our visit to Paris.

Fleeced in France… curses! If you missed how that happened, read it here.

But now we can talk a little about the fallout of that incident.

I was carrying a little American money. Probably $40 or so.

More and more, traveling anywhere - even in the States - the need for carrying cash is becoming less necessary. Your credit card is your ticket to just about everything, every purchase.

But you’re always going to need a little cash for gratuities. Or perhaps, pay toilets. So, there’s a need for some, just not much.

Arriving in a foreign country, we hit an ATM and use our bank card (not credit card!) to get a little local currency for those occasions.

Having realized very quickly that my wallet was pilfered, then hopping on my phone and hitting the credit card apps to report them stolen saved me the worry of bogus purchases on those cards.

But I made one strategic error.

Because the only thing I ever use my bank’s ATM card for is withdrawing cash from an ATM, and because withdrawing cash from an ATM requires a PIN number, I assumed my ATM card would be of no value to the clowns now in possession of it. Wouldn’t any purchase they attempted need a PIN?

Nope.

Son, you need to keep up with the times a little better! Yes, I knew it was a debit card, but that chip on your ATM card essentially makes it akin to a credit card.

Anyway… that errant assumption led me to delay dealing with the stolen ATM card until after I got off the train.

The thieved didn’t wait.

Before the train could pull into the station in Paris, my phone dinged. It was an automated message from my bank.

Best I can tell, AUX SPORTIFS is a restaurant, maybe a sports bar. But $3200 at a restaurant or bar in about 30 minutes?? Obviously, more to that than I understand.

Regardless, the transaction was frozen. So were 5 subsequent attempts to use the card. I had shut the bad guys down from playing with my toys.

They did get a little something. Before the really big charge that sent up red flags to my bank, they made a successful charge of about $920 at the same place. We discovered that one when I talked to my bank back home a bit later.

However, I’m insured by the bank for any fraudulent charges on my card reported within 60 days. It was refunded to my account is short order.

Final tally on my financial losses: the $40 US dollars I was carrying.

Whew!

When traveling, we always pare down our wallets (and pocketbook) to the bare necessities. But yes, there were a couple of other things stolen that would need to be dealt with eventually.

Most importantly, a driver’s license.

Even though my wife is not afraid to drive in other countries, I’m typically the driver. But the driving portion of our vacation was behind us. The rest would be trains, taxis and hired drivers.

The only other thing was insurance cards. They are printed from websites, though, so if there was a need for them before we got back home, I could certainly arrange to print them again.

Knowing from the beginning of this incident things could be taken care of pretty quickly, we never really fretted the stolen wallet.

Interestingly, the BIGGEST TAKEAWAY from all of this?

I didn’t need my wallet.

We still had 17 travel days left when it was lifted. Five days in Paris, three in Switzerland and ten more in Italy. But since the credit card stored in my phone was replaced immediately - digitally, by my credit card company - I was swimming in gravy.

Pull out my phone, tap-to-pay, and we’ll see you down the road, Chump.

I suppose we were lucky my wife, Beverly, was carrying the passports (she doesn’t trust me to keep up with mine) and certainly she has her own credit cards, so we were never dead in the water. But we proceeded with our vacation as though nothing ever happened.

Sure, there’s going to be bit of hassle to reporting things stolen and ultimately getting replacements, but in our digital world it’s just a little of your time.

Back home, a new driver’s license has been a piece o’ cake. $10 to replace a stolen Georgia license. Mine was set for renewal in 3 months, anyway, so I paid $32 for a new one that will take me through the next 8 years.

I left Paris with no intention of returning. It wasn’t getting hit on the train that made me feel that way, it was the people.

So many people. So many tourists! But hey, isn’t that exactly what I was?

A little time has softened me. Paris has so much to see.

At night, it lights up. And sparkles for 5 minutes each hour.

We hooked up with some old friends, took a boat down the lovely Seine River, toured the city’s oldest university, rode a merry-go-round, visited a beautiful cathedral…

And ate at a 5-story restaurant.

That restaurant was a hoot! It’s pink, and I guess being one block away from all of the shops selling sexy lingerie and toys, maybe people think it’s something else…

The floor mat as you enter the restaurant.

We missed visiting the Louvre. The word we got was, if you don’t have at least half a day, don’t even try. The place is massive! Stunningly so, even from the outside.

The only day was had that much time was a Tuesday. Care to guess which day the Louvre is closed?

Mona Lisa surely needs to see me. So does the rest of France. So yeah, I’ll go back.

With my wallet in my front pocket.

I’ve now seen the Seine