So I was out for a walk this morning with my friend, Neil Diamond. Neil and I aren’t close like Barry Manilow and I are, mind you. Neil doesn’t send me email. He just sings to me sometimes. And he reminds of the days when life was a lot simpler. Back when we used to hang out in my cousin’s house and listen to his parents’ records (that means vinyl for my hipster friends, but not that remastered crap you think you invented). Neil was on the playlist. John Denver was there. And so was Tom T. Hall. Tom reappeared later, in high school, when we discovered “I Like Beer” while… well, I guess we were drinking beer.

One of my favorite memories from back then—the high school years—was after one of my cousin’s parties. It was about three in the morning. He grabbed his acoustic guitar, started playing Jim Croce’s “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown,” and for some reason that still escapes me, I began to sing. Now, it’s a well known fact that I can’t sing for shit. But at 3am when all the beer and guests are gone, I guess everyone’s a rock star. Or, in this case, a folk singer. See… simpler times.

Here in 2020, things are anything but simple. We’ve been struggling to get our arms around a nasty virus since the ball dropped in Times Square and to get an even nastier virus out of the White House for about four years. The speed with which we turn disagreement into hatred is alarming at best. Human decency is at an unprecedented low point. Common sense has never been less common. And we’re racing toward a very serious election but can’t seem to take either candidate seriously. It’s like we haven’t learned a thing in those four years. Or is it 40?   

But let’s get back to my walk with Neil. Somewhere between “Forever in Blue Jeans” and “Song Sung Blue,” I began trying to think about what’s in the glass instead of what isn’t. For one, it turns out I really enjoy walking, except for that time an asshole goose hissed at me for no reason. I like it even more when I walk with someone I can talk to, but it’s also okay when it’s just Neil and me.

It’s not always Neil. Sometimes it’s Good Charlotte. Or Green Day. Or P!nk. Sometimes I go north of the border for Honeymoon Suite, Glass Tiger, or Triumph. Jim Croce even joins me on occasion. But I don’t sing when I walk. People might hear me. Sober people. That would be awkward. Also awkward is that once I invited Air Supply along. I didn’t sing then, either. But I kind of wanted to. You get it, right? Let’s keep that between us, okay?

Walking takes me twice as long as the same workout at the gym, but it doesn’t matter because when you’re in the house all day, every day, you’ll take as much time outside as you can get.

Oddly, people smile more at the park, too. They won’t come near you, and if you so much as sniffle it sends them scurrying off the path in terror, but they will smile and say hello as they shuffle past you. I can’t help thinking how much less that happened pre-COVID. And I’m guessing it happens more indoors too—we just can’t see because of the masks.

If anything survives this pandemic, I hope it’s the smiles. These people seem to be genuinely happy to see other people, even if they can’t get within six feet of them. They don’t seem to be wondering who the others will vote for, which media outlets they watch or read, or even which bathroom they use. In the worst of times, they are simply smiling at other humans. Call me naive, but that gives me hope.

Cheers.