I believe everyone has expertise in something. Some people have it in more than one thing. But no one has it in everything. Let’s take Tom Brady for instance. He is arguably the best quarterback to ever play the game. The G.O.A.T.

I hadn’t been to Costco in years, and I thought—naively—it might not be so bad. It was Tuesday before Thanksgiving, so not quite into last-minute territory. Plus, I wasn’t out for traditional Thanksgiving food. I can admit it now. I was simply unprepared.

With Halloween approaching this week, I thought I’d publish a few random thoughts about the day. Actually, let’s start with just jotting down a few thoughts. I’ll decide if I want to publish them when I’m done and have had a little time to reflect.

My old, beat up, dare I say mangled knee is no longer inside my leg. In its place was a shiny new combination of titanium and plastic.

... But last night I went to an art exhibit at the Nashville Museum of African American Music.

The exhibit featured a brilliant artist and wonderful human named Dr. David Ikard. David lives in the neighborhood behind mine, a neighborhood Kim is quick to point out was not on my radar until she was.

… my needle therapy had barely begun when the topic of the “Mandela effect” came up. Before that day, I had never heard of such a thing…

I’ll go out on a limb and suggest that the title of this piece may have turned a few heads. So, now that I have your attention, I’m going to tee up (pun most definitely intended) a few thoughts about how I’ve learned to be a more positive person by sucking at golf.

It’s been a week or so since the big snow hit town. When I say, “big snow,” I’m talking big for Nashville. We saw about eight inches where I live, an amount that evokes ridicule from my friends back in Western New York. But here, eight inches might just as well be the end of days.

Where to begin? I think I’ve had several variations of this conversation over the years, but to this point, I have no resolution. That’s right. At the ripe old age of 53 years, 9 months, and 3 days, I’m still not really sure why swear words are swear words.

I travel much more for this job than I thought I would. And while I don’t really love all the nonsense that comes with air travel these days, I have to confess it has some advantages. No, I’m not talking about frequent flier miles. Although those don’t suck either. I’m talking about observing the human condition.

I marched in my very first Pride parade this year. Yes, it was back in June, but it’s taken me a day or 60 to process all my feelings around the event. Or maybe it’s 75 days. Either way, it’s more than I wanted it to be.

I started age-appropriate procedures about 7 years early, at 43. And while the result was good, the experience was significantly below average. So, when my doctor advised we go back to the well at 53, well... let’s say I was less than excited.

I have to admit, I felt some butterflies stepping onto the ice with gear for the first time in eight years. I had been on skates exactly twice since my orthopedic surgeon told me to find a new hobby.

Let’s rewind to the beginning, to the idea of a week-long writing and yoga retreat on a farm outside Lisbon. Writing? That seems right up my alley. Sure, it’s a different kind of writing. Time-boxed. Introspective. With reading out loud to add just a pinch of terror. But okay.

This episode of the United Airlines shit show (considering the all-star level ineptness we experienced, I can’t imagine they haven’t had lots of practice at this) featured starring roles from several well-intended employees, an unlikely hero, and a cameo from the good people at TSA in Newark.

The sad truth—as many of us stumbled upon today—is that the road to hell isn’t paved at all. It’s a too-narrow-for-a-normal-car-rocky-lined-with-thorns-on-both-sides dirt path in the middle of fucking nowhere, Portugal.

Amanda Morgan asked me to write a feature article for Older Americans Month. So, I guess that makes me an older American. But, if I may borrow a retort from the Dread Pirate Roberts... “only compared to some.”

I agreed to write this because I like Mandy. Plus, it’s rare I get to write something for work that I can also republish on my personal site. And, well, I’ve encountered some very cool seniors in my life, and it feels good to tell a story or two about a few of them.

I remember the day we got her from Happy Tails. We met a handful of dogs that day. We walked with a few. And they all seemed nice. Then Jake noticed this smallish girl just laying in her crate. People walked by as though she were invisible. Young Jake pointed, and asked “What about that one?”

fond memories of one of the strongest influences from my childhood. i’ll miss you.

I know what you’re thinking. Costco is a store. A big store. You don’t win at a store. You go there. You buy things. You go home. There’s no winning. No losing. That’s where you’re wrong.

quite possibly my new favorite state and future address.

I’ve often told people using a touchpad or those imaginary on-screen letters & numbers feels a lot like typing with mittens to me. I can’t make the cursor go where I want it to go and my fingers always manage to touch two keys at once. That would be okay, but why does my screen always—I mean always—choose the wrong key?

So, I looked on the wall in my kitchen—that’s where I keep Jake’s recipe—and went to work. I chopped up the vegetables with my fancy new knife. Just about everyone who knows me at all knows I have a bit of a fascination with good knives. And Wusthof makes great knives.

You hear it, right? I mean, you do if you’re my age, plus or minus five years. “Sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me!”

It’s the snappy comeback our parents taught us to sing at our frenemies when we were kids. And it worked right up until someone decided to pick up a stick or a stone.

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.

Summer has officially begun, which means we’re also into grilling season. Even in a socially-distant barbecue, you have to have your condiments straight. Enter me, with the only post you’ll ever need about which condiments to include on your picnic table, even if you’re the only one sitting there.

This is going to be a fairly radical departure from what you’re used to seeing from me. I don’t usually write about things as serious as this. Well, that’s not exactly true. I write about serious things all the time; I just don’t often publish them. It’s my way of processing situations I find stressful, painful, or otherwise distasteful. And truth be told, I think I’m better at writing than speaking. I still ramble—my favorite “editor” once described my writing style as “breezy”—but I try to do it in an accessible way. Anyway, if you’ve read my stuff before, then maybe buckle up. It’s about to get much more raw than you may be expecting.

This isn’t some contrived Ric Flair versus Hulk Hogan thing where depending on the organization, you know which one will win. There’s no babyface versus heel thing here. Both Pauls seems to be genuinely good guys. Both have histories littered with awards, accolades, admiration, and adoration. Both played lead roles on their teams and have successful solo careers. But in this writer’s humble opinion, one is clearly superior. I’m speaking, of course, of the Pauls, McCartney and Simon.

Sometimes it takes a while for things to sink in. So, I decided to wait 18 months before writing a second piece about the music I’ve missed while my extensive CD collection and I were resting comfortably under a rock.