I really like the sound of “almost,” because it reminds me of the scene in “One Hundred Foot Journey” when the deliciously bombastic Indian Papa slips in love with the not so prissy anymore French restauranteur across the street, and calls her his “almost girlfriend.”  And then they dance together so tenderly. Almost poetry. And when I write out Roman numerals … saying almost 62, the coyest way I can  … why pussyfoot about what’s about to happen when it’s real as the day I was born.  As real as when I surrendered my very first one-way...

I saw an igloo on the beach, this morning.  No Eskimos in sight.  No blue glacier in the distance  … just an inflatable igloo with two people inside who were wearing very little and quietly turning pages.  No, I wasn’t staring at them … I was merely beholding.  (Much better.) And not far away from this igloo were a woman and child hauling over-sized sea-worthy noodles across the sand.  And two Japanese tourists were waist-high in the low tide giggling noisily while dousing each other with what certainly looked like wet cannons.  And off in the background, an ambitious fellow...

In case you haven’t guessed yet — I’m plagued by Erratic Patience Deficiency.  EPD was first recognized by the medical profession in 1952.  Few people bring it up casually. My assistant, Cecile Simian, did a little looking around for me and believes that my case of  EPD made its way into all the medical textbooks and has been known to show up on surprise quizzes.  During the maturation of the pre-frontal cortex, when the brain of an almost 25 year old is spinning at 46 rotations per second, the odds of acquiring Pre-Adult EPD are remarkably high. And that’s what happened to...

1952: Year of the Water Dragon. It’s been said that our year didn’t hold a candle to 1950 or 1947.  Some believe that our bulging birth rate got in the way from the start: less individual attention in the hospital, more crowded kindergartens … But that was ages ago.  What matters now is that it all worked out quite well.  And a major anniversary is just around the corner — #40 for Class of 1974! Four decades have spun by since we wore our bunny fur on May 13, 1974. But I won’t be on the ground.  With some regret, I’ll miss all the class fun, the robust and...

“Just tell them, when they ask, that you’re looking for a good clash,” the debate coach said to me.   Whatever it took — I would do it.  I’d beg for the good kind. The right kind of clash. The Good Clash policy was declared about the same time that I learned how to write post-debate comment sandwiches.  Encouraging words, first.  (If you have nothing nice to say about the baby, my father recommended praising the blanket.)  So I’d rave about their well-matched socks and then I’d move on to appraising their arguments before signing off with a touch of...