By accident, I found the only photo of me, dressed perfectly in a tuxedo (rented for the occasion) and bow tie, heading to my junior prom. At the time, everyone was listening to the song “a white sport coat and a Pink Carnation.”

Boy, I look great. The photo is in terrible shape, but my smile, crewcut, and cummerbund are visible. It was a night to remember, even though it was decades ago.

My date, Diana, and I went to dinner beforehand at A Sabella’s restaurant on Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco. She looked terrific; we were the perfect prom couple, sitting by the window, looking as grown-up as possible while clearly teenagers.

Two especially memorable things happened at the restaurant. One, Diana ordered mahi-mahi fish as her entrée. When our meal arrived, she looked at her plate and asked me: “Is this the same fish as Flipper”? I said it wasn’t, but she wouldn’t eat it, so she ordered some other local fish and was happy again.

The second thing happened as we were leaving the restaurant. The entry (and exit) involved a kinda’ long stairway. Being the polite date I am, I was behind Diana as she descended. She slipped about a quarter down, sailing down the remaining steps to land at the entrance.

It was a spectacular sight; fortunately, the only damage was to her pride. Yet, through her tears, she blamed me for the accident. Probably because when she slipped, I confess: I burst out laughing. That was not very gallant of me.

We got through that incident and had a super time at the prom and throughout high school. We’ve been in touch a few times over the years through that dumb site “Classmates.” I guess she’s forgiven me; she told me that she told her granddaughter about the entire event and how much fun it was.

Thanks, Diana.

I’ve been fascinated by AI and how this will impact people sooner rather than later. I am particularly drawn to ways AI will change how we write. To test this, I opened one of the most popular AI applications and asked what some of the most prevalent challenges of Old Age are.

Wow, nearly instantly, the application gave me 3 paragraphs of examples. It’s an amazing tool, and had this been available in junior high, I wouldn’t have worn out the encyclopedias at our corner library (although they were very effective.). Here’s a sample of the first paragraph’s advice: “As the sun sets on the horizon of life, the journey into old age presents a unique set of challenges.”

Gee, I already knew that.

So, while exploring AI applications was (and is) fun, I’ll continue my journey to older age with my best efforts to embrace and enjoy my twilight years with limited use of technology.

Buenos Aires was always at the top of my bucket list, and one weekend, I flew down from Miami to see why. When I landed, I fell in love. As my taxi moved towards my hotel, I couldn’t wait to see, smell, explore, and enjoy a city I’d longed to visit. Every moment of the taxi ride was magical, and I loved it; I felt I was somewhere where I belonged, even in an earlier life.

I arrived at my hotel, and within 20 minutes, I was walking, exploring, and enjoying. I chose a familiar path for part of my walk, the area in Buenos Aires known as San Telmo (I bought the ceramic piece in the photo there). Everyone who sees Evita will recognize this immediately. It’s the heart and soul of old Buenos Aires, and I felt entirely at home. Mind you, at this time, I’d been in the Country for about 90 minutes,

I walked down an ancient street and saw the open door of a bar welcoming me. I hadn’t had breakfast, but this was the perfect location for my entry into Argentina. The bar was long, shining, and accommodating. I sat down, and the bartender, without a word, went to make a cortado (like an espresso with a bit of milk) and brought it to me with a small glass of a liquor I didn’t recognize; hey, this was no time to reflect, so I immediately drank both. I instantly felt like a local.

A few minutes later, an older couple moved to the dance floor. With a soaring tango playing in the background, they danced like they were soulmates. Sweeping, dipping, turning, all in perfect time to the Tango beat, at that moment, I wanted nothing more than to be a Tango champion myself, turning to the lovely older lady for a turn around the barroom floor to the beat of the music.

Alas, it didn’t happen. However, it was a marvelous, perfect welcoming present for me, a first-time visitor to an incredible city.

Not long ago, I was in Arlington National Cemetery celebrating the services of a family member. As I walked through the cemetery, I felt a sense of calm; all around me, more than 400,000 people were resting. Their grave markers tell who they are, yet not what they did. No matter the case, these are the true Champions of our Nation. They share a space with no bounds of discord, only a lovely, peaceful home where each one is honored and respected. It’s a powerful place. It was my honor and privilege to be there with them.

I usually write about fun travel stuff and places that I’d love to visit again. For a moment, my mind went back to the worst flight of my life and the worst airline seat, ever. By the way, this image isn’t of that seat, but it comes pretty darn close in my opinion.

It all began in Cairo, Egypt. This is a city that is crammed with millions of people, going to and fro every moment of every single day. It’s bedlam everywhere. Even a simple taxi ride becomes something that at every moment you fear instant death, or at the least becoming a part of some massive traffic jam.

Anyway, imagine my happiness about finally heading to the airport, and home. After another rocket-ride, I was deposited at the airport with no real idea of where the departure area was. Inside was another riot of people all talking at the top of their voices rushing from counter to counter. Hey, so far a typical day in Cairo.

I’ll skip the process of getting through their immigration and customs. Safe to say, it was another epic adventure. I arrived at the departure gate with my crumpled boarding pass, only to be told the flight was oversold (who knew?) and I’d have to wait for a seat. To protest was fruitless, to say the least.

At the end of this process, someone finally gave me a boarding pass, and I headed to the aircraft. Knowing what I do now, I should have volunteered to stay behind for another flight or another week. Alas, I went into the aircraft and was met by a teeming mob, all trying to cram their life possessions into any possible remaining space. I joined the scrum and spied one empty seat, the one assigned to me. Just my luck.

My seat was at the beginning of a row of middle seats located at the aircraft bulkhead. Which means that the wall was about 6 inches away from the edge of my seat. There was no way to lean back or put my feet up, even a few inches. And this wasn’t the worst part.

While I had an aisle on my left side, there were two aircraft lavatories against the bulkhead ahead of me. The doors of these lavatories were about 3 feet away from me. From the moment the seat belt sign came off, hordes of people rushed forward to use one of the bathrooms. It was like a tidal wave of people, all dying to use the lavatories at the same time.

Of course, they congregated in the small aisle and lavatory area, jabbering and yelling like they were negotiating for something in a local bazaar. Again, bedlam. And, I was about 2 feet away from the center of this action, trapped in my eternally uncomfortable seat.

For the entirety of the flight, the aisle was crammed with people, and the lavatories occupied continually. It’s a miracle that the equipment worked at all. There must have been tons of refuse in their tanks.

It was as if I was seated on a broken chair in front of a public toilet for 12 hours. Now that gave economy seating a new perspective. I hated every single second of that flight. It became a test of my will to keep from screaming out in frustration. Although, had I done so it’s unlikely anyone would have noticed.

On arrival at JFK airport, the second the aircraft doors were opened, I ripped through people, bags, kids, and debris for the exit. I couldn’t wait another moment. I still remember bursting out of the plane gasping for air and thrilled that at last, I was free from that confinement. It seemed like the tube of the aircraft spit me out and down the exit stairs at last. But you know, none of that mattered to me anymore.

I was back in the United States of America.

A week ago, I talked to a friend at our local Kroger. The check-out line was very long, so we started catching up. For reasons I’ll never know, we talked about our relatives and childhood memories at one point.

In this course, my friend mentioned that his uncle served on submarines in WW2. Coincidentally, he served on a sub at the same time as Edward Beach, a war hero and subsequent author of the book Run Silent, Run Deep was assigned. Now, you ask: what does that have to do with a movie and the Geneva Drive-In?

In high school, my girlfriend Diana (of Junior Prom fame) and I double-dated with another couple and headed to the drive-in to see this movie. Like every other teenager at the drive-in, we were far more interested in making out than watching the movie. We probably rolled and dived more times than Clark Gable did during the film, yet we came up for air regularly and returned home thrilled with our encounter.

After conversing with my friend at Kroger, I found the movie on a streaming platform and watched it again without distraction. Boy, those submarine crew members had a tough life; my friend’s uncle had a lifetime of proud memories to reflect upon.

We had the Geneva Drive-In.

Growing up in San Francisco was great. There was always something to do and see, and one of my favorite things was going downtown with my mom. The cable car stopped around the corner from our flat, and we rode it to the end of the line, Powell and Market Streets. Where the Emporium stood directly across Market Street, a huge department store that my mom loved “The Big E.”

On nearly every visit, we saw an older man with a green-colored pushcart in front of The Emporium’s main entrance, selling flowers, specifically gardenias. I’ve always been fascinated by that flower (the one in the image here is from a plant I’ve nurtured at home), and each time we’d see him, I’d hound my mom for change to buy one for her.

She paid for herself; how gallant of me to ask my mom for money to give her a flower. I don’t remember if the gardenias cost a dime or a quarter, but they were top-notch, complete with a beautiful green wrapper around the stem and a pin to attach the flower to your date, in this case, my mom. She always admired it and thanked me for such a lovely present.

Thanks for everything, Mom.

Some time ago, a friend gave me a book as a birthday present. It resides, every day, on my bed stand; little did my friend know that this book’s title was my mom’s iron-clad daily rule for me.

This book was written by a US Navy 4-Star Admiral, who headed up, among other things, the US Navy SEAL program. He wrote this book to offer words of encouragement and simple wisdom. If he only knew that my mom’s advice pre-dated his by decades.

Every day of my life, I make my bed; leaving it unmade is unthinkable. My mom accepted no excuse for an unmade bed. Illness, anxiety, a surgical procedure, or laziness didn’t matter to her; over time, I took her mandate as a part of life.

On page one, chapter one of his book, the author says: “Start Your Day with a Task Completed.” My mom never wrote a book, but she impressed me with the importance of starting each day with a feeling of accomplishment.

Thanks, Mom; the Admiral agrees with you.

Église Saint-Germain-des-Prés is one of the oldest Churches in Paris and is in the middle of one of the most exciting, historic neighborhoods. Whenever I visit Paris, I hop on the Metro and zoom over to the Church.

It’s always one of my first stops in town, primarily because I still always light a candle there in memory of my Grandmother. I took the image above, and tucked into the middle is one candle taller than the rest.

That one’s for you, Grandma.

On one of my visits, it was a cold, dark, and rainy day, and the Church steeple was covered in mist. I walked up the steps and pushed against the closed front door. It was stuck, so I had to press harder to open the door.

Behind the door is a small vestibule before you enter the Church. I stood there momentarily before opening the second small door to enter. The door opened a couple of inches, and as I entered, I had one of the most amazing experiences of my life.

The Church was rather dark, and suddenly a ray of sunshine poured through one of the windows like a beacon directed at me. At almost that moment, I heard an organist begin the opening notes of “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.” The music became louder and louder, with notes soaring to the very top of the Church.

I was transfixed. I thought, “Wow, is this a sign?”

I sat down for about 20 minutes while the organist continued the practice. The music started and stopped during that time, and each time, I was stunned that there were only three people in the Church for that one session.

The organist, my Grandmother, and I.

When we lived in San Francisco, I decided I needed a motorcycle, specifically a Honda 550-4 model like the one shown here. Never mind that I didn’t have 10 minutes of experience riding a bike like that, nor the required driver’s license.

These were minor details in my plan. Sure enough, it wasn’t long before a friend took me to a Honda dealer in Alameda, across the bay from San Francisco. Once at the dealership, I had a brief discussion with the salesperson, signed some papers, and in a frightening length of time, I was (with my bank) the proud owner of a brand new, blue Honda motorcycle.

Emboldened by my lack of experience and knowledge I hopped on the motorcycle (no helmet, please) and wobbled around their parking lot for about 30 minutes. That was plenty of instruction for me and shortly found myself blasting across the San Francisco-Oakland-Bay Bridge on my way home, going at least 60 miles an hour.

Miraculously, I made it home in one piece.

My confidence grew and, I came to love that motorcycle. My three daughters took turns riding with me as we discovered the hills and streets of San Francisco. We’d go on rides up the coast to Point Reyes, Bolinas and Sonoma for top-class picnics. As I write this now in retrospect, it’s highly unlikely, to say the least we’d do this without safety gear.

However, since I was now a skilled driver, at least in my own opinion, I wanted a regular, enthusiastic riding partner. Who better qualified for this than my youngest daughter; she was the most fearless and she was up for anything I cooked up for us. To her, nothing was too ridiculous or dangerous.

She was my perfect match.

One Saturday morning I woke before dawn; I went to her bedroom and shook her awake. I told her to quietly get dressed and meet me downstairs in front of our garage. Ok, Dad, this is another great plan waiting in the wings.

It was just about dawn when we started our journey; she had no idea where we were going, but it didn’t matter. The Golden Gate Bridge was a short distance from our house and, soon we were zooming across the bridge as the sun started to rise. It was a beautiful sight and for a moment, it seemed we were flying. We were, in a sense.

She wanted to ride forever; however, we crossed the bridge and returned home, stopping at our favorite bakery, Ahren’s for a bag of doughnuts to share with our family. We made it back home before anyone was up or knew we’d gone anywhere other than to the bakery. Neither my daughter nor myself mentioned our sunrise ride.

Some things are just too special to share, I suppose.