Hello Mate!!!

At this writing I am now a citizen of the United Kingdom, in a very real and legally binding way (if I may paraphrase Michael Palin in Monty Python and the Holy Grail.) 

I'm not sure I should be using the term United Kingdom or Great Britain. Or perhaps I just say Scotland, given the centuries of animosity between my people and the wankers to the south.

Nevertheless it has happened, misspelling of my name notwithstanding.

The notification actually arrived three weeks ago. I had not found it today because it had been buried in an avalanche of emails which bombard me on an hourly basis. 

Looking for new fishing rod, check out Dick's Sporting Goods and the Dick's Big Energy Sale.

I can't begin to describe the feeling of waking up and discovering I'm now a citizen of TWO countries. It shines a new light on my previously and very singular Americanism. Which to be honest does not make me very happy. Or proud. Or even safe at this very moment.

If CNN reporter Don Lemon can be snatched off the streets for standing up to the rising tide of fascism, what chance does a wiseass Jew, armed with nothing but a keyboard and a penchant for meme-ing have?

I also can't help remembering how my paternal Ashkenazi ancestors in Lithuania/German/Poland/Ukraine (The Pale of Settlement) felt when they heard the rumble of Panzer tanks in the 1930's.

They had nowhere to go. No dual citizenship. No hope.

But today is a happy day. 

This journey started more than a year ago, when I discovered that British citizenship was automatically granted to first generational children of British citizens. In this case, my mother, who hailed from Glasgow. 

The word automatic is very misleading however. I had to jump through hoops and navigate an intricate labyrinth of governmental bureaucracy. Including a very lengthy biometrics exam in nearby Inglewood, California.

It was NOT easy.

And I am an educated man (though highly debatable.) I have resources at my disposal. And there are no drug cartels angling for territory. Although as readers of this blog know I did have to suffer at the hands of my obnoxious neighbor and his incessantly barking dog.

Think how difficult it must be for people who don't speak the language, have no money and are running away from danger.

It's all so daft. And the lads at Central had better crack on and fix this mess. 

Still, getting acquainted with my new language.

I'm chuffed.

Cherrio.

  

 

Intrepid desert adventures

Pictured above is one of the rest stops on the new CV link (bike path/walking path) that winds its way through the Coachella Valley. It's rumored that the path will eventually make its way to the Salton Sea. To cover that distance and to avoid the subsequent searing heat we would have depart before the sun rose.

The CV link is our new fascination. As it allows us to cycle worry-free, away from the less-than-attentive geriatric driven vehicles as well as the many local drug induced drivers.

I know last week I ended with a stellar review of Paul Bar/Food --I love writing that too much -- and I am also aware that blog runs the risk of turning into a travelogue, but the truth is Ms. Muse and I are spending a little more than a month out here to escape the harsh Southern California winters. 

And the place does provide so much grist for the Siegel Curmudgeon Mill.

I'm not in the ad business anymore. Nor do I have anything interesting to write about an industry that seems bent on becoming less interesting by the shareholder quarterly reports. 

Similarly, what can I say about politics, which is devolving at an exponential rate. 

"Hold my Diet Coke, advertising."

And so I have been reduced, or saved, by posting about swimming, cycling and the local offerings this magical place has to offer.

Our journey last week took us to the lower portion of the CV Link.

We were promised 16 miles out and back, but were disappointed, when after 14.7 miles through some beautiful, though smelly, landscapes...

...the path came to an abrupt end in What-The-Fuckville!

We turned around and reconvened at the next stop, which looks a lot like the one in the picture above. With one glaring exception. You see, the photo above is AI altered to include restrooms.

There was a young Hispanic, heavily-tattooed man who appeared to a local, seated on the bench. We asked him about the construction of the path, which was still ongoing. We also asked where the nearest bathroom is and why they didn't put porto potties at all the rest stops? 

His answer was immediate, "They can't put in bathrooms because of the eventual damage or theft from the nearby drug addicted homeless population."

We can have some nice things. But not all the nice things.

   

American Gestapo 2 / American Citizens 0

A few days ago, I wrote about Trump's SS Thugs slaying an innocent woman in Minnesota. I had no idea I'd be penning another post about abject murder. If anything, it demonstrates the craven and evil demeanor of our newly-appointed and untrained ICE "officers." 

These masked, all Caucasian, trigger-happy young men, seem to enjoy picking off US citizens. These are no doubt the same bullies who reigned over the high school locker room with their bigoted taunts and wet towel snaps. 

One cretin, caught on a hot mic, said, "this is cool, sorta like Call of Duty." Another blurted and confronted an innocent protester with, "Come at me, I'll make you famous."  And all this Nazi wannabe behavior was committed in the name of the United States Government. 

Though governing is last thing on Trump's To-Do list. It comes after sleeping through the new Melania movie. Taking a wrecking ball to American institutions, including the East Wing. And playing...er, cheating...at golf. 

Lots and lots of golf.

In response to the vicious murders of citizens, rightfully and bravely, protesting American Gestapo agents on the streets of America, the White (emphasis on White) House did what it always does -- they doubled down. 

On murder.

Press Secretary and woman who will rent her mouth (including those "fabulous lips") out to the highest bidder, said without irony, "This tragedy occurred as result of deliberate and hostile resistance by Democratic leaders in Minnesota."

Wait. 

Stop the presses.

Are you saying that political leaders are to blame for the consequences of their fiery speeches? Because Governor Tim Walz and Minneapolis Mayor Jacob Frey never uttered one word to encourage violence. But I know who did.  

It was 5 years ago, Karoline. Maybe you're too young to remember. Perhaps you were busy organizing the Tri Delt Bake Sale at Saint Anselm College and coming up with cute designs with the muffins and croissants, but in 2021 we all got an earful of violent political rhetoric. From your boss, no less. And all his henchmen.

Alabama Representative Mo Brooks said, "Today is the day American patriots start taking names and kicking ass."

Rudy Ghouliani, the presidents private attorney called for "Trial by Combat."

And the losing candidate, Donald J Trump said, "If you don't fight, you're not gonna have a country anymore."

Please compare that Teutonic trash to the compassionate, measured pleas from Minnesota's elected leaders.

It was that kind of "tough" talk that led to the death of Trashli Babbitt. As well as the death of DC Capitol officer Brian Sicknik and the injury on 140 other policemen. 

In the vernacular of relentlessly-and-obnoxiously-alive President, "we are experiencing a level of tone deafness and hypocrisy, the likes of which we've never seen before."

Also, fuck you Karoline.

Say Hello to Coalie

From the people who brought you "There's no Climate Warming, look at all this snow", meet Coalie. 

Oh you're probably thinking, Rich is just playing around with AI, because he's retired, his arms are tired from swimming, and he's putting off cleaning the house because the Lady who usually does, is charging an arm and two legs. And to some extent, you'd be correct.

But as my friend, colleague and fellow journeyer through these surreal times pointed out, Coalie is real. As real as a cheaply and childishly illustrated character can be. Coalie is brought to us by the Department of the Interior and Secretary Doug Burgum.

Here, see for yourself...

Keep in mind, Doug, Dougie, famously said, "There's room on Mt. Rushmore for Trump." So it really should come as no surprise that the former governor of North Dakota, a state with fewer people buying tickets to the Melania film, has doled out a few million dollars for a cartoon globule that eerily resembles a loogie coughed up by a 33 year old Kentucky miner in hospice.

Exhibit A.:

Is it me or do they not look like spitting' cousins?

All of which begs the question, as does everything done by this amateur and evil administration, to what end? What are they trying to accomplish here? And who is the target for this pointless propaganda campaign?

Is it aimed at 7 year olds who have the critical thinking ability of...7 year olds? Or is it aimed at Red Hats, who coincidentally, also have the critical thinking ability of 7 year olds?

I'll give Trump (and by proxy his loyal taintlicker Burgum) this, coal has never had any detrimental effects on the whales. Nor has coal killed any birds, unless you count the millions of acres of land strip mined to oblivion thus forcing the birds to find sanctuary elsewhere.

However, coal mining has put thousands of American miners in the ground prematurely. But only after they spent the last few years of their life hacking up chunks of their lungs and guzzling Promethazine with industrial grade codeine, until they couldn't remember who they were and why they were dying. The irony is they probably all voted for Trump.

But who cares? As Coalie would say, "Mine Baby, Mine."

We are living in surreal, easily the most surreal, times in American history.

Blog/Post

I would never consider myself a foodie. Or a snob, though some may. But I like to give thought to what I put in my mouth. One reason why I'll never understand people who succumb to dental advertising. 

"Let us fix one molar and the second one is free. Now only $499."

That said, there is little or no attraction to a "restaurant" that presents itself with a sign like this. Situated in a strip mall, in the dirtiest, windiest side of Palm Springs, off Vista Chino. Ms. Muse and I had a good laugh when we spotted this.

Bar/Food? What kind of bar? Was it beer and wine, or did they have a full liquor license? Vodka? Gin? Whiskey aged in used shoe leather? Begging the next question, what type of food? Mexican? Italian? Or, as the veneer would suggest, Trailparkian?

The low hanging fruit on this one is delicious.

You can imagine how shocked we were, when on a return trip from the local Lowe's to replace some rocker light switches, we looked in the direction of the Bar/Food establishment, wedged between a Happy Ending Massage Parlor and a decidedly-downscale sketchy liquor store, there was a LINE!

Not an Apple iPhone 18 introductory type of line, but close to 40 people that extended all the way to the Vaping Emporium and the Second Hand Sock Store. Astonished? Absolutely. Our curiosity was piqued. 

With computer in hand, Ms. Muse took to clickin' and clackin.'

"You're not going to believe this, but Bar/Food is actually called Paul Bar/Food."

I guess the sign store ran out of S's and apostrophes.

"...aaaand (she added with emphasis) it gets 5 star reviews on Yelp."

With that, our inner journalists rolled up their sleeves. People were raving about the incredibly friendly atmosphere, the congeniality of the owner Paul, and the amazing cuisine. A deeper dive into their website revealed a cozy, New York style steakhouse kind of vibe. Leather booths, dim but inviting lighting, and a mahogany bar that could rival any found in West Village or Hell's Kitchen.

In a chat with one of the neighbors, we discovered the 105 year old decorative bar counter once belonged to the grand hotel that is now occupied by the Desert Regional Medical Center. Apparently Paul, owner/host/impresario wisely bought the bar and hauled it out of its dusty, scorpion infested storage.

Bar/Food — Paul Bar/Food — had all the necessary ingredients for further investigation and an adventure in local idiosyncracies. 

Not a fan of waiting in line, we arrived at Paul Bar/Food ten minutes after the doors officially opened. We were late, and there were a good twenty people in front of us. And soon there were twenty people behind us. Fifty or so people, all waiting to enjoy the Paul Bar/Food experience.

Who were these people? Snowbirds from Wisconsin, older folks from LA, tourists, and older gay couples who were locals and more than willing to regale us with their take on Paul Bar/Food. The waiting in line experience was a party unto itself (albeit without the benefit of alcohol which was prohibited from leaving the front door) and included an appearance from Paul. As we waited in line, he charmed us with his quick Bronx wit and eventually shuffled us into the place which looked just like the pictures on Yelp.

We were seated at the 50 yard of the bar, prime real estate location at Paul Bar/Food. And before we got our appetizers, we were sharing drinks and stories with the lucky patrons on both sides of us. It was only later that we found out that we had stumbled onto one of the desert's true culinary gems.

Do yourself a favor and stop in at Paul Bar/Food. Just don't go when we do, the line is long enough as it is.

The Year of Living Mendaciously

You kids, and by that I mean anyone under the age of 50 who might still be in advertising, will not remember this but at one time this industry actually had an award that meant something -- The Clios.

Even people outside our relatively small -- now much smaller -- industry knew of the Clio. It was our poor stepchild version of the entertainment businesses' better known awards, including the Oscar, Emmy, the Grammy, the Tony. 

No one ever actively sought to win the the EGOTC.

Way back in 1991 the Clio took a fall. A fatal one at that. At the black tie award show  in NYC, things quickly fell apart, for logistical and cocaine-related reasons. The emcee bailed. The teleprompter went black. The salmon was dry. And eager and perhaps overly ambitious ad people rushed the stage to grab a Clio award and scurry off. 

It was a free for all. An embarrassment for the people putting on the show. But an even bigger one for the hacks who couldn't win an award for their work, but felt entitled to take one for their mantle.

It was a participation award before there were ever participation awards.

Last week, as you probably know, President Haventaclue got his much coveted Nobel Peace Price (SP intentional) Award from Venezuelan Opposition leader Maria Machado.

You can see our voracious 289 lbs. Peace-a Rat here...

She literally just gave it to him. I'm pretty sure that's not how this works. But then again, I'm not sure how anything works.

Keep in mind this comes on the heels of our convicted felonious "president" vocally supporting the murder of a US citizen. Which comes on the heels on the violation of international sovereignty laws and the kidnap of a foreign leader. Which comes on the heels of bashing NATO. Which comes on the heels of his withholding the release of the EPSTEIN FILES!!!

As many pundits have mentioned before, there simply is no bottom to this man. Nor is there is any visible signs of a spine amongst the craven GOP "leaders" who will do anything they must, except govern, to take home their Clio -- re-election.

Think about this. He gloats about his secondhand and completely worthless unearned Nobel for allegedly "solving" 8, 9, 13, 574 wars, between combatants who are still flying drones and lobbing mortars over disputed borders.

Trump has no borders. The man who stood before a microphone and like a 14 year old junior high school bully said, "We (I) have the most powerful weapons on Earth. No one can take us."

Translation: "I can take what I want. And always have."

And yet we are to believe this lecherous, mushroom-dick philanderer has never touched and forced himself on underage girls at a private island in the Caribbean far away from prying eyes and laws about statuary rape?

Even Joe Isuzu is rolling his eyes.

_____________________________________________________________

This blog post was written before the insane Dear Jonas You-Hurt-My-Feelings Letter. WTF, America?

 

God bless

I have retreated to the desert. Possibly for 40 days and 40 nights like my semitic ancestors did 3000, 4000 or maybe even 5000 years ago. They didn't have timekeeping tied to any atomic clocks back then, hence the ballpark numbers. Which, by the way, might also explain the birth of Hannukah.

"Morty, you said the oil would last 3 days."

"No, I said two days max. Maybe if you weren't futzing with the blintzes, we'd have more oil."

"You ate enough of them Schmuley. And you took the last of the sour cream."

"Go shit in your hat."

And like my ancestors, I seem to have wandered. But yesterday, another beautiful day in Palm Springs, I had taken my dog Lucy out for twice daily constitutional. She's like a Play-Doh factory that's open 24 hours a day. 

As we were leaving the grassy knoll along the northern side of the Dessert Regional Medical Center, I noticed a man on a bike slowly tooling down East Mel Road. Just as Mafioso like to sit against the back wall in restaurants, I like to keep eyes on what's coming. 

As I reached the corner of Mel and Mira Leste, the man on the beach cruiser pulled alongside me.

"Excuse me, I don't mean to interrupt your morning, that's a beautiful dog (I've heard that for the 5782nd time), can I ask you a question?"

At this point I sized him up, gauging the threat level. In case you didn't know there are many strange people out here. The summer sun is not to be under-estimated. Not only for the effect on the skin but also what it does to one's brain.

"Do you believe in the existence of god?" he asked.

I had only had two cups of coffee by this time, but I could feel the adrenaline surge and ignite the Hitchensonian part of my temporal lobes. "Let's go" I thought.

"No I don't, why do you ask?"

"Wait, you see all this, the mountains, the sky, the stars and you don't believe in god? How did all of this get here?" he posited.

I studied his brown rotting teeth as he droned on about god, the creation, the cosmos, and of course Jesus. And like all believers he could offer no proof of their existence. He was not inarticulate, so I engaged him for twenty minutes or so.

"Well who made all this? It had to have been created by God."

"OK, but then who created God?"

"No one created God, he was always here."

"Oh, like the universe."

It was a exercise in circular futility as of these dialogues with faith-y people are.

I ended the conversation with a bit that I had read just a few days ago. It was from a physicist who said, perhaps we not meant to understand the nature of being. In the same way we have no comprehension of the speed of light or the expanse of the universe, our brains are just not there yet. In the same way that when I take my dog for a walk and enter an elevator with a window, my dog Lucy has no way of understanding that we are going up. Or down.

It's as simple as that.

Or as Neil deGrasse Tyson put it, "The universe doesn't owe us an explanation." I like that.

The man got back on his bike and went the other way. I looked over my shoulder to make sure this brown toothed zealot wasn't following me.

He puts up the shot...

In an unprecedented interview with the New York Times, President Trump said "since the civil rights movement, white people have been treated very badly," adding, "there has been reverse discrimination."

On the heels of this bold statement, Cliff Sheather from Bloomington, Indiana has filed a lawsuit with the Equal Opportunity Commission, claiming he was denied a spot on the roster of the NY Knicks.

Mr. Sheather, standing 6' 9" tall and tipping the butcher's scale at 397 lbs., said, "I've been denied my lifetime dream of putting up rainbows from downtown and playing just below the rim, all because of the color, or non-color of my skin. It's plain as the nose on my face."

His lawyer Glen Feldman, a former producer on The Apprentice, has filed the papers with the commission and is demanding the NY Knicks organization pay his client $28.1 million, not including punitive damages for making Mr. Sheather feel "very bad". 

The suit also claims Mr. Sheather suffered debilitating lack of confidence and forced him into a life of involuntary celibacy.

"The last time I even had a date with a woman was in 1997. We went to Applebees. She had the Sizzling Filet Mignon Platter AND the Triple Chocolate Boat Dessert. Then she ghosted me. I blame Lyndon Johnson."

Knicks representative and Vice President of Scouting and Player Development, Zane "J.J." Walker refuted the charges and explained, 

"Every year, especially when we have a bad college draft and get stuck with a bunch of bricklayers from Syracuse University, we hold open tryouts, hoping to find a diamond in the rough. We gave Tubby...er, Cliff a fair shot. You never know, he could've been the next Bill Lambier, but..."

Mr. Walker turned a few pages on his clipboard.

"Sheather couldn't hit the backboard from beyond the arc, said he had a torn ligament injury in high school. Was slower than a pregnant turtle. And drove the lane like a John Deer tractor with three wheels. Him not making the team had nothing to do with him being white."

When presented with the stats, including a miserable .083 shooting percentage, Mr. Feldman responded, "Fake News."

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On a completely different note, here is an image of the world's tiniest violin...

 

RIP America

Last week I wrote about all the presents I was given this holiday season. Today, I write about the latest gift our esteemed president has gifted the nation: the cold blooded murder of a US citizen at the hands of his own untrained trigger happy, hillbilly Gestapo.

My resting heart rate has never been higher. 

And not because I cycled close to 30 miles yesterday and swam another one in record time. My blood boils with a rage I have never experienced before. Or as one loyal Trumpster put it on my Facebook page, "you sir are suffering from 'toxic woke-ism'. " (I'm sure I got the punctuation wrong on that last clause)

Is it woke-ism to demand higher standards from a nation that has boasted about being the greatest manifestation of mankind's morality?

Is it woke-ism to expect our nation's law enforcement officers, even the fake ones who received less than 47 days of training and insist on wearing a mask to conceal their identity, to show even the slightest respect for what was once recognized as The Rule of Law?

Is it woke-ism to want our nation's leaders to stand up for the citizenry they supposedly serve, instead of cowering behind the coattails of their divinely-appointed leader who labels the victim a "domestic terrorist" with no evidence except what his own dementia-rotted brain tells him?

Is it woke-ism to insist on the same habeas corpus for every person living in this country that our founding fathers so wisely wrote into the Constitution, you know the same document with the precious, god-given 2nd Amendment?

Is it woke-ism to wish someone or something ("hello, imminent blood clot") would Make America America Again?

I know some of you expect me to bring some of the funny to every post. 

Today I will have failed you on that count. 

There is nothing funny about waking up in a country that abides by murder. Especially government-sanctioned murder.

And even worse, goes on to remain silent about it.

Last week RFK Jr. and his malpracticing henchmen put out a new food pyramid about what we should and shouldn't be eating. Renee Good from Minneapolis won't have to worry about any of that.

Fuck ICE.

Fuck the GOP.

Fuck Donald Trump.

Top Fish

I didn't know when I started blogging this week, but it turns out each of this week's posts is about a holiday present I was given. As I'm notoriously hard to shop for, perhaps these thoughtful gifts deserve the air time.

And nothing is more thoughtful than my new FORM Smart Swim Goggles, given to me by Ms. Muse. It should be noted that I gave her plenty of thoughtful hints including, "Hey if you'd like to get me these cool goggles with the in-water heads up display, that'd be sweet."

We tend to be very direct and communicative with each other.

I have plenty of goggles. But the promise of real-time metrics, including distance, time, speed, stroke rate and even the very important head pitch, was just too irresistible. Especially on the heels of my increased viewership of video tips to improve my fitness and freestyle swimming. 

Turns out I'd been doing a lot wrong. Of course being able to jump in a pool and emerge 2 hours and 10 minutes later, having completed two miles means I've also been doing a lot right, but now the real work begins.

I've come to discover that swimming fast often means swimming slower. It requires concentration on  hand entry, hand position, a rhythmic kick and most importantly, the ability to g...l...i...d...e. Rhythm and gliding are not my strong suits.

Frustratingly, it also requires me to acquaint myself with the lingo of non-landlubbers. Swimmers, it turns out have their own shorthand. Which is good as all this data has to be squeezed onto a holigraphic screen no bigger than a thimble.

If you're not clear, as I was and still can be, here's a glimpse:

I love these new goggles. And my swimming habit is quickly becoming my new addiction. 

Will it replace my other obsession - the trolling and truth telling about Trump? Probably not.

Will I ever give up my European lycra suit for a much abbreviated new Speedo? Maybe. 

But unless you're a regular customer at the local Culver City Plunge or the Rose Bowl Aquatic Center or the Palm Springs Swim Center, you'll never see it. 

 

2006 -- The year I own a Gun.

I have always eschewed the notion of gun ownership. I know myself. I know my temper. I know my neighbor's affinity for running power tools at 3 in the morning while his (now deceased dog) would bark as if invading vengeful Venezuelans were marching through Culver City. 

But this holiday season brought me not one but two guns. One from my daughters who know of my continuing battle with sciatica. And another, almost the exact same model, from the daughter and daughter-in-law of Ms. Muse, who were made aware of my periodic geriatric affliction.

If you or anyone you know has nagging nerve issues, you know what kind of relief these guns can provide. If I were to be using the gun on maximum pounding and vibration while penning this post, you might see something like thissssssssssssssssssss.

In any case, I thought my new gun deserved the same ode as the one written for the Marines upon receipt of their life-saving rifle.

To wit:

This is my gun. There are many like it, but this one is mine.

My gun is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life and my hunger for Gabapenton.

My gun is human, even as I am human, because it is my life and because going to the local Massage Envy store can be quite expensive.

I will learn my gun as a brother. I will learn its strength, its part, its accessories, including the large Dampener Nub attachment for sensitive areas.

I will guard my gun against the ravages of weather and damage and the possibility that my dog Lucy might be tempted to chew on the rubber tip.

I will keep my gun clean. We will become part of each other. And I will bring my gun into the car and keep it charged and jacked into the auxiliary port on my Mustang should I get stuck in traffic and the sciatica flares up while driving through the Yucaipa Pass.

This is my gun. 

And there can be no other.

A Tale of Three Ronnie Shirts

Somewhere in Arkansas, there's a man named Buford Wayne -- the names have been changed to protect the financially challenged. Seems old Buford had the luck to draw a winning ticket in the Razorback's State's 1987 Mega Marlboro Lottery and took home $8 million.

Not knowing how to spend the windfall, Buford went to the local Sears & Roebuck in Dumfuque and found a snowblower he liked. He bought 11 of them. He bought 18 pairs of Camo Crocs. And he bought two dozen of the exact same shirt.

I come by my multiple blue and white checkered Eddie Bauer long sleeve shirts by different means. And my daughters pressed me to tell the story of the Ronnie Shirt(s). And because they wanted to make sure I got it right, they even provided me with a point by point outline of the complete timeline.

When my uncle Ron/Ronnie/Ronald, the King of Cranky (only used posthumously) passed away we were tasked with cleaning out his room at the old Terazza Assisted Living Home in Cheviot Hills. I'm convinced my demanding uncle drove the staff crazy with his ceaseless demands for morphine and thus bankrupted the place.

We came across two soft cotton flannel shirts, one green and one blue. My daughters took the shirts, as this was 5 years and about 50 lbs. ago. Meaning they would not fit me.

Turns out the blue shirt didn't align with Abby's brand and her hipster friends in Williamsburg, so she gave the blue shirt to her college roommate and former BBDO Associate Creative Director, Hallie.

Years passed. Miles were swum. Thousands of pounds of weights were lifted. And massive quantities of salmon were consumed. I now had an outdated "wardrobe" of clothing that draped over my shrunken body. Seeking a keepsake as well as something I could wear, I offered to help Hallie in her vocational pursuits (as if I wouldn't have done that anyway) in exchange for the return of my uncle Ronnie's blue Eddie Bauer shirt.

My daughters were aghast. 

Hallie was willing to part with a piece of my uncle's past. But my daughters would NOT have it. They searched the interwebs and were able to buy a duplicate of the shirt from Etsy. 

In Lithuania. 

I was so happy to be in receipt of the shirt. Not so much for emotional reasons, but for sartorial ones..

Later that year, for Father's Day or Hanukkah or my birthday, the girls went on eBay and found another exact duplicate of the shirt. I opened the gift, ironically enough, while casually wearing Ronnie Shirt #1. I was flabbergasted.

I now had two Ronnie Shirts that feel and fit like no other shirt I've ever owned.

Leaving only one mystery: Where did the 3rd Ronnie Shirt in the photo above come from? 

Well, Hallie confessed to my daughter that the burden of holding onto the original Ronnie Shirt, the one actually worn by my uncle, as he gave good "What Fors" to loud neighbors or slow moving cashiers. She said it felt like a bad omen, think about Bobby's remnant that he picked up on the beach in Oahu. Hallie insisted that Abby and Rachel take the original Ronnie shirt and give it to your father on Hanukkah. Just three weeks ago.

Which they did. While I was again, unsuspectingly, wearing Ronnie Shirt #2.

I now have three shirts and an amusing, at least to myself and my daughters, anecdote about their journeys to my growing wardrobe.