I knew it was a matter of time before this “Tim Jones” fellow would crack. As the lead detective on this case, I had to get to the bottom of how it was so many people were subscribing to his weekly humor blog when clearly the chump had no talent at all. It just didn’t add up.
THE SCENE: Pre-dawn on a rainy Sunday in the disheveled office of Detective Drake Marlboro of the Seattle Police Department, 9th Precinct. For the past 3 hours, Marlboro, a chain-smoking, grizzled, no-nonsense gumshoe has been interrogating a middle-aged man with no fashion sense by the name of Tim Jones.
Jones was picked up on suspicion of maliciously harassing innocent civilians by posting offensive commentary on the web about parenting, politics, and how many cats people should adopt, plus a long list of other lame topics. But something just didn’t add up. Detective Marlboro suspected Jones was holding back the truth. And so our story begins…
It was another dark and stormy night in Seattle. The clock on the wall read 3:04 am. And there Tim Jones sat – if that’s even his real name – sticking to his story that all he could be guilty of might be hackneyed writing. But there was a problem. The guy’s story just didn’t add up. I’ve been a detective for 30 years. I knew it was just a matter of time before he would spill the beans. I was going to crack this case before that snake Lieutenant Jaworski in Homicide could spell “collar.” I was sure I was close.
Jones was fidgeting with his plastic Casio watch – the guy had as much class as a cubic zirconium unicorn. He was looking confused and anxious, wanting desperately to flee the confines of the cold, windowless interrogation room so he could return to the cushy comfort of his suburban living room recliner and watch another episode of The Big Bang Theory he’d TIVO’d. Not tonight, fella. Not ‘til I get some answers.
I offered him a cup of coffee. “Thanks, but I don’t drink coffee. Do you happen to have any Diet Mountain Dew?” he asked a little too eagerly. What law-abiding adult in Seattle doesn’t drink coffee – and asks for a teenager’s soft drink instead? Now I knew he was a two-faced liar. I was done playing “good cop,” waiting for his innocent, deer-in-the-headlights façade to crack. This had gone on long enough. It was time to tighten the screws. I lit another smoke.
“So let me get this straight. You’re telling me that thousands of readers from all across the country willingly subscribe to your weekly humor blog? Is that your story? How? I want answers, and I want ‘em NOW,” I barked as I pounded my fist on the one-way mirror, behind which Lt. Jaworski was watching, no doubt taking notes on how he could steal this case from me. What a frickin’ snake, that Jaworski.
“I’m just as confused as you are, Sergeant Marlboro. Have you actually read any of my stuff?
“That’s DETECTIVE Marlboro, fella…”
“Sorry, Detective. I mean, I’m just as mystified as you are as to why anybody would read my weekly rants. Even my wife begged me to stop writing years ago, but I just can’t seem to stop myself. It’s a sickness.”
“Sickness, eh? Well, I’m sick of your lying to me, goddammit.” I glared at him, as he awkwardly shifted his legs on the rusty metal fold-out chair. I took another puff on my Camel filter and blew a charcoal wave of smoke in his face. “Sure. Whatever you say, pal. I got all night.”
Jones pleaded, “What are you charging me with, Marlboro? Is it a crime to write lame humor, officer?”
“The way you write, it sure as Hell is,” I growled back. “And for the last time, it’s Detective, you little weasel.”
This Jones fellow was such a loser. After two hours of my dogged interrogation, he refused to answer any more questions until I agreed to give him back his favorite teddy bear Sparkles, to cuddle with. Pathetic. Just pathetic.
By now Jones was nervously twisting his wedding ring, no doubt coming to the realization that his humor writing was nothing short of criminal – or at the very least a misdemeanor. So how was it he got away with writing this crap for the past sixteen years without being shut down by the Feds? I needed to crack this case and fast – Jaworski was ready to pounce.
But what was Jones’ angle? For the money? Hell, no. This dude wasn’t that clever. I could tell from the fact he wore white socks with his Teva sandals. Now, that’s a crime in itself!
Another hour crept by, like a filthy rat creeping around a dank, dark sewer for, well, about an hour. I started in on my second pack of Camels. “Don’t you find it strange that so many people have tried to unsubscribe from your weekly tome only to keep getting your posts week after week?”
“I’m not sure I would call it a ‘tome’, Detective. I’d say it’s more of an ‘essay.’”
“Don’t get smart with me, chum,” I snarled. I wasn’t buying his ‘Mr. Innocent’ routine. So I grabbed a copy of his latest piece and began to read. What I read next confounded me:
“It was another dark and stormy night in Seattle. The clock on the wall read 3:04 am. And there Tim Jones sat – if that’s even his real name – sticking to his story that all he could be guilty of might be bad writing. But there was a problem. The guy’s story just didn’t add up.”
I had this sudden eerie sense of déjà vu. Then I looked back up at the top of this page and saw. He was stealing my story for his blog, the little conniving bastard.
Jones continued to fidget with his Batman secret decoder ring – the one he claimed he got at the dentist last week for having no cavities. “Like I’ve told you five times, Detective Marlboro, I have no idea why you’re keeping me here. I just like to write. Is it my fault that I’m not very good at it? Who am I hurting?”
“Me for one, you little putz,” I shouted. “Reading your crap is like being forced to drink my own urine.”
“Really? That bad, eh?”
“Worse. Ain’t you got no compassion for the innocent kids who might stumble upon your blog?”
“Actually, the expression is, “Have you no compassion. ‘Ain’t you got no’ is not a grammatical – “
That chump owes me a frickin ’apology – for wasting the past five goddamn hours of my life. He kept droning on about his favorite articles. “Stop,” I screamed. “Not another word. Just shut your trap!” This guy was really getting on my nerves. He had to be lying. Nobody could possibly write such inane drivel week after week, year after year and not go insane. And who the freak wears shorts on a rainy night in March? What a loser.
I decided to read a couple of his posts just to be sure I wasn’t missing an important clue. I could barely stomach the first piece called Lessons in Bonding. He was killing me with this stream-of-consciousness bull crap. I looked away from his annoyingly chirpy grin. Dawn was slithering in like… like something that slithers… in the dawn.
The drivel pounding on my brain was as unrelenting as the drizzle pounding on the roof. I looked at his Casio. It blinked 6:47am. We’d been at this for over six hours. But instead of cracking, he just kept on reciting an endless list of his favorite posts – from always lying to your kids, to his sports-impaired wife. I was on my 7th cup of lukewarm Joe, and this goober was still rambling mindlessly on. One of his posts even warned me to not to let my dishwasher destroy my marriage. The guy was a numskull, though on that last one, he had a point.
I finally decided that as criminal as his humor writing was, no one was more a victim of his crimes against humanity than himself. I put out my last Camel, blew the smoke in his face and sneered at this turkey. “Get outta here, ya’ punk. I guess I can’t charge you with anything – yet. And maybe I can’t stop you from writing this crap. But for the love of Pete, please do me one favor.”
“What’s that, Detective?”
“Get yourself a goddamn editor. This week’s piece is way too long!”
I thought that was the end of this story. But the very next week, I got an email inviting me to check out his latest blog piece – called The Interrogation. Sounded fishy. Some twisted fiend must have added me to Jones’ humor blog subscriber list. And I’m pretty sure I know the slime dog who would have signed me up. Goddamn Lieutenant Jaworski. That dirty rotten scoundrel.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
As someone who pretends to be a writer (translation: I have a laptop and opinions), I take the craft seriously. I’ve studied the greats: Hemingway, Twain, and the guy who writes the fortunes inside fortune cookies. I’ve learned that before you write a single word of your Great American Novel (or 600-word scathing Yelp review of your dentist), you must first answer one critical question: What font should I use?
Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Who cares? Just use Times New Roman and move on with your life.” Well, that’s where you’re wrong, my friend. Times New Roman is a fine font if you’re writing a term paper or a ransom note, but it lacks pizzazz. Fonts speak. They have moods. They have vibes. Arial says, “I’m professional but still down to party.” Courier New says, “I miss typewriters and the 1940s.” Wingdings says, “I’m off my meds again.”
But there’s one font – one font – that has been mocked, maligned, and metaphorically tarred and feathered more than any other: Comic Sans.
Ah, Comic Sans. The font equivalent of dad jokes and black knee-high socks with sandals. It has been called childish, chaotic, ugly, unprofessional, and the “Crocs of typography.” People hate Comic Sans with the kind of passion usually reserved for bee stings and people who clap when the plane lands.
It’s been the target of internet rage for decades. Entire websites have been devoted to its humiliation. Twitter (now known as “X” because apparently we’re all in an Elon Musk fever dream) had thousands of tweets from typographic vigilantes who wanted to burn Comic Sans to the ground and salt the earth behind it. There was even a group that created something called the Ban Comic Sans Manifesto, which sounds like a political rebellion but with more kerning (look it up).
The hate runs so deep, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone lost a job because they handed in their resume in Comic Sans. (Though to be fair, if you’re submitting your resume in Comic Sans, maybe unemployment is a growth opportunity.)
Elizabeth in Accounting just got the office memo about the company’s Holiday Office Party. She was going to go, until she noticed the entire memo was written in Comic Sans. Just as well. Elizabeth is no fun at parties.
But here’s the thing…What did Comic Sans ever do to you, buddy? It’s a font. Just a font. It’s not like it kicks puppies or uses speakerphone in public. It doesn’t tailgate you on the freeway or mow its lawn next door at 7 in the morning. It’s just trying to live its best sans-serif life, and the world keeps throwing shade harder than a solar eclipse.
Let’s look at the origin story. Comic Sans was created in 1994 by a Microsoft designer named Vincent Connare. (Yes, someone willingly admitted to creating Comic Sans. And no, he’s not in witness protection.) It was originally designed for use in comic book-style speech bubbles in software designed for children.
So naturally, grown adults took this playful font for kids, used it to make funeral invitations and legal documents, and then blamed the font for looking “immature.” That’s like blaming a teddy bear for not fitting in at a corporate board meeting. Comic Sans wasn’t designed to look like a Wall Street banker. It was meant to look like a cartoon balloon with dreams. A bubbly little font that just wants to make your PowerPoint presentation feel like a 2nd grade birthday party. Is that so wrong?
But no, the world said, “You’re not Helvetica. You’re not Calibri. You’re not even Gill Sans. You’re the Nickelback of fonts.”
Personally, I think we’re being a little harsh. It’s not Comic Sans’ fault that Karen from HR used it on the company-wide sexual harassment policy memo. Or that your kid’s third-grade science fair trifold looked like a ransom note from Elmo. That’s user error.
The truth is, Comic Sans is inclusive. It’s the golden retriever of fonts – friendly, approachable, and maybe a little bit goofy, but it means well. It’s not trying to impress you with its serifs. It’s just trying to make your dentist’s reminder postcard a little less terrifying.
And before you throw stones from your Adobe Creative Suite, let’s remember that design trends are like bell bottoms – they all come back eventually. Today we mock Comic Sans. Tomorrow, you’ll be wearing Crocs with socks while reading a self-help book in Papyrus font.
Fun Fact: Comic Sans was created by Microsoft designer Vincent Connare in 1994 for a program called Microsoft Bob, a user-friendly interface for young children. In focus groups, they later discovered that even DOGS can’t stand the font.
Let’s take a moment to consider how Comic Sans must feel. Other fonts get to be on wedding invitations, luxury hotel signage, and the credits of Netflix documentaries. Comic Sans gets stuck on passive-aggressive PTA flyers and the occasional ironic meme.
It’s the Rodney Dangerfield of typefaces. No respect.
So, I say it’s time to end the font-shaming. Let Comic Sans live! Let it frolic freely across the digital fields of Word docs and email signatures. Let it brighten the spreadsheets of our lives with its curly optimism.
And if that doesn’t convince you, just remember this: somewhere out there, a young graphic designer just got berated by their boss for using Comic Sans on a promotional poster. And they’re weeping into their pumpkin spice latte. Don’t laugh at them, you monster.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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Several years ago, I used this image (well, not this EXACT image, actually) in a VFTB article. Five years later, a German company threatened to sue me for using this image without their permission. That began an annoyingly long back-and-forth email exchange that is continuing to this day.
It all started with this picture (not THIS exact photo, but one very much like it). For my VFTB articles and videos, I grab photos from Google Images. Over the years, between my articles and YouTube video commentaries, I’ve probably used well over 2,000 free images.
I never once had an issue – until an image appeared in one of my articles. Several YEARS after I published that article, I received the following letter:
Authorization Request / Unauthorized Image Use – Case No. 4C172L
Dear View from the Bleachers,
We, Herzig Digitale Lizenzierungs und are writing to you on behalf of our client Schmidt-Bildexperten, who has assigned us the monitoring and protection of their licenses and image rights. On November 22, 2024 we have been informed that View From The Bleachers is likely using an image without permission, and the client has exclusively commissioned us with the clarification, administration of the image rights for the territory of the Federal Republic of Germany and, if necessary, the enforcement of any copyright infringement through our partner lawyers. Images are protected by copyright law [blah, blah, blah…]
… On behalf of our client, we must first determine if you have a valid license to use the images in question in the territory of the Federal Republic of Germany. If you have a valid license or any other legal justification to use these images, please reply to this email no later than 18 December, 2024 and include proof of license purchase and/or any other necessary information to validate the usage so our client can verify the lawfulness of such usage.
The day I received this notification, I wrote back to apologize and inform them I had removed the offending photo. I figured that would be the end of it. I was wrong. A week later, I received a follow-up email:
Dear Sir or Madam,
Thank you for your message. Unfortunately, we are not able to close a case without one of the following conditions being fulfilled:
1) A proof of valid license or
2) The compensation to our client is paid.
If you do not have a license, your decision not to settle this matter with appropriate payment will consequently lead to court action.
I reiterated that I had taken down the image immediately and that I did not profit from its use. I added that ironically, I’m actually half-German (on my mother’s side) hoping that might smooth things over. Given my law school training (from 45 years ago), I noted that unless they could show monetary and/or reputational damage from my use, they had no legal claim. I closed by suggesting that perhaps they should focus on bigger fish than a solitary humor writer halfway across the globe who had ZERO subscribers located in Germany.
For the past year, this firm has been a dog on a bone, relentlessly sending me email after email insisting that I either show proof of a valid license or pay them for the licensing rights. A few months ago, I received yet another friendly notification:
Thank you for your message. Unfortunately, we are not able to close a case without one of the following conditions being fulfilled:
1. Proof of a valid license.
2. The compensation to our client is paid.
Finally, I decided I’d had enough. So, this was my reply:
I did not realize you needed “proof of a valid license.” Here you go.
Hope that clears everything up. Thanks very much.
Sincerely,
View from the Bleachers
A week later, apparently not amused, they sent me the following update:
Thank you for your message. Unfortunately, since we have determined that you have made use of a copyright-protected image, we must ensure that you possess the necessary authorization to make use of the image.
If permission cannot be verified, we must request you settle the matter by paying compensation or obtaining a valid license from the photographer.
So, this was my reply:
I deeply apologize for not understanding that payment was due. My humblest apologies. In order to rectify this egregious oversight on my part, please find enclosed payment in full (see below) in the amount of one million dollars.
I trust you will conclude this is more than adequate compensation for the emotional pain and suffering I have put your client through over the past seven months. I hope this resolves this issue once and for all.
Sincerely, (etc. etc.)
It turns out, and this may surprise you, but my generous financial offer did not put the matter to rest. They sent me yet another terse letter insisting on prompt compensation in order to avoid “costly litigation” (their words).
So, this was my reply:
I’m a little strapped for funds at the moment. Therefore, to resolve this matter amicably, I am offering to ship your client my 10-year-old cat named Zippy (see photo).
Zippy is a very sweet kitty – so long as there are no other pets in the household. He routinely uses the litterbox except when he needs to go pee. He prefers his meat cooked medium rare. I estimate Zippy’s fair market value to be approximately $150,000.
I presume this will bring this matter to a close.
To my dismay, my latest offer did NOT bring this matter to a close. A week later they wrote back again demanding payment in full within 30 days or they would apply a “delinquency penalty.” (Oh, my!)
So, this was my reply:
Like I said in my previous emails, I continue to be a bit pressed for funds at the moment. Humor writing is not exactly the ticket to fame and fortune I was hoping it would be. But I really want to help out your client.
To make things right, I have just updated my will – at no small expense, I might add. I have named your client in my will, stating that when I die, they will inherit my house – unless they had something to do with my demise. Please see enclosed a photo of my house.
It has a lovely waterfront view of the Atlantic Ocean. Ideal for family reunions, corporate retreats, and Tupperware parties. I hope this now officially closes this matter once and for all.
So far, they have yet to accept any of my settlement offers. Frankly, I think I’ve demonstrated a willingness to look for a win-win solution. In one correspondence, I even offered to provide all their client’s employees with lifetime subscriptions to View from the Bleachers. According to my conservative math, a VFTB subscription has a fair market value of $7,500 (€6408.86 Euros). But even that incredible peace offering got crickets for a response.
I have to give them credit. They’ve not given up yet. Every couple of weeks they send me another slightly ominous threat letter. But I’m retired. I have the time. I can keep this up as long as they can.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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[Editor’s Note: Sometimes Tim Jones comes up with rather hairbrained ideas for articles. This is one of those situations. Recently, Tim had a bizarre dream in which the naval commanders of the American fleet and the Japanese fleet in the Pacific Theater in World War 2 engaged in battle following the precise rules of the Milton Bradley children’s game Battleship. This article is the result. We are really starting to worry about him. – Staff of VFTB]
It was the Battle of Midway, in June 1942. The fate of the entire US Pacific Fleet hung in the balance. The American Naval Commander was a brilliant military strategist. But was he any match for his Japanese counterpart? What would happen next was naval gamesmanship at its most heroic.
EXTRA! EXTRA! READ ALL ABOUT IT! “BATTLESHIP!” – MIDWAY MADNESS UNFOLDS IN TURN-BASED NAVAL EXCHANGES
June 5, 1942 — Midway Atoll in the Pacific Theater
By Tim “A-7” Jones, Special Correspondent for The Daily Depth Charge
In what military historians are already calling “the most incredibly civilized naval conflict in human history,” Allied and Japanese forces squared off this week in the pivotal WW 2 Battle of Midway, but with a remarkable twist: both sides agreed in advance to adhere rigidly to the official rules of the board game Battleship.
Gone were traditional tactics like reconnaissance, surprise attacks, or – say – actually moving your ships to evade torpedo attacks. And sonar? Not in this battle. This warfare was going to be conducted strictly by the rules… of Battleship. Ten rounds of the game, to be precise, using an actual plastic fleet. Suddenly, the fate of the Pacific hung in the balance as admirals on both sides barked out coordinates in a dramatic, nail-biting, turn-by-turn slugfest.
The battle began precisely at 0900 hours with Admiral Chester Nimwitz of the U.S. Navy stepping up to the microphone and announcing: “B-4.”
Japanese Admiral Isoroku Yamagotcha calmly checked his grid, then replied: “Miss.”
Tension thickened like Navy chowder. Then Yamagotcha countered at 0907 hours: “E-7.”
Nimwitz let out a dramatic pause before muttering: “Hit! You sank my Destroyer.”
A collective gasp rippled through the Allied fleet. Sailors wept openly, not for the fallen seamen, but because the patrol boat only took two hits, and now they were down one ship less than ten minutes in.
Nimwitz, rattled but determined, fired back: “C-8.”
Yamagotcha furrowed his brow. “Hit.”
Cheers erupted aboard the American aircraft carrier, U.S.S. Tailhook, but celebrations were muted as it was unclear what actually had been hit. Could be the battleship. Could be the submarine. Could be someone’s fishing dinghy mistakenly placed on the grid.
At the height of the intense naval campaign at Midway, the Japanese Admiral had to make a critical decision: A-7 or D-9. He chose D-9. It was a costly mistake that would haunt him for the rest of his otherwise brilliant career.
In an effort to prevent “unauthorized tactical improvisation,” the battle was overseen by Swiss naval officer, Rear Admiral Milton “Stratego” Bradley, whose sole job was to make sure no one tried any funny business like placing their warships diagonally or – God forbid – moving them from where they were originally positioned in the theater of engagement.
“I caught the Japanese trying to shift their destroyer one square to the left after it got hit,” Bradley explained to the embedded reporters. “I told him, ‘This isn’t Risk!! This is a gentleman’s war.’”
To his credit, Admiral Yamagotcha apologized and moved the plastic representation of his destroyer back into place.
With ships fixed in place and unable to detect anything beyond educated guesses, much of the ensuing battle resembled two blindfolded walruses throwing darts at a dartboard.
Allied sailors, desperate for any edge, began forming betting pools on the next coordinate. By Day 2, entire divisions were placing side bets on whether “J-10” would finally be a hit. Spoiler: it was a miss. Again.
Meanwhile, U.S. cryptographers broke into the Japanese coordinate strategy and discovered their next five moves were “F-3, G-3, H-3, I-3, J-3.” Nimwitz responded by placing all remaining yet-to-be-positioned US ships horizontally on Row 9 – a move first successfully employed years earlier by then nine-year-old Nathan Willaby of Racine, Wisconsin.
Yamagotcha, in response, placed all his ships vertically on Column A. It was widely acknowledged at this point that both sides were just hoping for the other side to get bored and go back to port.
Midway through Day 3, Nimwitz scored the biggest hit of the campaign: “A-5.”
Yamagotcha grimaced. “Hit.”
Nimwitz, sensing the US fleet had inflicted severe damage, felt emboldened and pounced. “A-6.”
“Hit.”
A murmur of confidence. “A-7.”
“Hit.”
Nimwitz barked, even louder this time: “A-8.”
“Hit.”
Then, summoning up the mantle of leadership once possessed by Admiral Lord Nelson when the British Royal Navy defeated the French and Spanish fleets at the historic 1805 Battle of Trafalgar, he slammed his fist on the table, almost knocking several of his own pieces off the board, and defiantly shouted to his men: “A-9.”
Yamagotcha sighed, straightened his uniform, and gloomily announced, “You sank my aircraft carrier.”
A rare photo of the winning American Admiral Nimwitz, upon receiving word the Japanese forces had surrendered. Everyone celebrated the glorious victory. More importantly, not a single American was lost at sea in the entire battle.
The outcome was now inevitable. Victory bells would soon ring. Sailors hoisted mugs of lukewarm Torpedo Juice. The band played a ragtime version of “Anchors Aweigh.” One enthusiastic private streaked across the carrier flight deck yelling, “A-9 Forever!”
By Day 5, both fleets had been badly depleted, but the American fleet emerged victorious. The final casualty count on the American side included three patrol boats, two destroyers, two battleships, two submarines, and 472 incorrectly guessed coordinates.
Rear Admiral Bradley summarized it best in his official post-battle debrief: “I have never seen a more orderly and shockingly bloodless victory in my entire military career. War may be hell – but this was more even more painful. It was like watching paint dry for five days. Never again. Never again.”
In related news, the U.S. Navy’s Pacific Fleet has begun training recruits for the next campaign using Jenga and Hungry Hungry Hippos. The Axis powers have allegedly countered by mastering Chutes and Ladders: Blitzkrieg Edition. (Lord Licorice of Candy Land refused to participate in that it is strictly a peaceful adventure.)
[Tim Jones is a field reporter embedded in the 3rd Humor Division. His coordinates are classified, but sources say he’s been hanging out in the vicinity of C-5.]
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What would you do if your doctor told you that you had less than three years to live? Would you make any changes in your life?
The year was 2016. Scott Hamilton was only 55 years old, living in Boston, and working a full-time job as an IT project manager when he noticed something odd. On a camping trip, his right hand felt very cold, and he could not get a grip on the zipper of his tent.
Nine months later, he would learn that he was showing the first symptoms of Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS), better known as Lou Gehrig’s Disease. ALS is a progressive neurodegenerative disease that affects the motor neurons in the brain and spinal cord. There is no known cure. Life expectancy is three to five years from diagnosis. In Scott’s remaining time, Scott’s world was going to get progressively smaller and his life increasingly difficult and painful.
Scott decided to take the reins on his life and live it as fully as he could in his time left. He retired, expanded his involvement as a volunteer for Big Brothers / Big Sisters, and began coaching men struggling with relationships or going through divorce. He began singing in a second local chorale. But most of all, he loved traveling and visiting with friends.
That’s how my path crossed Scott’s. My wife and I were on vacation in February 2017, enjoying a warm breeze on sunny Siesta Key beach near Sarasota, Florida. We had just sat down at a picnic table for lunch. Across from us was a man typing away on his laptop. I asked him what he was working on. Scott looked up and cheerfully said, “I am updating my journal about my travels.”
I told him I too was a writer, of sorts. We struck up a conversation that, to my surprise, would lead to a powerful, close, albeit sadly far too brief friendship. I learned that he had two grown children, David and Lauren, and a longtime partner named Rachel, who he loved deeply. I learned that he loved skiing, tennis, visiting national parks, and spending time with his large universe of friends scattered across the country.
Then Scott shared, in a very matter-of-fact manner, that he had been diagnosed with ALS nine months prior, and was given a life expectancy of three to five years, although he said he was still feeling, for the most part, quite well. He had no idea how much longer he had. He was just beginning to show signs of his physical decline. His right arm, right hand, and to a lesser extent, right leg were starting to lose muscle strength and beginning to atrophy. It was just a matter of time before he would lose all ability to move the right side of his body, before it progressed to his left side, and then ultimately move on to his vital organs.
ALS is a cruel disease. But as Scott talked about the daunting road ahead, there was not the slightest hint of self-pity, anger, or denial. Amazingly, he seemed to have accepted his fate. He decided he was going to do everything he could on his bucket list while he was still physically able to. He radiated a positivity that you rarely see in someone grappling with such grim prospects for the future.
Over the course of 45 minutes, I found myself bonding with this kind, transparent man, who refused to play the role of victim. He was going to use his time in the months ahead to mentor men and boys on how to lead lives of compassion, integrity, and authenticity. And he was going to see as much of the world as he could. I told Scott that if he ever found his way up to the Pacific Northwest, we would love to invite him to visit with us.
Six months later, Scott arrived at my doorstep. He had bought a van he’d outfitted for camping. Scott’s health was already showing signs of decline. But his spirit was relentlessly positive. I remember a long walk we took during his visit. My wife and I were deeply anxious about the mental wellness of one of our daughters, then twenty-two. Scott became completely focused on trying to help me find a way to connect with my daughter. It was like we’d been friends my entire life. His entire focus was on me and my worries, not at all about his own.
Between 2016 and 2018 Scott traveled the country visiting friends. He experienced the rare opportunity to travel with his choir to South Africa to perform. He skied for as long as his legs would carry him, wrapping his non-functioning right arm to his chest, and using a single pole. He went to places he’d never seen before and continued to meet new friends along the way.
Scott loved to play tennis, but being right-handed, by now, this was not an option because his right side had deteriorated badly since the time we’d met earlier that year. Even his left hand was starting to weaken. So, he somehow strapped the tennis racquet to his left arm, and we played a few games of tennis. He struggled mightily but never complained. When we were done, Scott calmly stated, “I think it’s time I said goodbye to tennis.”
We spoke by phone a few times after that, and the following summer (2018) Scott came to visit again. Being from Boston, Scott was a big baseball fan. We went to a Mariners game. In the year that had passed since our previous visit, Scott’s mobility had noticeably declined. His speech was slower and somewhat slurred. But his mind was as sharp as ever. Scott would talk about the things he had had to give up, but never complaining or attempting to burden the person he was talking with. It was all so matter of fact. I have never seen anyone model “acceptance” more stoically than Scott.
When Scott no longer had the balance to manage a two-wheeled bike, he began riding a recombinant three wheeler. But one day he simply shared, “I had my last ride on my tricycle. It’s too hard to get into anymore, so I will find it a new home.”
By mid-2019, Scott was no longer able to ski, ride a bike, or even drive. He became mostly confined to a wheelchair. With each new barrier to his mobility and quality of life, he confronted it gracefully, calmly, and with a quiet acceptance. When I would ask him how he was feeling, he would never shy away from discussing the struggles he was enduring. He was always transparent about his ordeal. But his focus was more about how grateful he was to have lived the life he had, and to have been surrounded by so many people that he loved and who loved him.
In his final months, Scott was no longer able to swallow solid food. His breathing became extremely labored, and it became hard to speak. He began receiving hospice care in his home. He used his final weeks to say his thank yous and goodbyes to his friends and family.
In November 2019, when Rachel wrote to me to share that Scott had passed peacefully in his sleep, I felt like I had lost a lifelong friend.
Scott was a man I deeply admired, for his courage, his grace, his kindness, and his desire to make a positive and lasting impact on the lives of the people he touched. I will forever be grateful for that chance encounter at a picnic table on Siesta Key and the introduction it gave me to one of the finest and most decent men I have ever known. A man who truly lived his life to the fullest.
[Postscript: A few weeks before Scott’s passing, a friend of his created this video of Scott and some of the places he traveled and people he visited while he still had his health. If you are curious, you can watch it here.]
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Do you suffer from Time Blindness? According to medical experts, if you’re always late to everything, you might have this condition. Sadly there’s no cure – unless you try using an alarm clock for once.
It seems like every month, we learn about a new mental health dysfunction. For example, I’ll bet you’ve never heard of Globophobia. This diagnosis, first issued in 2013, is the irrational fear of balloons. Then there’s Arachibutyrophobia, a fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of one’s mouth. As a child I had a beagle that suffered from this. I gave him a slice of bread with peanut butter on top, he chomped down on it, and struggled for the longest time just to open his mouth. I don’t think he ever forgave me.
Then there’s Alien Hand Syndrome (AHS), a rare medical condition in which the person loses total bodily control of one of their hands – something that attacks me whenever I play pickleball and invariably end up blowing the final point to lose the game, as I send the ball soaring wildly out of bounds.
It’s time to add another unusual mental disorder to the ever-growing list: an enigmatic condition known as Time Blindness. It’s a peculiar phenomenon where the victim is crippled by a severe inability to gauge how much time has elapsed or estimate how long a task will take. As a result, Time Blinders as they are called tend to be chronically late …for everything.
People who, like me, have mild to moderate ADD, are more prone to lose track of time because… where did I put my keys? I wonder when the next episode of Yellowstone will come out. Um… where was I? Oh right. Time Blindness. You may have a family member who suffers from this malady. Don’t scoff. It’s become a widespread mental health crisis. In fact, medical experts estimate 85% of people under the age of 30 who routinely watch TikTok videos on their phone experience this condition on an hourly basis. Don’t believe me? Just ask their parents.
I have tremendous empathy for these punctually impaired individuals. Imagine how difficult their lives must be. They set off for the grocery store to get a couple items, telling their girlfriend, “I’ll be home in 30 minutes with dessert” only to return two hours later, having purchased 40% of the bakery section’s inventory of pies and cakes – not to mention bringing home an impressive collection of new gardening tools, thanks to an unplanned side trip to the ACE hardware store because they saw they were having a 15% off sale. It’s as if their concept of time operates on a secret cosmic calendar that only they can decipher.
Victims of Time Blindness are late for everything – doctor’s appointments, romantic rendezvous, even driving their spouse to the airport. When you and your friends are waiting for one of these sufferers to meet up at the pub, and you receive a text telling you, “Almost there,” that’s not good. You and your buddies are in for a bit of a wait. The Time Blinder sent this text as they were about to leave their house – which is a good 45 minutes from where you are. I suggest you go ahead and order a round of hot wings while you wait.
Sufferers of Time Blindness tend to under-estimate how long it takes to do things, and as a result are chronically late. Sadly, Barry was late for his job interview and didn’t get the job. Fortunately, Barry dodged a bullet. He would have hated this job.
When Time Blinders email their boss, “I’ll have that report for you in an hour,” the boss shouldn’t stress out when six hours later, they receive another email with the subject line, “Almost done – just another couple of hours” It’s not the employee’s fault. They’re time blind. They can no more tell the difference between one hour and five than they could distinguish between a tuba and a French horn.
Oh, sure. Some naysayers might argue that Time Blindness is just a fancy medical-sounding name for ordinary procrastination – an excuse for self-absorbed narcissists to be rudely late, only thinking about their own priorities and ignoring the impact their chronic tardiness has on everybody else. And to that I say, um, er…um, Hmm. I see where you’re coming from, dear wife of mine.
It’s important not to judge these people too harshly – unless they’re your spouse, and this is the third time this week they kept you waiting twenty minutes while they tried to make up their mind about which earrings go with which outfit. My point is, in most cases, people struggling with this temporal distortion honestly just lose track of time. They don’t mean to be rude – except for my nephew Harold, who is never on time for anything. He’s just a jerk.
Often the chronologically challenged become so engrossed in whatever it is they’re focused on that time seems to stand still. Is it their fault that they accidentally got so distracted while binge-watching the final five episodes of Season Four of Succession that they totally forgot about your wedding? … Oh, you say they were the Best Man? And they had the wedding rings? Oh my. Well, then I definitely wouldn’t invite them to join you on your honeymoon.
This is Blake. He’s been playing Call of Duty for the past 14 hours. He totally forgot about his date with Jessica. He lost track of time. You may say Blake is an irresponsible, self-absorbed slacker. Experts say he’s a victim of Time Blindness. Experts are idiots.
Currently there is no known cure for Time Blindness. However, if you ask my wife, these victims could, for once in their lives, maybe just set an alarm on their phone or budget an additional hour to complete a task. I think we’ve just solved this medical crisis. That wasn’t so hard after all.
Of course, my wife has zero sympathy for people who are perpetually late. She has her own suggestion for how to cure them of their disorder: The next time you need to leave for the airport for a trip, and they’re not ready: LEAVE WITHOUT THEM. Let them miss the flight.
I hear where she’s coming from. But it’s not that simple. It was an NFL playoff game and it went into Double Overtime. I couldn’t just abandon my Seattle Seahawks in their time of need. I’m sure in time, my wife will eventually understand…. Eventually…. Or not.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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