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.
Long before Tinder was a thing, I went out on a computer date. Turns out our fleeting, star-crossed love affair was doomed from the start. The computer concluded we were a perfect match. The computer was wrong.
This is a true story about the shortest date in my life. Now, technically you could make the case that my wife was my shortest date, given that she tops out at 5 feet 0 inches.
But I’m not talking about the shortest person I ever dated. No, I mean the shortest date in terms of hours… um, make that minutes. Because my shortest date lasted exactly 37 minutes. Despite its brevity, this date still doesn’t rank as my worst date. That would be another date you can read about.
As much as this may come as a shock to some of my readers, I was not exactly a Ladies’ Man in my youth. That’s because I went to a private all-boys’ military prep school from grades one through twelve. I had literally no interaction with girls, and thus virtually no dating experience, until I headed off to college.
In my first year at the University of Virginia, the dorm I was assigned to was an upperclassmen dorm, because they’d run out of space in the freshmen dorms. I lacked the self-confidence and charisma to approach any of the female upperclassmen in my dorm for a date. I asked out precisely one girl during my freshman year, named Jocelyn. She was a cute girl in my Astronomy class. But when I asked her out in October, she replied (and I will never forget her exact words): “I’m going to be pretty busy until April.” To this day I regret not having the presence of mind to come back with, “I hear you. I’m pretty busy, too. How’s the month of May looking?” So, no, we never went out.
I actually did have one date my freshman year. My dorm-mates, always up for a fun practical joke at my expense, decided to enter my name – without telling me – into a computer dating dance party. To participate, you filled out a form with information about yourself, your personality, likes, etc., which information was fed into a computer database. It then matched you up with another student the algorithm determined was compatible with you. Like a primitive version of Tinder but without the ability to swipe right.
A week later, I received a notification that I had been matched up with a computer date. WTF?? How did this happen? Then realizing that I had had roughly about as much sex in my freshman year as a neutered Boston Terrier, I decided to “go with the flow” and see where this unexpected opportunity might lead.
The rules explained you were supposed to meet your match prior to the actual event. Her name was Judy Spivey, from Suffolk, Virginia. When I knocked on her door, she immediately greeted me with an almost guilty look on her face.
I quickly determined why she had that almost guilty look on her face. Because after ten minutes of mindless, mundane conversation about “what are your favorite hobbies” and “what’s your major,” my soon-to-be date dropped this bomb: “Tim, you probably should know something before we go out on this date. I’m engaged.”
“I’m sorry. You’re engaged? Engaged in what?” I replied, pretending not to understand what she’d just said.
“I have a fiancé,” she clarified. “We both decided to enter our names in this computer dating thing, just to see what kind of people we would get paired up with. We meant it as a joke.”“Wow. Hilarious. So, I’m the joke, is that it?” I thought to myself, realizing this was a complete waste of my time.
“I got paired up with you,” my not-so-dream date sheepishly explained.
“Oh, I see. And who did your future husband get paired up with?” I asked, barely hiding my annoyance.
“He didn’t.” [Insert long, extremely awkward pause….] “But we both agreed that I should go through with this date” – like it was her civic responsibility, like jury duty – just an unpleasant commitment she’d have to endure, spending an evening with me.
The dance was two days later. I knocked on her door. She was dressed in a knee-length red dress. I was wearing my finest lavender corduroy bell-bottom slacks and matching red-and-blue striped shirt, with what in retrospect was a way too wide white tie (hey, give me a break, I went to a military school, so I had zero fashion sense).
After we arrived at the dance, we sat nervously for about fifteen minutes, sipping our Diet Cokes as I struggled to keep the conversation going with cliched questions like “Do, you think Uva will have a good basketball team this year?” and “So, how did you and your fiancé meet?”
Before long, I noticed Judy kept diverting her glance to something in the distance. Make that, someone. Who was she looking at? Now, don’t get ahead of me. Then she looked back at me, noticeably agitated, and said, “Pardon me, I’ll be right back.”
In case you were thinking I made up this entire story, I did not. This is a photo of my computer date from our college’s book that showed the names and faces of all the incoming freshmen.
She headed off to talk with the person in the distance. You guessed it. Her fiancé had been watching us the entire time. In retrospect, it probably was the right call not to try to slow dance with her in front of her future husband. Decades later, I still remember Judy’s words when she returned to our table: “Would you like to see World War Three begin? Or would you like for this date to be over right now?”
If this had happened today, the far more self-confident, wise-cracking version of me would have grinned and said, “Thanks for giving me a choice. I think I’ll go with the first option, Judy.” But the shy, freshman college student version of me instead said, ”I understand. I wish you both the best of luck.” What a wimp. Then I looked at my watch. 37 minutes had elapsed since the start of our first and last date. As I plodded back to my dorm, it occurred to me that I could have stayed in my room and watched an entire episode of Hawaii Five-O. It would have lasted much longer than my date.
Now and then I look back on our surreal, aborted courtship and wonder whatever happened to Judy. I tried to look her up on Facebook but without success. I will never know. But I like to imagine her future without me. Maybe – just maybe – she had a miserable, tumultuous marriage, and her husband left her for a younger woman he found on Tinder. That makes me smile.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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This is Pam. For years Pam has been carrying a grudge against her sister Meg because Meg got the entire $200K of their father’s inheritance. All Pam got was Barkley the dog. Barkley pees on the carpet every day and destroyed her sofa. Okay, Pam, I’d be angry, too.
I’ve rarely been one to hold a grudge. It takes a lot to get me triggered, and even then, I usually move past whatever momentary feelings of irritation I’m experiencing within minutes or, worst case, a couple of hours – unless it’s ANYTHING that my annoying neighbor Bert Higgins says or does, in which case, I will never let it go. What can I say, I just don’t like the guy.
Other than with my neighbor Bert, I never saw the point to letting personal resentments fester. Research shows that holding onto anger and bitterness is bad for your emotional and physical well-being – much like the feeling of rage that consumes many readers after having been subjected to my latest humor article: “Damn it, Jones! That’s ten minutes of my life I’ll NEVER get back!” is the usual complaint I receive.
Nelson Mandela once wrote, “Resentment is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die.” On a related note, for months I resented my first college girlfriend for making out with a friend of mine. Six months later, she still hadn’t died. So yeah, turns out Nelson was right.
I come from a hearty stock of grudge holders. One of my brothers who will not be named (okay, you twisted my arm – his name is Ted) would not speak to me for over a year because sixmonths after he had asked me for a three-month loan, I had the temerity to ask him to pay me back the $500 I had lent him. My egregious offense was asking to be paid back at all. Thankfully, my brother explained his understandable outrage at my insensitive treatment: “Family members should never expect to be paid back.” That was over forty years ago. He still harbors hard feelings. I’m confident in time, he’ll forgive me and reimburse me. Do you think it’s too late to ask him to include interest? Nah, that probably wouldn’t end well. Forget I even mentioned it.
Everybody holds onto grudges. Even famous people. For example, did you know that John Adams, America’s second president, was a close friend of Thomas Jefferson, our third president – until 1801? That’s the year that Jefferson defeated Adams for the presidency. Adams never forgave Jefferson (his VP when Adams was president) for running against him. They soon became bitter enemies, refusing to settle their differences for more than twenty years. It wasn’t until very late in life that they finally made amends. Personally, I’m not so sure they forgave each other so much as dementia may have set in, and they each thought they’d made a new friend.
Thomas Jefferson (L) and John Adams famously fell out of favor with each other and became bitter enemies. Jefferson was envious of Adams’ great wealth. Adams resented Jefferson for his lush, full head of hair and his hot mistress Sally Hemings.
Many famous people throughout history refused to let go of longstanding grudges: Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr, Van Gogh and Gauguin, Thomas Edison and Nicola Tesla, Joan Crawford and Bette Davis, Paul McCartney and Yoko Ono, Donald Trump and… well, just about everybody who’s ever worked for him.
The above list includes several extremely intelligent, talented people… and Donald Trump. In each case, they chose to keep the fires of grievance burning for years. At least Hamilton and Burr eventually found a way to abruptly resolve their feud – if you consider pistols at dawn an effective way to end a dispute.
Have you ever noticed how for some people, it’s easier to offer criticism than a compliment? Similarly, some of us would actually choose to stay angry and resentful rather than forgive the other person. Why is this? Here’s my theory: Sincere forgiveness can require a lot of effort. Worse, it just might require us to accept that we played a part in creating this rift. And why should we waste our time on self-reflection about our own shortcomings when it’s far less work to place all the blame on my annoying neighbor, Bert Higgins?
Besides, if we forgive the other person, that lets them off the hook. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let Charlie Jamison forget about the fact that he ran over my pet guinea pig Bubbles with his Schwinn bicycle back in 5th grade. He still has never apologized for murdering my best friend.
The more I think about it, the more I realize that holding onto a long-simmering resentment offers several useful benefits. First, you’ll no longer need to worry about getting them a birthday present or sending a Christmas card. You won’t have to invite them over for Thanksgiving. And you can relax as you watch the football game knowing they’ll never interrupt the game with a pesky phone call to vent to you about their disappointing teenage son Norman.
If you expand your network of people towards whom you could harbor resentment, just think of how much spare time it will open up in your weekly schedule. Of course, it works in reverse as well. If there is someone in your life you find slightly unpleasant to be around, you might consider insulting them about their appearance or parenting skills. That way, they’ll start to resent you and, if you’re lucky, refuse to acknowledge your existence. Mission accomplished.
Why do people carry grudges? Well, in this case, it’s because Maria was named the prom queen, while her identical twin sister Evelyn lost out. So unfair. And Maria even had the nerve to wear the same dress as Evelyn. What a bitch.
So, I’ve changed my mind. Instead of letting go of past resentments, I’m going to start to embrace them. You hear that, Coach Steck? Perhaps you’ve forgotten about the time you demoted me to second string on our high school football team after I had one bad game back in 1973. Well, I haven’t forgotten, Coach. I’m coming to even the score with you – assuming that at the age of 104 you’re still alive, you son of a b*tch.
And Larry Elmendorf, don’t think I’ve forgotten that in 5th grade you once called me “Thunder Thighs Jones” because you thought I had fat thighs back then. Vengeance will be mine, by which I mean I will post a snarky comment about your recent weight gain on your Facebook page.
Tonight I’m supposed to make dinner, but I’m feeling lazy. I’d rather just have some leftover pizza and watch the game. I think I’ll get out of cooking by pretending to carry a grudge against my wife for nagging me repeatedly that I still haven’t mowed the lawn. Yeah, that should do the trick. And I’ll forgive her the next day, when it’s her turn to cook.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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