March 6, 2002
Some old dude named Bobby

I sat with an aging man, who was maybe five feet two inches tall—unhappy about his memory no longer being his friend. I said, “You should write!” He quickly replied, “I let my step-son do that for me. He puts down on paper what needs to be done. I remember to read it when it’s left by the phone.” Viewed from the distance, we were separate generations—the opposite ends of the baby boom. Somehow I felt connected; especially when he spoke of his cellular phone not being programmed properly and his DVD player driving him crazy. Very calmly, I looked into his eyes and said, “I hate my DVD player too… all it wants to do is fight me.” For a moment—the separate generations connected.