Ralph Gardner Jr.

We went to Maine for four days last week — more like three if you subtract the time it took to drive back and forth — I consumed two lobster rolls and one whole lobster, went swimming, more of a painful plunge in the fifty-eight degree ocean every day, took one hike and attended one wedding. It was entirely too short a trip. Now returned, I could almost be persuaded that the journey was a vivid figment of my imagination.

I happened to be listening to Vox Pop, WAMC’s afternoon call-in show, last week when I heard host Ray Graf express surprise and perhaps even a little dismay as his guest, home maintenance and repair expert Darren Tracy, celebrated the delights of outdoor showers.

Given the era that I came of age my embrace of rock and roll was seriously delayed. Prior to late adolescence I owned but two records, both of them 45s. They were Wipeout by the Surfaris and A Well Respected Man by the Kinks. I bought the songs when I was twelve years old after hearing bunkmates play them at summer camp.

How come I have five spent bottles of Brut aftershave in my medicine cabinet? I suppose the underlying assumption to the question is that I must know the answer. But can any of us truly claim to know ourselves?

A friend recently gave me a slide projector. It somehow came up in the course of conversation that she was on her way to drop it off at the Goodwill or the Salvation Army and I told her that I’d take it. We have hundreds of slides of our home and property dating back to the 1940’s when my grandparents bought the place. And I thought it would be preferable to view them on a screen or a white wall, or however one looks at slides, rather than holding them up to the light.

I’d like to share my routine regarding my weekly runs in Central Park. I know what you’re going to say: thanks but no thanks. I’m sure it’s interesting but we’re awfully busy. I’m having a lettuce sandwich for lunch.

Nobody said fighting climate change was going to be easy. But I didn’t realize how hard it was until I woke up in the middle of the night wondering why my right arm felt useless. Allow me to explain.

10 a.m. on a Sunday morning sounds a bit early to attend a party. I prefer those that kick off at cocktail hour for obvious reasons. But come to think of it, I wasn’t the invitee to the event in question. I wasn’t even the plus one.

Watching the Trump hush money trial on TV, or rather watching talking heads on TV who scored seats to the sold-out show – though I’m not sure those woebegone journalists and legal analysts relegated to the overflow room at Manhattan Criminal Court can truly say they attended the trial – filled me with a pang of nostalgia.