Thursday September 24, 2020

The present-time emotional effects of a thing felt or not seen may result in goose bumps or gooseflesh. It may be considered a coat of love. A warning. Something fearful or any number of things. But what it is not is bad, wrong or something shameful. When the hair on your arms (or the back of your neck) stands on end and your skin exhibits goose bumps, something’s up. I’m not sure what. But something is.

One of the neat aspects of my job as a cashier and erstwhile host in a busy restaurant is that I get to speak to a vast amount of people from a variety of different backgrounds. When I merely stood behind a bar at a famous northwest side pizza establishment it was sort of the same but now as an actual, “How’s the food? How you doin’?” kind of a guy, it’s a bit different. My establishment has something called, ‘table touches’ which means the host does what I just described.

Ask the patrons if there’s anything they need. Were the cashiers that took their order friendly. Is there anything they need right now, sorts of things. And of course – finally – to encourage them to perhaps share their experience via the survey at the bottom of their long, white receipt. Of course there are other responsibilities which are not quite as refined as knowing what to say or how to say it, like cleaning tables and sweeping floors and making sure trash receptacles are emptied regularly – but I guess it’s ~ALL~ in a day’s work.

I have a joke that’s a surefire winner each and every time I feel the need to flex my stand-up comedy muscles during my table touches. It has never failed me yet. But something happened tonight that bought out the goose bumps in both myself and to the entire table with whom I shared my story. For posterity I will share that joke here. Trust me. It’s a true winner in the telling but it may not read quite right written out.

This lady dies and goes to heaven and St. Peter says to her, “ Whoa, whoa, whoa ma’am not so fast we have a new rule to get in here.” And the woman says, “What do I have to do to get in here?” St. Peter tells her, “I give you a word and you spell it for me and then you may enter heaven.” The lady replies, “Piece of cake. I have been preparing for this moment my entire life as I have done word searches, crossword puzzles and watched The Wheel of Fortune every night.” St. Peter says, “Ma’am, spell the word, ‘love’, for me.” The woman says, “That’s easy. It’s spelled L, O, V, E,” and St. Peter says to her, “You may now enter Heaven. But can you do me a favor? I have been standing here checking ID all day would you mind watching the Pearly Gates for me for just a moment while I step off? I’ll be right back.” The woman responds, “I got you, St. Peter. No problem.”

No sooner than a few seconds goes by and her husband steps through a cloud and says, “Hi, honey.” The wife looks puzzled at him and asks, “Honey? What are you doing here?” The husband replies, “Honey, I’m sorry but there was an accident on the way to your burial and now I’m standing in front of you.” The woman looks at her husband and says, “Not so fast there, Buster. St. Peter’s got a new rule to get in here. You have to be able to spell a word.” The husband looks at his wife and says, “Honey: you know and I know that I was a much, MUCH better speller than you were in our previous lives. What’s the word?” And the wife looks at the husband and says, “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.”

Until tonight, tell, tell, tell, tell, laugh, laugh, laugh. Maybe a smirk, a sly, ‘that was cute’ sort of glance but mostly laughs. Until tonight.

A family was seated on our outdoor patio. Two gentlemen seated on my left and a man and woman seated on my right as I faced the table at its end. Four people. I told the joke and the whole while one of the patrons was looking at me smirking. The all laughed – in retrospect – to my amazement. And immediately afterwards the woman seated next to her husband says to me, “It’s funny you bring that up.” And the other gentleman seated next to the smirking man says, “Right”, in agreement with the woman. “Did someone put you up to this? We all can’t help but to think that right now, right?

The husband seated there next to the woman, says, “It’s impossible.” The woman goes on to say at this point that her mother-in-law passed away a night or two ago and that she indeed watched The Wheel of Fortune every night and did ‘word searches’. Now I am completely at a loss for words and have no idea what to say except to say that I assured them I was not told to tell them that story. “We’re all getting goose bumps right now. Throughout the whole joke.” I replied, “Look at my arms. Me too. Please do accept my sincere condolences by the way. I had no idea. Please forgive me. Had I known I would have never…..”

“Oh, it’s alright. It was cute and describes my mother-in-law to a tee. There must be a reason you told us that joke.”

(Yes. Because it’s an ice-breaker and my, ‘go to’ joke. It’s part of my own personal touch as a host at this restaurant. It’s what sets me apart from the person who doesn’t care to the person who cares.) And in that moment, of goose bumps, trust me, I cared more than I had probably ever cared before. I felt humiliated, embarrassed and the goose bumps would not stop. As I was changing the outside trash on my restaurant’s terrace and placed a new liner into the receptacle, I bid them all a good night, apologizing again. The man and woman said that they were not quite done yet but the gentlemen seated with them were leaving. “We need to buy a few things from your ‘to go’ area.”

“Okay, folks, thank you again for coming out tonight.” Off I went to the back of house trash area to drop off the garbage bag from the outdoor patio seating. As I came back I saw the husband and wife with a few bags of items we sell near the door and again I apologized. We exchanged some more conversation about the joke and the coincidence and spoke about how all of us may have been bought together this evening for whatever reason. (Still experiencing good bumps this second conversation with these folks.)

“Maybe there was some supernatural force at work that bought you into our life tonight. All this food we’ve bought just now in your ‘to go’ area is for our guests at the commemoration of Mom tomorrow night.” Whispering now. “Mom was cremated with a ‘word search’ book.”


“Enjoy the memories and your guests,” I replied, choking back some true emotions and going on to say finally, “Maybe your family was sent to ME tonight for some strange reason. It could be the other way around entirely.” I could barely get through the sentence.

I then told the folks to come back and visit us again. All three of us, all smiles, thankfully.

Sometimes, you just never know, you know?



Word Count: 1278 Post # 1280

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Wednesday September 2, 2020

You have this idea – if you’re in my generation – of Rob Lowe being the frosted hair dude, partying all the time with the long earring trying to look avante garde in the movie, St. Elmo’s Fire consoling the Demi Moore character and being this bohunk of a dude that all the girls of that movie’s era were madly in love with. (Yes, I know poorly constructed sentence.) Most of the characters he played in those Brat Pack movies were like that. Coming of age movies.

The studly dude. Then you remember some of his characters like the ones in Tommy Boy, Wayne’s World and Austin Powers and you remember that he did eventually come to terms with all that and good-naturedly took his shots. He even became a parody of himself, so to speak. He became the handsome bad guy or comic foil who eventually got the Biff Tannen treatment, He’s got a podcast now.

If you listen to Rob Lowe interview Dana Carvey however on his entry into the podcast “audio-on-demand” world (available on Stitcher) entitled, Literally!, you realize – if you hadn’t already – that there’s more to Rob Lowe than the Brat Pack one trick pony of days gone by.

(I know a lot of you are rolling your eyes at me right now thinking Mike’s using his blog to kiss either Rob Lowe’s butt or maybe Dana Carvey’s butt. But what is actually the truth here is that
I’m actually kissing “audio-on-demand’s” butt and “old timey stories” butts. I can’t get enough of this stuff these last 10 years or so. Anytime one someone hosts a podcast where they tell stories about either knowing or working on some movie with another actor or actress, I quite literally (pun intended) tear into these things like a fat kid tears into a Mallomar. Wait, I tear into Mallomars and I was a fat kid. Well you get the point. I love listening to these things.)

It turns out both Rob Lowe and Dana Carvey have Paul McCartney stories. Listening to two guys talk about a Beatle and one of the most influential singer / songwriters of the 20th century and their contact with the man had me literally (again, pun intended) riveted. Perhaps it’s Dana Carvey and not Rob Lowe at all. Carvey’s ability to inhabit the psyche of those he impersonates is quite the aural epiphany. (Some impressionists have this ability and some don’t.) Maybe it was the relationships these Hollywood types spoke of that they have had with other Hollywood types? I don’t know. I personally think we’re all just plain folks. But when you hear guys like Rob Lowe sitting around talking to Dana Carvey about their personal experiences with a Paul McCartney, for example, like on Lowe’s Literally! podcast, something transformative happens. At least for me something transformative happened.

Put it this way. It’s a cherry on an already delicious cake. These two gentlemen obviously know each other well from having hung out, perhaps, but from definitely having done Wayne’s World, so their banter is less formal and more casual in nature. But then they both speak of someone like a Paul McCartney, like you or I would speak about Paul McCartney. They both made it sound as if the encounters were unimaginable. Grounded them. A gift. They both met Paul McCartney through one man. It just ties it all up so nicely like the rug in the Dude’s living room in The Big Lebowski (which has nothing to do with anything. It’s just a nice analogy.).

Both Carvey’s and Lowe’s McCartney experiences happened at the home of Lorne Michaels. Funny how so many actors or comic actors or comedians of the 1980s and later, had contact with people from the music industry. Carvey asks, “What do you say to a celebrity?” Which is what I would ask if faced with a Rob Lowe, a Dana Carvey, a Paul McCartney or a Lorne Michaels out in public somewhere.

I’d probably be like Chris Farley.

“Remember that time you did that thing? Yeah that was awesome.”

Or Jackie Gleason.

“Hamana hamana hamana.”

I’d like to think I’d be a bit more coherent than just, “Ermergerd!”

Probably not.

I’d be one star struck mofo. No doubt.



Word Count: 745. Post 1279

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Friday August 28, 2020

Different things effect me at different times. It’s like the seasons of your life. Spring, which usually lasts until about 30. Or is that too long? Spring is maybe age 7 to age 18 for some – ending right after high school?

Let’s face it. That’s a pivotal time for most people and the time some pretty huge choices are demanding to be made. Work? School? Independence? Would you necessarily call anything after the age of 18 the quote unquote summer of your life, though? Not if you’re making choices, it’s not.

What if you took that summer off – between high school and college – from decision making or literally had no plans for the future? So what is a “season” of one’s life? The extent? The duration? So then how do you liken Winter, Spring, Summer and Fall to seasons of your life?

For me, the summer of 1980 was the summer after high school. That was forty years ago.

Do I even remember my high school graduation?

It’s funny. The seasons of my life changed so much between the ages of 18 (July 11, 1980) to just before I was 23, it’s not even funny. In April of 1985 I began a career in supporting all activity in and around face to face day trading in the agricultural trading pits in downtown Chicago (runner, trade checker, phone clerk, broker assistant, screen trader for our crush guy) that lasted until a few months after my 46th birthday, twenty-three and a half, years, closer to twenty-four in all actuality. What might I call those years?

The Living Years? The Working Years? The working with a bunch of nutball millionaire years? Working with other irate and edgy support people – one more self-important than the other? And there I was just plain folks trying to stand on my little piece of ground amid a very boisterous, fast-paced and aggressive bunch of human beings. It’s no small wonder I am still alive and I managed to keep my sanity – being as neurotic as I was – surrounded by all that craziness.

After that, people not on that roller coaster would ask me about the economy (as if I were an expert) and and I’d always tell them, “Mom always said never play ball in the house,” like Bobby Brady on that episode of The Brady Bunch where they broke their mother’s favorite vase. No. I’d say, it’s going to get worse before it gets better.

(Working where I worked for 24 years it was actually easier than you might imagine to get a customer on the phone and tell them some “insider prognostication” on what the feel of the trading floor was based on sound level, psychology and which companies were buying or selling based on what direction the prices were trending or moving at any given moment. But that comes with experience.)

I’d call all the years after The Bubble of 2008 – the year I was let go from the CBOT – the circling the drain years. That’s what I’d call the season of my life right now.

Sad, but true.

Every season has its own distinguishing markers. And no matter what devastation each season might bring during it’s extremes, it’s the moments.

You know how some people say it wasn’t the job it was, “the people?” Yes. Well the same can be said of the “seasons.” It’s not the seasons themselves (like the, “circling the drain” season) it’s the “moments.” Or, more specifically the moment to moment joys that one finds tucked away in the fleeting passage of time where moments of true happiness, perhaps and the ability to maintain hope lives – amid a sometimes aggravating and uncomfortable situation. Or season.

The “seasoning.”

The focus.

Nothing else?

It helps to think about it like that?




Word Count: 661. Post # 1278

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Saturday August 8, 2020

One of the truly transformative things about writing a blog for the last fifteen years is not the following I have. I don’t have one. It’s not that at all. It’s the thought that a) perhaps this might be read and b) the fear it might be read and c) something far more ethereal and nebulous. Sure, the catharsis is a beautiful thing. Getting something off one’s chest and into a written form (since March of 2005) can have immeasurable transformative properties. A cleansing of thought or idea. A sharing. A howling at the moon is what I have always called it. The archive of my life. More so than any of those might possibly be the actual act of, perhaps, sharing. Especially in a mostly xenophobic society of heads walking around to the beat of a smart device, the words on a smart device or the images contained therein; the true transformation of writing for me has been not mostly by guessing at my reason. Nor is all art borne from pain. (Aha! So you, Mike, need to do this to get your pain out. No.)

I think it’s the process of writing itself. True, my posts have become less and less about some thought, idea, phrase, expression, human behavior, “thing I don’t understand” I may have scribbled on to a piece of paper and put in my pocket as grist for my writing mill. The blog has become – over fifteen years – a document that flows. Imagine if you will someone going to the little radio box (that you can open in the margin of this blog that I really need to update soon to reflect my life as it is now) and picking a random date and just reading something I wrote on a particular date. What if I just do that myself to get a sense of the passage of time and to try and better get to know myself based on the year, the month, the day, the time of day I posted the blog and what I might have been in to or up to on that day. All with the the topic of that day’s blog posting being another quandry all by itself.

Was it a transformative write that day? Was it cohesive? Was there a point? Did writing whatever it was on the particular day, change me? Was it actually more than, “A man walks in to a bar. . .”? Was it more than just a television show recap/ review? Was it more than a story about Harold Miller, Charlotte Rothschild, George Carlin or Steve Martin? How drunk was I when I wrote it? Not drunk in the literal sense. How pregnant with thought was I when I wrote that? Again, I’m a dude, so that’s not literal either. How earnest was I in whatever it was I wrote on that particular day and about that particular topic? (When I started swimming at Independence Park’s field house in their 60 foot indoor swimming pool and the countless experiences I had going there to swim during the weekly nights of their Adult Swim from 8 PM to 9 PM – and wrote about – comes to mind. Or the times I actually logged into my blog between afternoon outtrade runs working at Soya / Bunge and wrote something about something.)

How earnest was I? How truthful to whatever it was I was feeling was I? And how honest was I? (Did the blog post from that day capture what it felt like to actually witness this little fella almost getting hit by a car on his bicycle about a block from Jackson and LaSalle?) Did I mention actual persons names in actual anecdotes? (Which I never have done. Only when it was to celebrate a person’s influence upon my life.) The same holds true for doing podcasts on GCast back in 2007 and 2008? Was it transformative? Was I honest? Did I learn anything? And did I reach any sort of conclusion to / with any of it? Are these things, “art?” Just as the cover pages I used to create for St. Stephen’s King of Hungary Church’s weekly bulletins sometimes were?

Those days, from 1995 to 2002, I thought the work I did for the church I was baptized in held a reverence, not necessarily, prestige, but some “thing” of a sacrifice offered up to God in some strange way for all the wrongs I might have committed in my life. Atonement? Is my writing atonement? How bad must whatever it was I have done in my life been to make this stream of words come from my fingertips and on to this blank canvas of a page for fifteen years – to make me want to just core-dump it all in 650 word increments in to the ether of cyberspace?

Will I ever understand any of the impetus? The drive? The reasons, why?


Who knows!

And quite frankly, who cares.

I’m just happy with whatever this blog is and happy to post whenever I can.



Post #1277 Word Count: 855.

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Friday July 17, 2020

According to my Amazon Kindle app for Android devices, I am only thirty-three percent through Dana Vachon and Jim Carrey’s new book entitled, “Memoirs and Misinformation” and it’s been a mind-numbing thirty-three per cent. So realistically, you can’t call this a review having only read thirty-three per cent. It’s almost as if the compelling feeling towards writing about this before I finish the last page was so great that I felt I had to share what I already know having only a third of the book finished, read, consumed, digested and under my belt. I’ve read passages referencing southern California’s celebrity existentialism and fascination with spiritual journeys. I’ve read entire chapters (only through four or so, so far) of Jim Carey’s gurus, loves, his own grappling with self and mortality and of course, Kelsey Grammer.

What makes this tome so compelling for me to sit to word processor – at this point – and share thoughts on the portion I’ve just read? Or heard? (Jeff Daniels, Carrey’s costar from two Dumb and Dumber movies narrates the Audible version which I also downloaded along with the book itself.) What is it about this particular chunk of this particular book that drove me to sit here and write? Why is Jim Carrey’s interview on Marc Maron’s WTF podcast and on Jimmy Fallon’s Tonight Show promoting this book entangled in this compulsion to write? How do you separate Dana Vachon’s contribution to this, “faux memoir” from something that leapt out of Jim Carrey’s mind in some office or hotel room where they both threw these ideas around? Whose contributions explain how transfixed I’ve become since starting my read? And why would, of all people, Anthony Hopkins become personally involved with Jim Carrey on the verge of playing Mao Zedong to essentially trick his fanbase into believing the movie, “I Love You, Phillip Morris,” never happened? (If I am understanding this passage completely.)

And more importantly, what portion is from the mind of Jim Carrey alone in all this?

Well, the grade school child might have the answer for you. The Dumb and Dumber fan might have the answer for you. The person whom after watching Jim Carrey’s face, jaw and jowls exaggeratedly say, “Alrighty, then” in, “Ace Ventura: Pet Detective” might possibly explain this for you.

None of it and all of it. Dana Vachon, the language surgeon and grammarian and Jim Carrey the weaver of maniacal, oftentimes over-the-top, visceral contortions decided to turn story, memoir and misinformation on its ear interweaving small autobiographical truisms and sheer fiction into a mish-mosh of mind-numbing, face-melting, verbal riffs of language and dream that may or may not have ever been uttered, typed, recorded or lived in this or any lifetime by anyone, let alone, Jim Carrey.

The one thing that struck me was how far each description and to what lengths backstory played in these fictionalized version of conglomerations of people that have been conjured for this novel. Surely no one like these people, let alone Carrey, truly exist in this real world? But this book brings them to life in the short amount I’ve read and the entirety is something my time will only allow me to read in chunks. Or listen to in chunks. But that seems to me to be the best way to do this. I did not know this undertaking would be like this. I didn’t know what to expect. And now, only thirty-three per cent finished, I can breathe a sigh of relief as I either listen to Jeff Daniels continue narrating or read the words and think to myself, “I kind of get it now. Not. So this is how this is going to go? Man this thing just keeps sucking me in and it’s getting weirder and weirder.”

Kind of like Jim Carrey’s early work in Ace Ventura or even the Dumb and Dumber movies. Or the insanely impossible manner in which he contorted himself on Johnny Carson’s Tonight Show to do a visual impression that looked so much like James Dean that it was kind of scary.

But I liked it.

And I like this.

So far.



Word Count: 717. Post #1276

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Saturday July 11, 2020

I don’t have a lot to say on my 58th birthday.

Suffice to say an anomaly has occurred. The once callow, unsophisticated, liberal-minded self is seemingly, finally, as Desiderata puts it, surrendering the things of my youth. How does something like this happen?

Why am I not among the protestors? Rabble rousing? Why am I not telling a-holes to wear their effing masks? Or conversely? Coming up with the perfect justifications for as to why not wearing a mask encroaches on freedom and impinges upon the very rights this country stands for? I should still be doing those things at 58, should I not? Vehemently. Or have I gone soft? Conservative?

Do I still even care? I don’t know if I do or not?

Look, this long form is not 140 characters. Never was. Never will be. So, it’s not Twitter. It’s not filled with emoticons. So it’s not Instagram. It has no audio or video. So it’s not Facebook or TicTok, either. It’s words. This past March, fifteen years worth. (I started writing again in March of 2005. 43 when I started.)


Once howling at the moon. Barely a puppy yip now. No?

Twenty-four years at the epicenter of agricultural commerce. Survived the scariest day of my life, work-related, on 9/11 when we thought we might be next. Dinner band guitarist for five years. Weekly Catholic church bulletin, quarterly newspaper word processor, graphic arts creation seven years. Photo restoration for two downtown Chicago locations eight years. Nearly nine years in gaming. Bartending close to six years combined. Warehouse work. Now finally, a cashier and host at an area chain restaurant. And the blog remains. I’m still me. Fifty-eight. Lost in the process, the father, my aunt, my brother-in-law and my own flesh and blood brother with whom I grew up loving and admiring and wanting very much to be like. Living with family. Closer to family. The city of Chicago left behind four years ago. Here I am. Eight days away from what would have been Steve’s sixty-second birthday had he made it. No longer able to share a birthday dinner in between my and my brother’s birthdays.

. . .and here I am.


Fighting the good fight.

Aging as gracefully as I possibly can.

Indebted to many. Apologetic to a few. Hopeful that one day this will all make sense. Unsure and hopeful of the future. Writing. Writing. Writing. Here I am.

Not as much the hothead. Not as much the embarrassing, outspoken loud mouth. Not as much that focused on either music or graphic arts or even career as I was was because quite frankly whatever pre-cognition I had to say this I said it when I left the grain exchange in 2008:

“It will get worse before it gets better.”

I don’t know why I said that and a few other things that came to pass (eerily). Real estate failed in 2007. Then the national economy in 2008 the very year my company let me go after 21 years in their bid to down-size according to the computer and screen trading changes which irrevocably changed the face of speculation, trading, hedge management and price creation forever.

Here in 2020, after leaving the big city a while ago now I am still – as many – in the throes of trying to build a life before I die. Covid 19. Unrest in our streets. Worst unemployment ever.

Worse before it gets better. Here I am. I made it to 58! Adversity, you haven’t killed me yet. I‘ve earned being able to say that. Believe it or don’t. I don’t care. Here I am. I may not be the young squirrel or the big squirrel. May never have been either. But I intend on finding my nut someday. Because as they say, “Even a blind squirrel eventually finds a nut.”

God willing and the crick don’t rise.

Happy Birthday to me!



Word Count: 660. Post # 1275

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Friday July 3, 2020

This veil that’s been lifted on Hollywood for well over eight years now – for me – has proven to be a true enticement to revisit my blog writing. The veil itself has been lifted by listening to podcasts, Prior to that, it was watching my favorites celebrities and comedians on talk shows or in interviews you could watch on t.v. or read in a magazine.

The Carson Podcast or even Gilbert Gottfried’s Amazing Colossal Podcast (these last bunch of years) both contain interviews with actors, comedians, singers, songwriters, television producers, etc. all whom weave tales of their experiences in entertainment and show business.

Show business has always been a fascination of mine. The entertainment industry as well.

One could not have watched The Dick Van Dyke Show in reruns – during my generation – without wondering if, “writer’s rooms for television shows” were really like they depicted in that series. (The veil lifted.) Who wouldn’t want the same job Rob Petrie had, laying on a couch all day and thinking up funny things with Buddy Sorell and Sally Rogers? This sort of programming, script writing, television situation comedy “premise” was the brainchild of Carl Reiner whom we lost on Monday at the age of 98.

Who decides the life of a television show writer is grist for the situation comedy mill?

That’s what the hipsters call, meta.

“That’s so meta,” they would say.

Carl Reiner decided.

He wrote and produced – in large part – The Dick Van Dyke Show on CBS Television from 1960 to 1965. He also occasionally acted in the program, too, as the boss, Alan Brady.

Hard to believe Carl Reiner was 98. And in such rare form. Tweeting. Interviewing on podcasts such as Marc Maron’s WTF Podcast, Mark Malkoff’s The Carson Podcast (three times) and Gilbert Gottfried’s Amazing Colossal Podcast among others. Cogent. Lucid. Funny. The man’s credentials are a laundry list a mile long. Responsible for stage plays, autobiographical books, children’s books, acting, producing and directing. Four movies alongside Steve Martin. Launched Steve Martin’s movie career with, “The Jerk.” Did panel on The Tonight Show starring Johnny Carson numerous times. Each time he appeared, it was, “must-see t.v.” Multiple Emmy winner. Let’s not forget that one of those Emmys was for reprising his role as Alan Brady on the Paul Reiser / Helen Hunt comedy series, Mad About You.

Carl Reiner has been considered “comedy royalty” because of his earliest jobs in show business working as an actor and writer on Sid Caesar’s, Your Show of Shows where he sat alongside a good many other powerhouse comedy coworkers such as Mel Tolkin, Larry Gelbart, Mel Brooks and Neil Simon. Father to Rob Reiner. (And Annie and another son, Lucas.) He’s also known as the best comedic, “straight man” in show business by people of note. Brilliant right up until the very end, tweeting his last tweet a day before he passed. 98.

I can’t give you the exact day I started following his Twitter account but I can tell you he has been such a ubiquitous part of my personal zeitgeist for so long, you sometimes almost feel like you knew the person. His absence will be greatly felt and the news of his death resulted in two things, personally, for me. One. Carl Reiner has been known in his circle of friends to have spent many nights together with his friend Mel Brooks by his side watching television in their retirement. “What’s Mel going to do now?” That was the first thing and the second thing was, “What other comedy legend with a similar resume who is 98 and as smart and sharp witted can I now follow?”

I don’t know to both of those questions.

But Mr. Reiner will be missed.

Rest easy, good sir.



Word Count: 649. Post #1274

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