Last week I wrote about the Kurt Vonnegut Rule (my Kurt Vonnegut Rule, not Kurt Vonnegut’s Kurt Vonnegut Rule). The Kurt Vonnegut Rule is: get out and dance, be a human, see what happens.

I mentioned other rules, so I thought we could review them here. To be clear, these aren’t actual rules. They’re reminders I use sometimes. Nobody has to do these things. It’s not like I’m your mom. Big thanks to John Sandel, who codified these rules, making it possible for me to share them with you.

1. The Oscar Peterson rule: “If it moves you, it’ll move me.”

I haven’t been able to find the quote online, but my husband heard Peterson say this in an interview years ago. It’s something the great jazz pianist might indeed have said, in speaking of art and human creativity.

“If it moves you, it’ll move me” is a good rule for when you’re trying to decide what to write, paint, sing or create. If you wonder if your audience will like it, maybe turn your mental conversation from Selling to Self. Do you like it? Does it move you? To me this sounds like the difference between a work of art and a manufactured product. Neither is better than the other. It all depends on your goal.

Dick Cavett’s interview of Oscar Peterson gives you an inkling of the of the giant talent of the man.

2. The Bob Dylan Rule: When something’s not right, it’s wrong.

The line from Dylan’s song, “You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go,” strikes me as being about gut instinct, that gnawing feeling that says, “This doesn’t feel safe” or “This person isn’t right for me” or “This email reads like scam AI…”

The hard part for me is slowing down and listening to what my gut is trying to tell me. But if I’m lucky enough to notice the nagging before I make the big mistake, the rule “If something’s not right, it’s wrong” is a lifesaver.

This rule serves me every time I block a spam email or tell myself “no, don’t click on that.” It’s also useful for checking over my shoulder when I’m out at night. Or for stopping me when I’m about to say something dumb on social media.

3. The Alec Baldwin Rule: “So that happened.”

In the David Mamet film, State and Main, Alec Baldwin’s character gets wildly drunk and ends up in a car accident. When Philip Seymour Hoffman reaches him, Baldwin, totally disheveled, laughs drunkenly and says, “So that happened.”

It’s at right about 2:00 in the trailer. My favorite moment in the film.

When things are chaotic and there’s nothing I can do about it, “So that happened” comes in handy. What’s done is done. You missed the plane. You forgot your friend’s birthday. You dented the fender. Rather than lamenting it, it’s time to start fixing the problem. Though I don’t recommend driving drunk.

4. The 2001 Rule: When the task is almost finished, remain diligent.

In 2001, A Space Odyssey, the astronaut makes a repair on the outside of the spacecraft.

Quoting the book by Arthur C. Clarke and Stanley Kubrick:

“This was often the most dangerous part of an extravehicular operation: when a job was finished and it was merely a matter of tidying up and getting back inside the ship—that was when the mistakes were made.”

(Later in the story Hal knocks the astronaut off the vehicle and out into space, but that’s not the astronaut’s fault.)

This rule reminds me: when I approach the end of a project or process, just because I’m almost finished doesn’t mean I’m finished.

Say, hypothetically, that I pulled a muscle in my back yesterday pulling weeds, which was dumb, I should have stopped after an hour but I went for two. But of course this is hypothetical. My back feels better today and I could go out and pull more weeds (because, hypothetically, we have plenty more weeds). But today is 2001 Day. My back feels better but it’s still not at 100%. I’ll let it rest another day to make sure.

Or I’m close to finishing a project and I want to send it out right away. 2001 Day is the day (or week or month) when I let it sit, so I can give it a final, objective appraisal before letting others see it.

Or I’m walking our dog, Juice, and, without incident, we’ve gotten past the house where all the cats live, and I relax and let the leash go slack and one of those fucking cats is lurking in the next yard just to mess with Juice, and Juice lunges, nearly knocking me over. So the 2001 Rule here is DO NOT LET THE LEASH GO SLACK ANYWHERE NEAR THE WEST END OF THE BLOCK.

When it feels like the hard part is over, don’t let go just yet. Take the time you need to be sure.

5. I notice I don’t have any rules named for women. Let’s come up with some! Please share your rules in the comments, regardless of gender.

You can’t just hop on a plane and fly off to Prague for a quick weekend of sightseeing. Not if you’re me, anyway.

But (if you’re me) you still need to get away from your computer, get out and DO something. You need a balance of everyday routine along with new, never-before-seen places and experiences. It’s empowering to have an adventure, and it’s comforting to come home to your safe space.

So I follow the Kurt Vonnegut Rule whenever I can.

I’ve admired Vonnegut since I first read The Sirens of Titan something like fifty years ago. In an interview with David Brancaccio for PBS (I Snopesed it), Vonnegut told a story. He tells his wife he’s going out to buy an envelope.

“Oh, she says well, you’re not a poor man. You know, why don’t you go online and buy a hundred envelopes and put them in the closet? And so I pretend not to hear her. And go out to get an envelope because I’m going to have a hell of a good time in the process of buying one envelope. I meet a lot of people. And see some great looking babes. And a fire engine goes by. And I give them the thumbs up. And, and ask a woman what kind of dog that is. And, and I don’t know...

“And, of course, the computers will do us out of that. And, what the computer people don't realize, or they don't care, is we're dancing animals. You know, we love to move around. And, we're not supposed to dance at all anymore.”

I love that. “We’re dancing animals.” And I especially love the “I don’t know” part. Anything can happen. So the Kurt Vonnegut rule is: get out and dance, be a human, see what happens.

(I can’t tell you how pleased I am to discover I have something in common with Kurt Vonnegut.)

I’m not a great dancer but I walk a lot, and when I can combine a walk with an errand it’s especially fun. I’m not sure why that is. Maybe it’s because it makes the walk more than just an amble, and it makes the errand more than just an errand.

For example, the drugstore is only about a two mile round trip. If I take the direct route along the main drag it’s not a beautiful walk. It’s loud, with lots of traffic, and there’s usually some trash that people couldn’t bother putting into the bin at the bus stop. I don’t love this route but if nothing else, it’s different. And I don’t have to go this way, I can wind through the neighborhood along the leafy side streets. It takes a little longer, but I cross the main drag only once instead of walking along it.

The other day when I was about to cross the main drag, I passed a woman wearing a bright, red sleeveless t-shirt. It was cut down deep to show her cleavage, and the word “RESIST” was printed across her chest. She was walking with a kind of swagger, like “Go ahead, try me.” Her expression was grim.

“I love your shirt,” I said. It just popped out.

Oh her smile. Big and bright and instantaneous. “Thank you!” she said, winking, as if we were both in on something, which we were. I think I made her day. I know she made mine. I’ll bet Vonnegut would have liked her.

Everyone knows you see more detail when you’re walking than when you’re driving. Surely this has happened to you: you’re walking along a familiar street and you notice a building or a side street or just a driveway that you’ve driven by a hundred times and never noticed before. Like, “Wow, that driveway goes way back. Is that an office back there?” or “Looks like they’re building something new. I can’t remember what used to be here!” or “They got a new dog! Hi sweetie!” Then maybe the dog’s owner comes out and tells him to stop barking, and you say, “Aw, he’s a good boy, he’s just protecting you” and the person laughs, and you tell him about your dog, or your cat, or your neighbor, and you’ve had a moment of human contact like Vonnegut talked about.

Sometimes nothing much happens. You don’t notice anything new. You don’t meet a new person or a new dog. Sometimes it’s just a walk. But it’s always an opportunity for your brain to relax, to let your mind wander, a time to be doing nothing while in a way doing something important. You’re letting your eyes and body and mind absorb the world as you move through it, take part in it. This keeps me happy, keeps me human.

The Kurt Vonnegut Rule isn’t my only rule. There’s the Bob Dylan Rule, the Oscar Peterson Rule, the 2001 Rule, and the Alec Baldwin Rule (which isn’t what you think it is). I might have more, I don’t remember. Perhaps I’ll write about them another time.

If you head out soon for a wander or an errand, let me know what you find. Did anything cool happen? Did you see something weird? Have an inspiration?

And hey, if you take the main drag you might see a fire engine. Give the firefighters a thumbs up.

This is my Kurt Vonnegut Rule. But Vonnegut himself had a rule: “There’s only one rule that I know of, babies. God damn it, you’ve got to be kind.”

I’ve been walking a lot lately. My walking shoes are kind of crap, but I’ll get new ones. It’s an adventure—delightful, scary, gorgeous, ugly, you name it. I live in a Los Angeles suburb of about 136,000 people. It’s small enough that you often run into friends on the street, and it’s big enough to have, at last count, 581 people experiencing homelessness. That’s 0.4272%, less than one half of one percent of the population, so I guess we’re doing something right compared to some other cities. But those 581 people are still people in need, so I’m taking that “something right” with a grain of salt.

When you walk, you share the streets with everyone. Driving by with my windows closed and my stereo on, I might not notice the man crouching on the sidewalk across the street from the bookstore, screaming.

But I was walking. He might have been twenty. Or fifty. You know how hard it is to tell when someone’s been living in the weather for a while. When he stood I could see he wore a dirty blanket like a cape. He continued screaming as he walked along the main drag.

No one stopped to ask him what he needed. A filthy guy, screaming on the sidewalk in a nice part of town, how do you encounter that? It feels unsafe. I didn’t want to talk to him either, and normally I would have continued past him like everyone else did. I’ve walked by desperate-looking people a hundred times, a thousand times, haven’t you? I’ve acted like I didn’t see them, just like everyone else has. It’s the city. It happens.

I was glad the guy was across the street from me. He might have been in pain, but he could also have been insane. It was hard to tell.

I had a little distance, so I called the police non-emergency line and they said they’d send someone. It wasn’t like I reached out a helping hand, but it was something I could do, something I felt safe doing.

One day, in the fancy part of town, a woman pushed a loaded shopping cart along the sidewalk. She wore heavy clothes that completely covered her: a hooded coat and a full-length skirt. From the back of her cart a dirty, red and white blanket dragged on the ground. As she pushed the cart forward she would step on the blanket, push the cart a few more inches, lift the blanket and step on it again. No one paid any attention to her.

I guess I was thinking of the screaming man, and also I had less fear because she was a woman, so I hurried to catch up with her before she stepped into the intersection. I thought she might trip on the blanket and fall into traffic. I offered to help her load the blanket onto her cart.

She smiled from under her hood. A pretty woman of no more than forty. She said gently, “No, thank you, I want it there.” I said oh, okay, and she headed out into the intersection still talking to me: “I have so much to do, I have to get my things, and my shoes, and my…” her head turned and I didn’t catch the rest.

It wasn’t until a couple of miles further on that I realized that perhaps she spoke of needing to get her shoes because she didn’t have shoes, and she was walking on the blanket because it protected her feet from the rough pavement. In fact, thinking back, I’m sure that’s what it was.

A few days later, I saw a man sprawled across the sidewalk on his back, rolling from side to side, mumbling. He was youngish, maybe thirties, grimy from head to toe.

People walked right past him. I don’t blame them. It’s possible this person needed a good Samaritan; maybe he’d been attacked, maybe he’d fallen, maybe he’d been robbed. But the people who passed him knew, as I did, that he was just really, really high.

The only way to pass him was to walk out into a busy street. It seemed wrong to simply step around a person in such obvious distress, and believe me, I didn’t want to talk to him but I felt guilty—and I felt obvious. I was in a public area, I was safe. I don’t think people avoid street people because of physical safety, though. I think it’s about the discomfort, not knowing what to do or say, not wanting to get involved. I mean, what if I offer help and he takes me up on it? Will I have to help him stand up? Touch him? Give him money? Sit with him while waiting for help to come? How long will that take?

If I’d been on the other side of the street, I admit I would have stayed there and avoided the whole situation. Who wouldn’t? Maybe I’d have called police non-emergency again.

I wasn’t carrying cash but I had a bottle of water. I asked him if he was hurt, and offered him the water.

“No hurt, no water,” he slurred, not looking at me.

“Okay, take care,” I said, which was dumb. I walked on. I admit I was relieved.

This was a person. I felt relieved that I could leave him in his misery, lying on the sidewalk, without feeling too guilty. I mean at least I tried. Right?

The last mile of my walk is always the hardest, whether I walk five miles or ten. I’m tired, hungry, thirsty. At home I have food, water, a bed. A clean place to stay. Safety. My walking shoes may be crap, but they’re shoes.

I grew up in a town bisected by train tracks. In the woods near our house, sometimes my friends and I would find a hobo camp. Maybe a bit of trash, the remains of a campfire. But I never saw a homeless person until I lived in the city in the 1980s. I don’t have any solutions. I guess no one does.

I don’t know what size she wears but now I carry a spare pair of shoes in my car, in case I see her again. I hope I see her again.

I’ve experienced times—entire eras, actually—of unhealthy living. Some of them were a lot of fun. For example: I was in college in the mid-seventies, and if you were of college age around that time you know what I’m talking about: cheap marijuana, beer at keggers and college bars, and plenty of other stuff if you wanted to experiment.

Decrepitude: 1 Me: 0

After college, in my Chicago days, I was working hard and didn’t have a lot of time for stuff like, you know, exercise, sleep, healthy food (BO-ring). Marijuana was too expensive for my career girl pocketbook but somehow I managed to fit quite a bit of beer into my budget.

Decrepitude: 2 Me: 0

When I moved to Los Angeles to pursue an acting career I realized I’d have to clean up my act. You drive everywhere in LA. There are hills and freeways and traffic, so there would have to be less beer. Plus, if I was going to be a star I would need to be skinny.

It turned out dieting was even harder than cutting out beer, because there was insecurity. There was loneliness. There was chocolate chip ice cream.

Maybe I didn’t want stardom that badly. (Or a date, for that matter.) Maybe my fear was more powerful than my ambition. Either way…

Decrepitude: 3 Me: 0

After a few years of that I met a neighbor who was a coach at a fitness gym. When I told him I didn’t have time to work out he said something profound: “You’ve got three minutes, right? Can you work out for three minutes a day?”

You know something? I could.

I started working out for three minutes every morning. It wasn’t hard. So I tried five minutes. Then ten, then twenty. Pretty soon I was doing pushups, sit-ups, every kind of up you can think of, for thirty minutes every morning. I felt good. I looked good. My forties were good. I felt so good that I met someone who turned out to be the partner I was looking for. I’m pretty sure this was more about how good I felt than it was about how good I looked.

Decrepitude: 2 Me: 3

Then, LIFE.

We got married. We moved. My mother died. We moved again. After a couple of years we moved again, I wrote and published a novel, wrote a humor column for actors, published the column as a book, and we traveled, and somewhere in there I tried running and hurt my hip, took a fall and hurt my knees, and I was doing a lot of voice-over and I started narrating audiobooks, sitting in a small recording booth all day.

And then there was the pandemic, and Tubbo here had neglected to work out for more than fifteen years.

Decrepitude: 20 or so, I lost count Me: -7

My husband and I assessed our…uh…expansion…and got ourselves onto a healthy diet.

Decrepitude: 18 Me: -1

The memory of feeling good in my forties was still clear, and my neighbor’s words, “You’ve got three minutes, right?” came back and lit up my brain like a flash bulb. (Remember flash bulbs?)

I was 65. Was it too late?

On a dusty shelf in the garage I found my yoga mat, my weights, and several pages of diagrams and instructions from the physical therapy I’d had for my knees and my hip.

Three minutes a day. I started.

I liked it. I liked how I felt while I was doing it, and how I felt afterward.

Decrepitude: 15 Me: 3

Five minutes a day. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty.

I didn’t really like twenty.

Look, I know myself. I’m not going to schlep to a gym and work out for an hour three times a week. If I want to work out consistently then I’d better enjoy it. So I limit myself. I use a stopwatch. And it’s not like I’ve never missed a day. But generally I get that workout at least five days a week.

So here I am six years later, still exercising fifteen minutes a day. I’ve acquired more equipment and varied my routine, added yoga, and more weight, and other exercises that work for me. I’ve subtracted stuff too—the things that bore me or don’t seem to do much.

I’ve also been walking a lot lately. I get my 10,000 steps at the very least.

Decrepitude: 10 Me: 10

Ha! At last we’re even, me and Decrepitude.

Here’s the thing about decrepitude: I’m not really beating it. I’m simply not letting it beat me.

I can walk a hundred miles, lift a hundred pounds, do a hundred crunches, but I’m going to get older no matter what. Hell, I’m already older. That’s what happens to humans. You grow, hopefully you enjoy life, you get old, you get weak, you die. It’s inevitable. Dang! I’ve worked so hard—we all have!—I hate to get weak and die. But it’s going to happen.

Later rather than sooner, though. That’s the plan. Me and decrepitude—we’re even for now.

At my checkup the other day I told my doctor about the trip I’m planning, to walk Hadrian’s Wall later this year. It’s 84 miles, which I’ll do over eight days. I want to be sure before the trip that I’m in good health, have all my vaccinations, etc. I was feeling pretty good about my bad self, having done a lot of distance walking and working out lately, and eating (mostly) right.

After I breathed deeply for the stethoscope, touched my toes, got my knees hammered and said “aagh,” the doctor said, “You’re walking with a group, I assume?”

“No, on my own.”

His eyebrows went up. “Do you have an advance directive?”

“Uh…”

That’s what I said out loud. I know what an advance directive is. What I was thinking was, “Are you saying I’m not strong enough to do the walk? Am I going to die in England?” There are worse places to die, but…

I must have looked alarmed, because the doctor quickly explained that I’m fine, I’m in good health, I should have no problems.

But.

I could fall. I could break an ankle. Anyone could. It’s about age, but it’s not. The doctor wanted to make sure I’ve covered all my bases. He gave me an advance directive form to fill out.

The next morning I took the form with me to a meeting with a lawyer. Not my lawyer. I had signed up for a free 30-minute informational session at the local senior center.

I met with this nice lawyer and asked some general questions about wills vs. trusts. Then I asked about the advance directive. I showed him the form my doctor had given me, and he went over it with me in detail. I’d tell you what he said but it’s irrelevant. Anyway, get your own free lawyer. Suffice it to say, I should fill the thing out. ASAP.

A little side story: When our meeting concluded, I asked the lawyer for his business card and he said he didn’t think I wanted it because there are lawyers in town better suited for wills and trusts, and I could get a specialist for half what his firm would charge. I asked, “If you’re not here looking for clients, what’s in it for you?” For the first time in our meeting his face opened in a quiet smile. “I get to help people.” And I knew he was being sincere. I haven’t joined the senior center officially because I’m putting off calling myself a senior. But clearly, there are perks.

(My friend used to do publicity for the senior center and when she asked if I had any suggestions, I said, “Change the name.” When they start calling it “The Insiders’ Club” or “Pigs Fly,” I’m there.)

Anyway, I have to do an advance directive before my trip. I can do it today. It’s easy. You just fill it out. No big deal. It takes five minutes. So why haven’t I done it yet?

Because in order to fill it out I have to think about what’s going to happen.

I’m going to get old. Er. Older. What if I can’t make my own choices? What if I’m so messed up, physically and/or mentally, that I can’t answer questions or declare my wishes? I have always been autonomous. So have you. We all have. The advance directive gives your power to someone else. Not that I don’t trust my spouse, I’ve never trusted anyone more. But admitting to myself that I could become incapacitated, unable to speak for myself, is not easy.

Then there’s the “secondary agent.” Who should have power of attorney if my husband isn’t able? That’s a lot to ask of someone. Who do I know and trust who knows me best and is enough younger that they won’t croak first?

And if I’m unconscious, how can I know that I won’t become conscious again? Maybe I will! How can I tell people “don’t pull the plug!”

Then there’s organ donation. Like, should I donate all my organs, or just the best ones? Which are the best ones? Should I put my foot down (MY foot, leave it alone) and say no? And who wants my organs anyway? Aren’t they kind of old for this?

This is a lot to think about, so I spent the day not thinking about it.

Being incapacitated is only a possibility. It’s not necessarily probable. The only thing that’s inevitable is death.

But perhaps you can understand why haven’t yet called a lawyer about a will.

As a daily thought exercise, I run through a list in my mind of four things that help me feel good. I got it from an article. I can’t remember where, so I tried a web search. I found lots of lists of things that make people happy—like exercise, nature, being around positive people and performing random acts of kindness.

These are common knowledge. I know these things make me feel good if I’ll just remember to do them. When I’m feeling bad one of the best things I can do is go for a brisk walk, or give a stranger a compliment, or help a neighbor. Acts of kindness, random or not, work especially well because they bring joy to both giver and receiver.

Of all the lists I found, the one thing that isn’t on any of them is money. (Even though most days I think a million bucks would cheer me up.)

Every day when I walk our dog, Juice, I go through my list in my head. (No earbuds on the dog walk: I need to focus in case Juice sees a cat. Juice has a low opinion of cats.)

1. Gratitude

Gratitude is on most of the lists I found online. Wishing for what I don’t have does nothing to help my mood. Being grateful for what I’ve already got reminds me how fortunate I am.

Most sites recommend you think of three to five things you’re grateful for. I challenge myself to come up with fifteen every day. Five is easy because I have my husband, my dog, my home, my work, my friends, my health. See? I’m already past five. I can come up with more.

When I’m in a bad mood and can’t think of anything to be grateful for, it’s time to look at what I’m taking for granted: like, I have shelter, love, enough to eat. I have poop bags for Juice in my pocket. Hell, I have a pocket! I like those purple flowers at my neighbor’s place. I can see the mountains from my neighborhood!

I’m alive, so even if things are bad I have a chance to make them better.

2. Name the feeling

I didn’t find this in the online lists but it was in the article (which I also can’t find). The idea is to give a name to what I’m feeling. It’s surprising how useful this is.

Years ago I had a therapist who said there are only three categories of feelings: mad, sad, or glad. That’s it! Those are the only choices! When she asked how I was feeling, “I don’t know” was not an answer.

A web search of “mad sad glad” will return stuff about team building, but if you subtract “team” from your search you’ll get a fourth emotion: scared. I think this belongs on the list.

Sometimes my feelings are clear: I’m in a great mood or I’m down in the dumps or I’m angry. Simple.

But feelings can be ambiguous, and it’s not always easy to name them. So I start with mad, sad, glad and try them on to see what fits. There’s a wide range of feelings within each category: mad can mean I’m angry at someone in particular, general frustration with the news, and everything in between; sad could be as small as feeling bad about a mistake I made, or as big as grieving someone; glad might be happiness about an insignificant invitation, or as big as the joy of being alive.

If mad, sad and glad don’t fit my feeling, scared will show up. Maybe the news is scary. Or the mistake I made could cause real problems. Or that invitation is to an event that intimidates me.

Either way, naming the feeling helps me focus on number three.

3. Make a decision

When I’m not sure what to do, making a decision helps me decide, if that makes sense. Sometimes the decision I need to make is about how to handle the mad/sad/glad feeling I come up with in number two.

For me, the thing about decisions is it’s often a should versus a want. Like I’ve been hemming and hawing over “should I accept that invitation?” or “do I want to stay home where it’s safe?”

Once the decision is made I know right away if it’s the right decision or not. If it feels right, it probably is.

I’ll stay home where it’s safe.

If it feels wrong, I get to change my mind.

Just go. Have the adventure. See what happens.

It’s my decision after all.

4. Touch someone

This one’s easy for me because my husband and I both work at home, so I have ready access to hugs. I also get regular pit bull cuddles with Juice. (Sharing a loving touch with an animal definitely counts.)

But if you don’t have anyone to touch, this can be tough. You can’t just walk up to a stranger in the grocery store and shake their hand. You can’t step out onto the porch and hug the mailman. And unless you know a person very well, a minor gesture like patting someone on the shoulder can give the wrong idea or put you in the dog house. (At least there’s a dog in there to pet.)

Maybe ask a neighbor if you can pet their dog (but do always ask first). Either that, or find a nearby cat to cuddle.

So that’s it.
gratitude
name the feeling
make a decision
touch someone.

It takes only a few minutes and it helps me set (or re-set) my mood.

Do you have a thought routine? Affirmations? Reading? Writing? Meditation? What works for you?

And frankly, I think my “touch someone” idea for those without a partner, roommate, or pet was…less than adequate. Got any suggestions? Drop ‘em here in the comments.

I turn 71 today.

I don’t even know how to reflect on that. It feels like I’ve come a long way. It also feels like I haven’t gotten anywhere, and I don’t have the slightest idea what I’m doing. In fact, I don’t know anything at all. In some ways the world is a better place than it was, say, fifty years ago, and in some ways it’s much, much worse. Maybe it’s just a cycle, typical of a long life. You see progress, you see failure, you see progress again. Will it be a better world before I die? Please be a better world before I die.

Oh. Shit. Do I have to die? Seriously? Whose idea was that? What a travesty. I like living. As far as I know, I much prefer it to dying. Frankly, I have no intention of dying. Dying is stupid, I’m simply not going to do it.

Now that I’ve settled that, I have to figure out how to stay young. If I’m going to live forever it’s not just about staying healthy. I’ll have to learn how to…what…ride in a Waymo?...deal in virtual currency…use AI??

Oh. Shit. Do I really have to do that?

I don’t have to do that, do I?

Fine. Then I won’t stay young. It’s too late for that anyway. I’ll just have to stay strong.

Most days, I mean. I don’t have to be strong every day. Just most days. Some days I get to rest. Maybe one day a week I can take some ibuprofen after lunch and lie down for a nap, be frail. But only one day a week. For now I’m gonna say Fridays.

How about productive? I can be a productive 71.

Oh. Shit. Okay, I’ll do that on Tuesdays.

The rest of the time—Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays and weekends—I plan on being a smart, funny—dare I say, sexy—71.

Oh. Shit. Not sexy, that’s way too much trouble. Never mind. I’ll settle for smart and funny. And no stress, I’m not going to require myself to be both at the same time.

Sane. Sane would be good.

Oh. Shit.

Over the weekend I heard from my friend, actor and teacher Anthony Robert Grasso, letting me know about the death earlier this month of famed British actress Jane Lapotair e. Anthony and I were classmates during a blissful August in 1999 at the British/American Drama Academy’s Midsummer in Oxford program, (BADA), and Jane was one of our teachers. Anthony shared a photo of our group, with Jane posed in the middle. We messaged back and forth, trying to remember everyone’s names. We got most of them, not all.

Top row, L-R: Joy Jones, Dan, Laura K. Sorensen, Patricia…?, Jared Miller
Middle row, L-R: Jeff Wilburn, can’t remember her name!, Julanne Chidi Hill, Jane Lapotaire, Oberon K. A. Adjepong, Mary Jane Gibson, Petrea Burchard, Anthony Robert Grasso
Bottom row, L-R: Sarah Aubrey, Marty…?, Carol…?

That’s Anthony on the right with his sweater over his shoulders, and me sitting next to him.

The memories flooded back. I reread a piece I wrote years ago about the Oxford experience. It’s three short chapters in my book, Act As If: Stumbling Through Hollywood With Headshot in Hand.* I’m not trying to sell you a book, although you’re welcome to buy it and there’s a link at the end. I’m going to give you the gist of the story here.

In the chapters about BADA I used a recurring theme of life as a candle, always burning shorter. I was 44 in 1999, feeling like the art I had moved to Hollywood to pursue was eluding me and time was running out. To put it in candle terms, my candle was burning down and I wasn’t enjoying my work or my life.

I found a renewed sense of art at BADA—a joy in acting, in Shakespeare, in language, even in the architecture. We lived and studied at Balliol College, where every weekday we had classes in voice, movement, Shakespeare and scene craft, taught by generous teachers including Ms. Lapotaire, some of them members of the Royal Shakespeare Company. We had weekly workshops with the great John Barton, one of the directors of the RSC and the author of Playing Shakespeare. We saw the Royal Shakespeare’s production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, a play I had seen a million times and thought I never wanted to see again until I saw it performed by those actors, in that theatre, at Stratford-Upon-Avon. On weekends we’d explore the other colleges at Oxford, or hop a bus or train to Blenheim Palace, Warwick Castle, or London.

For me, and for Anthony too, BADA’s Summer at Oxford was a life-changing experience.

One afternoon in our class with the great Fiona Shaw we were working on Samuel Beckett’s short plays, trying wild things, discovering the texts together. At one point I was sitting at the back of the room when Fiona was talking about where we find the fuel within ourselves to be good actors. She said, “We must lead interesting lives.”

I heard that sentence with my gut. Fiona wasn’t talking about doing interesting plays. She was talking about life. Daily life. Before BADA I had not found the interesting life I’d sought. I was living it right then, in that moment, but summer would be over soon. I would have to go back to daily life. Was there a way to continue living in joy? I didn’t think so. I didn’t know how. I burst into tears.

Reading that phrase in my book this morning I burst into tears again.

We must lead interesting lives. How do you break that down? What exactly does it mean, even? Whether you’re an artist or not, most of us don’t get to pursue our passions all or even most of the time. But if all we ever do is run errands, do laundry and make a buck, why are we even here?

Usually when I write or tell a story I feel like an artist. I feel the creativity and I flow with it, because I’ve learned how to over the years. Maybe you feel that flow when you’re building something, or working with a student, or taking a photograph. But there are times when the work is just a job, when writing or performing is just a chore.

Whose fault is that?

Mine. There’s no one denying me an interesting life except myself. That has always been true. It was true in 1999 and it’s true now.

If I want to be interested, I’m required to find that interest, even in dull things. Walking the dog must be an opportunity to let my mind wander. Going to the grocery store must become a chance to meet an interesting person. Even cleaning the house must be an exercise in care. Maybe this isn’t true for you. It doesn’t have to be. But it is for me.

The bills must be paid. The family must be fed. The roof must be fixed. The world must intrude. We must lead interesting lives while we meet all these uninteresting demands.

I lead an interesting life when I remember to. When I choose to. It’s easy to forget. The days go by so quickly, and when I lie down to sleep I wish and hope for a million more days, a candle that burns slowly for a long time.

Clearly Fiona Shaw is leading an interesting life. I’m quite sure Jane Lapotaire led an interesting life as well. She wrote three books about it: Grace and Favour; Out of Order: A Haphazard Journey Through One Woman’s Year; and Everybody’s Daughter, Nobody’s Child.

I thank these remarkable women and all my teachers past, present and future for their interesting lives—examples of how it’s up to us. “We must lead interesting lives” is a phrase I’m grateful for, from a teacher I’m grateful for, from an experience I will never forget.

*(I’m proud of the book, and if you want to know what it was like to be a working actor in Los Angeles pre-pandemic, it’s worth your time. Everything’s changed now though, so some of the information is dated. But the main lessons learned are useful for everyone, not just actors.)

I want to celebrate three happy milestones, two of which happened last week.

Last Monday I won an Audie Award, “the Oscar of audiobooks.” To be clear, WE won the Audie for Best Ensemble Performance for The Correspondent, the breakout hit from Penguin Random House, written by Virginia Evans.

I narrated exactly two pages in this book. But an audiobook is a group effort, greater than the sum of its parts. I’m proud to be a small part of this particular great sum.

Thank you. I accept!

(**see below for a list of the people who put together The Correspondent.)

You might be surprised to learn this was my second Audie. I sure was. More on that in a bit.

The other milestone I reached last week was completing narration on my 100th audiobook. There’s no award for that unless I give myself one, so John and I commemorated it by ordering pizza and drinking a toast, clinking our glasses of non-alcoholic beer. It felt good.

It doesn’t matter your stage in life. Milestones can happen any time. I think they should be commemorated, good or bad.

The hallmark of a milestone is that it’s something worth being noticed and marked in some powerful way. We get to decide what our milestones are, and not all of them are happy. When a baby is born we throw a shower. When an athlete wins a race we give them a medal. When a couple gets married they have a wedding. When a loved one dies we hold a funeral.

But I missed one. I’ve probably missed more than that. But the third milestone I want to mention here happened years ago. I wasn’t aware of it at the time and I didn’t commemorate it.

When I began narrating audiobooks I wasn’t thinking about awards. Not that it wouldn’t be lovely, but I was focused on learning the craft and making a living. Then about a year ago, kind of accidentally, I learned that I had won an Audie and I didn’t even know it.

You guys, I won an Audie in 1999.

Before I ever narrated an audiobook.

Whut?

I started narrating audiobooks nearly twenty years after I got my first Audie, which wasn’t for audiobook narration at all but for an issue of Entrepreneur Magazine, which, incidentally, I did not narrate by myself. There’s your ensemble again, the thing that’s greater than the sum of its parts.

Twenty-seven years ago I had been working in commercial voice-over for 10 years or so. I had voiced some anime. I hadn’t heard of the Audio Publishers Association or the Audie Awards. Someone might have mentioned it, like, “hey, this thing you recorded won an award,” and I probably said something like “wow, that’s nice,” and returned my nose to the grindstone, thinking the award was something for the producer or the publisher, not for me, not taking notice of something worth celebrating.

So I didn’t commemorate this award 27 years ago. Nor did I do so when I learned about it last year. I didn’t put “Audie Award-winning narrator” on my website, because audiobooks are a relatively small world within the publishing industry. People know each other, and those in the business would know damn well I hadn’t won an Audie for any audiobook they’d ever heard of, and I’d have to be constantly explaining the story. So I made a social media post but never really took credit for that Audie.

Until now.

We get to take credit for our achievements. We get to grieve our losses. We get to commemorate events, turning points and landmarks in our lives.

I didn’t make it to the Audies ceremony in 1999, but I’m celebrating it now. I didn’t make it to the ceremony in 2026, either, but as you can see, I’ve donned my nominee medallions and I’m partying .

**all the thank yous for The Correspondent:

Sometimes it feels like we make audiobooks alone—we work in isolated sound booths, hearing only ourselves most of the time. Yet I think all narrators have an awareness of the listener in there with us; we tell the story right into their ear (also known as the microphone). And it’s not just the narrator and listener who make up an audiobook. In the case of dual, duet or full cast narration, there are all the other narrators too. It’s also the producer, sometimes a director, the editor, and the QC person who listens to the whole thing and makes sure the narrator(s) spoke the words exactly as the author wrote them.

Of course there’s the author as well. None of our jobs would be possible without the author. I think all narrators are clear on that concept.

My gratitude goes to the Audies and Audio Publishers Association; Penguin Random House Audio; My fellow cast members Maggie-Meg Reed, Jane Oppenheimer, Carly Robins, Jeff Ebner, David Pittu, Chris Andrew Ciulla, Mark Bramhall, Robert Petkoff, Kimberly Farr, Cerris Morgan-Moyer, Peter Ganim, Jim Seybert, Steve West and Jade Wheeler (all terrific, big parts and small); a big hug and thank you to our wonderful producer/director Kelly Gildea, who knows a classic when she sees one; and of course to author Virginia Evans, for her lustrous creation.

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In my first post I wrote about the intersection of three things I deal with in my attempts to live a more adventurous life:

1) the need to travel and explore,

2) money and time (or the lack thereof) to fulfill that need

3) age—staring at a shorter and shorter future.

I’m beginning to realize there’s a fourth thing, which would mean I’m not just talking about an intersection, but a crossroads.

4) fear.

It’s my biggest obstacle.

I talk a good game. Yeah, I want to travel, see everything, go new places, do new stuff. Hey, I’ve got a credit card. If I had the time I’d head to LAX right now, hop on the first flight that looks interesting and see where I end up!

I haven’t done that though, have I?

Which brings me to a bucket list trip I’ve been thinking about for a couple of years. I want to walk the Hadrian’s Wall trail. Hadrian’s Wall was built by the Romans between 122 and 128 AD to basically keep the northerners out of England, which was Roman territory at the time. The trail spans the width of northern England and runs about 84 miles from coast to coast, traveling alongside the ruins of the Wall itself, as well as ancient forts and other Roman sites.

Some people do the Wall as a challenging run. Some walk it in four or five days. I would want to take longer so I could take it all in, and so I can actually, physically do it. I know I can walk ten miles in a day, but I don’t know if I could do that eight days in a row. If I were to go later this year, I’d have time to train for it. I’ve already started running errands by walking instead of driving, and carrying extra weight in my backpack.

I love the feeling I get from walking, taking new routes through new places, local or not. I know I would love the trek along Hadrian’s Wall, with its pleasures as well as its challenges.

But I have been talking about it for months and haven’t actually clicked the button on the website to reserve and purchase the lodgings and luggage transfers and other things I need. Instead of committing to the trip I’ve read books about the trail, studied maps, and talked about it to my friends so much that I’m sure they’re sick of it. I even joined a Hadrian’s Wall Facebook group.

During the days, I think I’ll do it. I’m sure of it. I’ll go. I will love it. I love England, and this walk would be a way to see an 84-mile stretch of it up close, with ancient history, pretty villages, and friendly pubs.

But in the dark, early morning hours I wake, anxiety roiling in my stomach. What if I can’t come up with the money? What if I miss my train? What if I get bored? What if it rains? What if I’m not strong enough? What if I sprain an ankle and can’t complete the walk?

I’ll be 71 by the time I go. Am I physically fit enough?

So another day goes by and I don’t commit. I don’t click that button.

I think I will. I want to. But I’m scared.

Today, though, maybe today… After all, I am staring at that shorter and shorter future I mentioned.

If the fear is the obstacle, and the obstacle is the path—the way—then the fear is not in the way. It is the way.

And a realization hits me: even if I don’t have enough money and I have to use a credit card, even if I miss my train, even if it rains (and it will), even if I get tired, and even if I sprain an ankle, all of these things are better than never having tried.

I did it. I clicked that button. I paid the deposit and committed to the trip.

I’m thrilled and terrified at the same time. I think the term for that combination is “excitement.” Or fear. Whatever.

You approach the crossroads and you make a decision about which way to go. You don’t know how it’s going to turn out. That’s why you go in the first place.

I turned seventy last spring. I’m coming up on seventy-one. I’m getting old! I’m holding out for feisty old, fun old, happy old, fulfilled old—fiercely, unapologetically old. I embrace the word “boomer” with a relaxed smile and a heartfelt fuck you to anyone who thinks it’s an insult.

Today I bought a six-pack of non-alcoholic beer at the grocery store and the clerk asked me if I was over 21. We had a good laugh, then he offered to help me load my bags in the car.

Apparently I’m not fooling anyone; nobody seems surprised when I tell them my age. No one says, “You don’t look at day over sixty!” There probably are seventy-year-olds who can’t lift their grocery bags. Hell, there are fifty-year-olds who can’t lift their grocery bags, and ninety-year-olds who can. Age is not a brush you can paint everyone with.

It was sweet of the clerk to offer, even if he’s just covering his bases. I joked with him that loading grocery bags was my upper body workout. (My actual upper body workout involves lifting more than just groceries—if not more weight, at least more reps...)

I thanked him and said no.

What I meant was hell no. I’m too proud to let anyone rob me of that tiny bit of power until I absolutely cannot lift those bags anymore. When that happens I will thank the clerk and take him up on the offer.

I remember grocery shopping with my mother years ago, when she was about 80. While we were checking out, the clerk shouted at her, “DID YOU FIND EVERYTHING YOU WANTED?” My mother replied politely that she had.

When we stepped out to the parking lot I wondered aloud if the clerk was…you know…abnormal. “Not abnormal,” my mother said, “typical. Some people assume that if you have gray hair you’re hard of hearing.”

I haven’t had anyone yell at me yet but there’s certainly prejudice, and I’m tired of people making assumptions about me because of how I look.

Huh. Where have I heard that before?

Look, I’ve had seventy years to be white, middle-class and cisgender, and maybe it’s my turn to experience prejudice. I’ve had things pretty good for a long time so I’m not going to complain. It’s not like I’m being profiled by ageist cops or threatened with deportation to the Midwest because I was born in Kansas. It’s not like I’ve been denied employment due to my age.

Oh, wait…

Really though, there isn’t any one way to do this aging thing. Older Americans run marathons, travel, lift weights, make laws, break laws, go to restaurants, buy products, suffer anxiety, practice addictions, drink too much, don’t drink at all, volunteer, read books, ride horses, pilot airplanes, eat paleo diets or sit on our fat butts eating bonbons, work menial jobs or run giant corporations like the badasses we are. We are doing all sorts of things right and all sorts of things wrong, just like any other segment of the population.

I forgive the assumptions because until about twenty years ago I had the same prejudices about older people. I thought they were creaky and out of touch. I may be misunderstood by people who assume that when your hair turns gray you’re suddenly weak in both body and brain. But that doesn’t bother me nearly as much as the assumption that I’m not cool.

Then again, it’s freeing to have reached a point where I don’t know what’s cool anymore, and the coolest thing about me is I don’t actually care.

Maybe I’ll be elderly one of these days, but not yet. Seventy years old isn’t the same in 2026 as it was in 1976. Most of us old farts are not destined for nursing homes. We’re not packing ourselves away. We’re out here in the world, living.

When my genius friend Karen (all my friends are geniuses) had the idea of field trips, of course I said yes. I think it’s brilliant. I didn’t make it to the first one because I had to work. It was a visit to a Buddhist temple that Karen wanted to explore. But when Kim suggested Frogtown for our second trip, I thought, “Let’s do it.” I had heard of Frogtown, vaguely, but had no idea what or where it was. It turns out it’s a part of Los Angeles about 10 miles from where I live. I’ve driven past it a million times and never knew it was there.

We parked at Lewis MacAdams Riverfront Park (Formerly Marsh Park) near a pretty pavilion, close enough to the Glendale freeway that we could hear the cars speeding past. At first I thought that was a minus, but one thing that makes Frogtown great is that it’s smack dab in the city, surrounded by freeway, train tracks, graffiti, and the concrete channel that is the LA River.

From the Marsh Skateboard Park through the Marsh Nature Park (with a dinosaur playground) we stepped onto the walking and biking path and into another world. I couldn’t hear the freeway anymore but the bike path itself is like a little highway alongside the river channel, with bicycle traffic whizzing by.

The path cuts through Frogtown with the Los Angeles River channel along its east side. The neighborhood, with its “parkettes,” businesses and homes, sits behind a miles-long wall of graffiti on the west side of the path. Each time you step through an opening in the wall you’re in a different world than you were in last time—a shady parkette with swings, an artisan workshop, a place to sit and eat something great.

Our first turn off the path was at Just What I Kneaded, a vegan café and bakery. We’d all had breakfast before heading out, so we were forced to skip traditional morning foods and eat delicious baked goods instead. Karen had some kind of gorgeous cake, and Kim and I both chose the frosted cinnamon roll.

I don’t think it says this on the menu but this was the most amazing cinnamon roll I’ve ever eaten, vegan or not.

Thus fortified, we returned to the path and walked along the river. Even if you’ve never been to Los Angeles you’ve probably seen the LA River. You may remember it from movies, when it looked like this:

In recent years the LA River, as it runs through Frogtown, has undergone restoration. Now it flows, complete with kayakers, flora, egrets and herons, alongside the paved path.

This is not a mighty river capable of carrying big ships, nor is it a charming creek meandering through sylvan woodland. It’s an urban river in a cement channel, which is a lot prettier than a cement channel without a river in it.

We walked a seven-mile round trip along the path, with the Taylor Yard Bridge as our turn-around point. Stepping out onto the central platform, we gazed over the river to watch the herons and see how far we’d come.

In the distance, we could see the Hollywood sign.

On the way back we stopped at the Bauer Pottery Los Angeles Showroom.
Eau. Moy. Gawd. Worth the trip all by itself. Every piece beautiful, every piece handmade. I wanted all of it. (I only bought some of it.)

For lunch we headed to Spoke Bicycle Café, which apparently everyone knew about but me. The line to order was long, and worth every minute for the best veggie burger I’ve ever eaten.

Now that I think of it, I had the best cinnamon roll ever and best veggie burger ever both on the same day. Both in Frogtown. I’ll go back for the food alone.

I realize I sound like a travelogue, but my goal is to say simply this: we picked a day and planned a thing, and on that day we did that thing. And it was different than any of the things any of us had done before. And we liked it—because it was different.

If you’re going to a foreign country you need detailed planning and paperwork. But for local exploration, you just pick a place and go. I may not be able to hop off to Paris this week, but I can hop (appropriate) to Frogtown any time. And there are a zillion other places within easy reach. Maybe I can stop complaining about not traveling enough, and travel right here instead.

Do you wonder why it’s called Frogtown? So did I. Here’s your answer.

I’m not sure where the next field trip will be, but it’s my turn to pick a place. Got any ideas?

(Click here if you’d like me to read this post to you.)

One of my daily tasks is walking our dog, Juice. As tasks go it’s a pleasant one, because Juice is a docile, sweet friend. He’s also a 67-pound pit bull, and I’m responsible for him.

Juice is calm most of the time. He doesn’t freak out when he sees a squirrel, he pays little or no attention to most dogs as long as they’re on the other side of the street, and he moves very, very slowly. If I allow him to, he’ll sniff every blade of grass and every wet spot on every hydrant, taking his time moving between one and the other. He’s not great with children so I keep him away from little ones, but he likes adult humans if they’re not carrying tools, and he’s perfectly happy to stop and have a chat with a neighbor.

However, if Juice sees a cat before I do, and I’m not paying attention, he has lightning speed and the power to yank me with him across sidewalk, driveway, or lawn. And though his top speed is not fast enough to actually catch a cat, for the sake of the neighborhood cats (not to mention neighbor relations—can you imagine if he got one?) I have to pay attention. No earbuds. No checking the phone. No zoning out.

At Juice’s usual speed, this could get dull. Focus is not easy when you’re plodding along at one mile per hour in familiar territory on a warm day. I know all the turns, I’ve seen all the garages and all the houses and all the fenceposts of the neighborhood every day for years now.

How do I turn this into an opportunity for adventure and discovery?

My friend Laura told me about a trick she has, a method of turning the mundane into fun. It’s called “glimmers.” Laura, a therapist, came up with the idea during the pandemic, when both she and her clients were despairing with nothing to do. She recommends that as you go about your day you look for the unusual—things that shine up everyday tasks and make them glimmer. Like on a long commute, maybe you see a cyclist on the road with a happy dog peering out of his backpack. Or when you’re walking, you witness a pair of monarch butterflies doing their mating dance, flitting in the air ahead of you as you go. Little surprises that may have always been there, but that can’t delight us if we don’t notice them.

Glimmers keep me alert. As you might have gathered, my walks with Juice are not what you’d call exercise. They’re slow, deliberate moseying. They used to be downright somnambulant, but looking for glimmers enhances my focus. Our walks have become excursions of exploration for both of us: Juice sniffing, me seeing. Although when you think about it, a glimmer can be a sound or a smell as well as a sight, or even a touch: the feathery fern against your hand as you brush by; the doppler effect when a car goes by with the radio playing mariachi, or maybe an aria; the nose-high rose you pass, right there in your face for convenient smelling.

Juice finds thrills in the strangest places, like a damp pile of whatever, fermenting on the sidewalk. Or his favorite bush on our block, or a blade of grass that needs to be smelled and maybe licked.

Yesterday I photographed some of the glimmers we saw:

that nose-high rose I mentioned

a bright blue house

mosaic graffiti on the sidewalk (Juice found this one and pointed it out to me)

Don’t you just love that? Right outside the doughnut shop.

Together, Juice and I find some amazing stuff! I had to stop taking pictures because there’s so much to see, and I really need to hold onto the leash.

These glimmers keep me satisfied, at least for now, that I’m discovering something new every day. For someone with a persistent travel itch, glimmers are a decent way of scratching.

I recommend the Glimmer Method for those days when you just can’t come up with a smile to share with the world. Sometimes the world smiles at you in spite of yourself. You just need to be open to seeing it.

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The grocery store was busy today and carts were at a premium. Outside, a woman waited for my cart while I removed my bags to load into my car. I apologized for making her wait and she said, “It’s ok. I’ve got nothing but time.” She smiled. She was being nice. It was no big deal for her to wait.

But for me it was like a message from the great beyond, and that woman was the messenger. Time may not be all I have but it’s the most important thing. I haven’t got 90 years left. I’ve got 20, maybe 25 if I’m lucky. I’ve got to use my remaining years to be me, to live by my own choices and dreams. I’ve got to use my time—not to work, pay bills, worry about money or do chores. I’ve got to use my time to do what I am here to do. And I’ve got to do it now. It’s urgent.

Maybe you feel this too.

So, what am I here to do? I’ve always thought I was here to travel and explore, but does that matter to anyone but me? Does it need to? Maybe I’m the only person I need to please. Maybe I can let go of obligations. (Or at least some of them. I don’t want to let go of all of them. I love my home and my family and my friends, and I even love my obligations to them.)

But I’ve got to go somewhere. I’ve got to do something. I don’t know where to go or what to do but I can’t just sit here, day after day, doing the same thing until I die.

Three things intersect to create my problem:

1) the need to travel and explore;

2) money and time, or the lack thereof, to fulfill that need;

3) age—staring at a shorter and shorter future.

This intersection is what I want to talk about here on Wannabe Nomad. I might be talking to myself sometimes, and that’s okay. But while you’re here if you’d care to comment, I’d love to hear what you have to say. I’ve got some ideas too, and I’ll share them as we go along.

For now, here’s to just…starting.

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