Frasier: The Sound of Puget

Some years ago, when I was a radio news/talk host in Los Angeles, I dreamed of writing TV sitcoms and wanted to test the waters. Fortunately, I had a connection: Emmy-winning writer/director/producer Ken Levine, who had written for M*A*S*H, Cheers, Frasier, and many other shows, was my friend. Frasier had recently ended its run, so I wrote a Frasier spec script.

(If a show is still in production, you can’t write a spec unless invited by the production company. Nobody, not even a friend in the business, will read or even touch it for fear of being accused of plagiarism if any suggestion of your work should show up in another show.)

I wanted Ken’s opinion of my comedy screenwriting chops. He thought the script was good and gave me a few very helpful notes. Here is my spec, written with Final Draft software, format re-interpreted by Substack.


FRASIER SPEC by Dave Williams

“The Sound of Puget”

ACT ONE – A

A BLACK SCREEN. IN WHITE LETTERS: “VICTORIA’S OTHER SECRET”

FADE IN:

INT. KACL – DAY

(Roz, Frasier, Buddy, Victoria, Kenny)

ROZ AND FRASIER ARE ON THE AIR.

ROZ
Dr. Crane, Buddy is on line two. He wants advice about his short-term memory loss.

FRASIER
Ah! A fascinating topic and one with which I am intimately familiar. Buddy, how may I help you?

BUDDY (O.C. [Off Camera])
Who’s this?

FRASIER
This is Doctor Frasier Crane, Buddy. You’re on the air. Tell me about your problem.

BUDDY (O.C.)
What problem?

FRASIER
The problem you’re having with gaps in your memory.

BUDDY (O.C.)
I have gaps in my memory?

FRASIER
Buddy, I’m going to put you on hold for a moment until I can refresh Roz’s memory on the concept of call screening!

HE PUNCHES A BUTTON ON HIS CALL BOARD, PUTTING BUDDY ON HOLD.

FRASIER
Until then, I’ll just take a wild stab at line three.

PUNCHING ANOTHER BUTTON…

FRASIER
Hello, this is Dr. Crane, I’m listening!

VICTORIA (O.C.)
Hello, Dr. Crane. My name is Victoria.

FRASIER
Hello, Victoria. What can I do for you?

VICTORIA (O.C.)
I don’t know where to begin.

FRASIER
I often find it helps to begin at your conundrum, and together, we can work back to its genesis.

VICTORIA (O.C.)
What?

FRASIER
As the ancient Roman scholar Pliny the Elder once said: “From the end spring new beginnings.”

VICTORIA (O.C.)
You lost me.

FRASIER
What’s your problem?

VICTORIA (O.C.)
Oh, well, I have a ten-year-old son, and I’m wondering if I should introduce him to his father.

FRASIER
Ah. The product of a long-lost love, is he?

VICTORIA (O.C.)
More like a one-night stand.

FRASIER
I understand. We all have secrets yearning for release. Tell me, aside from making questionable moral decisions, is the father a decent, respectable man?

VICTORIA (O.C.)
Oh, yes. He’s highly respected, a local celebrity, in fact. But he doesn’t know about our son.

FRASIER
Oh, dear. You have been burying your bones, so to speak. Victoria, this secret denies all three of you your very existence. They must meet, and the sooner, the better!

VICTORIA (O.C.)
I was hoping you’d say that. But I’m worried.

FRASIER
Of course you are. Perhaps I can help ease your fears. Tell me a little about your relationship with this man.

VICTORIA (O.C.)
We met in Boston more than ten years ago. We were both newly divorced and lonely. On the rebound, I guess.

FRASIER
Boston? Really?

VICTORIA (O.C.)
Yeah, in a bar. He was sweet. Very smart. Funny in a sad, corny sort of way. He seemed kind of out of place there, ya know?

FRASIER
Why…yes I do.

VICTORIA (O.C.)
He didn’t quite fit in with the regulars. Some of them thought he was kind of stuffy.

FRASIER
A bar in Boston, you say?

VICTORIA (O.C.)
Yeah. One thing led to another and we ended up back at my place.

FRASIER
I understand, believe me.

VICTORIA (O.C.)
Yes, I believe you do, Doctor Crane. Or, should I call you…”Butter Buns?”

BOING!! IN A PANIC OF RECOGNITION, FRASIER PUSHES BUTTONS ON THE PHONE BANK TO HANG UP ON HER.

FRASIER
Oh… I… I think Victoria’s cell phone was disconnected! Hello, Victoria?

BUDDY (O.C.)
Hey, I just remembered why I called! What’s a seven-letter word for “whore?”

ROZ
Frasier!…

FRASIER
Hang on, Buddy! Roz, who’s next?

ROZ
Go to line three!

FIGHTING TO CONTROL HIS PANIC, FRASIER PUSHES ANOTHER PHONE BUTTON.

FRASIER
Who’s this?!

VICTORIA (O.C.)
And you called me “Sweet Cheeks,” remember?

HE PUNCHES HER OFF, LAUGHING THROUGH BLISTERING BEADS OF SWEAT.

FRASIER
Very cute! It’s going to be a day of prank calls, is it? Let’s try line four: Hello, Dr. Crane here!

KENNY (O.C.)
Hey, Doc, it’s Kenny in the lobby. There’s a woman and a little boy out here waiting to meet you. The kid looks kind of familiar.

FRASIER HANGS UP ON KENNY.

FRASIER
Roz! Let’s take a break, shall we?

ROZ
No, go back to line three!

FRASIER
Roz! Commercials! NOW!!

FADE OUT: B

INT. FRASIER’S LIVINGROOM – LATER

(Martin, Niles, Daphne)

MARTIN IS ON THE PHONE.

MARTIN
Okay, I’ll tell him you called.

HE HANGS UP AND MAKES A NOTE ON THE NOTEPAD AS NILES AND DAPHNE ENTER.

NILES
Dad, what’s up?

MARTIN
Oh, hey. Thanks for coming over.

DAPHNE
(airily) Can’t stay long. I have a producer’s meeting before rehearsal.

MARTIN
Rehearsal for what?

DAPHNE
My new show opens next week.

MARTIN
What show?

NILES
The Seattle-ites’ annual fund-raiser. It’s Daphne’s social guild. This year they wrote their own musical and Daphne is the lyricist.

MARTIN
Well, that’s quite an honor! Congratulations, Daph!

HE GOES TO THE KITCHEN FOR A BEER.

MARTIN
I didn’t know you could write music.

DAPHNE
Just the lyrics. We’re using classic show tunes.

NILES
Daphne, sing the title song for Dad.

DAPHNE
(cloyingly humble) Oh, I’d rather not. I’m a writer, not a singer.

NILES
Oh, come on. Show Dad your talent. Just the first verse.

MARTIN RETURNS TO HIS CHAIR.

MARTIN
Sure, I’d love to hear it. What’s this play about?

NILES
(chuckling) It’s a musical ode to Seattle and the great Northwest.

MARTIN
Come on, Daph. Sing it for me.

DAPHNE
Well…if you insist.

(happily giving in, she SINGS:)

“THE WHALES ARE ALIVE, IN THE SOUND OF PUGET!…”

MARTIN IS STUNNED, AS ARE WE ALL.

DAPHNE
“THE RAIN SEEMS TO DRIVE FOR A THOUSAND YEARS!…”

NILES IS ENJOYING THIS IMMENSELY. MARTIN SITS.

MARTIN
Oh, dear God.

DAPHNE
(belting it out, now!…) “STAAAR-BUCKS FILLS MY HEART, BY THE SOUND OF PUU-JETTTTT!……….”

CAUGHT SIPPING HIS BEER, MARTIN DOES A SPIT TAKE.

DAPHNE
(driving it home) “THE SPACE NEEDLE CHARGES YOU TWELVE BUCKS, FOR BEERS!!”

MARTIN COUGHS AND FIGHTS BACK LAUGHTER AS NILES GRINS WITH THINLY DISGUISED AMUSEMENT AND APPLAUDS POLITELY. MARTIN JOINS IN SOMEWHAT BELATEDLY.

NILES
(clapping) Isn’t that something, Dad?

MARTIN (clapping) Yeah! That’s exactly what it is! Something!

DAPHNE
Thanks. You’re not just saying that?

THE PHONE RINGS. MARTIN GOES TO ANSWER IT, STILL FIGHTING BACK LAUGHTER.

MARTIN
Yes. I mean, NO! It’s really…uh, something! The Sound of Puget! I’d have never thought of that in a million years!

DAPHNE
It just came to me. It’s a gift, I suppose.

NILES
(sweetly) Yes. A musical Pandora’s box.

DAPHNE
You’re so sweet.

SHE KISSES NILES. MARTIN ANSWERS THE PHONE.

MARTIN
Hello?

NILES
(to Daphne) Ooh! I just thought of a new line for the song!

MARTIN No, I’m sorry. Frasier’s not home yet but I expect him any minute. Can I take a message?

NILES
(singing) My love smells like fish, by the Sound of Puget!

DAPHNE GIVES HIM “THE LOOK.”

DAPHNE
That’s the second verse, and you know it.

HE SHUTS UP AND SITS.

MARTIN
No message or name, you sure? I can add you to the list.

(pause)

Okay, try again in a bit. Bye.

HE HANGS UP THE PHONE.

MARTIN
Frasier doesn’t get this many calls on the radio. Oh! That’s what I wanted to ask you. Did you hear his show today?

NILES
No, why?

DAPHNE
Say no more. I heard it.

NILES
Heard what?

MARTIN
I’ve taken fourteen messages for “Butter Buns,” and every one of them was laughing like hell.

NILES
Butter what?

DAPHNE
BUNS! Like the one that Victoria says he put in her oven!

MARTIN
I didn’t hear it, but Frasier’s lawyer called three times and gave me the gist of the conversation.

NILES
Excuse me…

DAPHNE
Why “Butter Buns?” What does that even mean?

MARTIN
This is embarrassing. We Crane men have, uh, hair on our chests but not on our buns.

NILES
Some do.

DAPHNE
Bloody Cro-magnon back as well.

MARTIN
Really? Hey, good going, Niles!

DAPHNE
(to Martin) Well, I think the woman’s a charlatan. A celebrity stalker, that’s what she is!

MARTIN
(to Daphne) Maybe, but maybe not.

NILES
What woman?

DAPHNE
Victoria. Pay attention.

MARTIN
(to Daphne) None of us knows what went on in Frasier’s life when he was single in Boston.

NILES
But, who is…

DAPHNE
(to Martin) Maybe not, but I know Frasier, and he would never take advantage of a woman he met in a bar!

NILES
Oh, familiar ground at last. Actually, he might!

MARTIN
(to Daphne) I’d like to think not, but what about that little boy?

DAPHNE
I don’t believe it!

NILES
(Shocked) A woman, yes, but never a little boy!

THE PHONE RINGS. MARTIN GOES TO ANSWER.

MARTIN
Look, we’ll just wait for him to get home and ask him.
(into the phone) Hello? (beat) Frasier, it’s about time. Where are you?

NILES
What was a little boy doing in a bar?

MARTIN
(on the phone) Yes, alright. I’ll be right there.

HANGING UP THE PHONE, WRITING ANOTHER NOTE…

MARTIN
I’ve got to go pick him up.

DAPHNE
Why? What’s happened?

MARTIN
Oh, nothing really. After his show, he ducked out the back door. He’s just been sitting in a bar drinking scotch for a while and thinks he shouldn’t drive.

DAPHNE
In a bar?

NILES
With a little boy?

DAPHNE
Poor dear. He must be upset about this Victoria business.

MARTIN
Yeah. Which means there must be some truth to it.

NILES
I’ll go get him, Dad. What bar is he in?

MARTIN
No, that’s alright. I’ll get him.

NILES
I’m his brother and a fellow psychiatrist. I speak Frasier’s language.

DAPHNE
Gibberish.

MARTIN
Yeah, maybe you’re right. Thanks, Niles.

READING HIS NOTE…

MARTIN
He’s at a place called Too Loose Lautrec on West 25th.

NILES GETS HIS COAT AND HEADS FOR THE DOOR.

NILES
Oh, I know the place! Shabby-chic, Lautrec poster wallpaper in the men’s room. Piped-in accordion music, for God’s sake! He must be suicidal to be in a place like that.

HE EXITS.

FADE OUT – END OF ACT ONE

ACT TWO – C  FADE IN:

INT. “TOO LOOSE LAUTREC” – LATER

(Frasier, Bartender, Niles)

FRASIER IS AT THE BAR RECEIVING A FRESH SCOTCH ON THE ROCKS FROM THE BARTENDER. NILES ENTERS AND SEES HIM.

FRASIER
(to the bartender) Thank you.

NILES
Frasier, it’s time to go.

FRASIER
Oh, hello, Niles. I thought Dad was coming. Let me just finish this. Would you care for a drink?

NILES
No. And I should think you’ve had enough.

FRASIER
Niles, I am fine. And I’m old enough to be my own judge.

NILES
Normally, yes, but not this time. I must insist you leave that drink on the bar and get your coat.

FRASIER
Niles, I’ve never seen you so assertive. Very impressive. Now, if you don’t mind I will drink my scotch.

NILES
No, I don’t think you will.

HE GRABS THE DRINK FROM FRASIER AND DRINKS IT HIMSELF IN ONE LONG GULP. IT HITS HIS STOMACH LIKE A PILE OF TWISTED METAL.

FRASIER
Niles, what’s gotten into you?

NILES
(in a husky, forced whisper) I’m no expert, but offhand, I’d say six ounces of Glenlivet.

FRASIER
Hardly! That was sixty dollars worth of Macallan-18! I’ll do my own drinking if you don’t mind!

(to the bartender) Another round, my good man!

NILES
(slowly regaining his voice) Frasier, I insist we leave this instant!

FRASIER
I came here for a little self-solace and reflection, and you have ruined my focus!

NILES
And my esophagus.

THE FRESH DRINK ARRIVES.

FRASIER
Thank you. You may bring my tab now, please.

FRASIER REACHES FOR HIS WALLET AS NILES TAKES THE DRINK OFF THE BAR AND QUAFFS IT WITH ONE DEFT BUT DREADED MOVEMENT.

FRASIER
Niles!

NILES
(squeaking) Mommy.

FRASIER
You are not only being childish; you are slurping the contents of my wallet with precarious speed!

BARTENDER
That’s some impressive drinking for a skinny guy.

NILES COUGHS WHILE FIGHTING HIS GAG REFLEX.

NILES
Aye, me hearty!

HE BELCHES.

FRASIER
It’s not impressive, it’s pathetic! You don’t even LIKE scotch!

NILES TAKES CONTROL OF HIS GUT.

NILES
(bravely) I do now. Bring us each another, Lautrec!

FRASIER
Niles!

BARTENDER
You got it.

THE BARTENDER AND NILES DO A “HIGH FIVE” FOLLOWED BY A FIST BUMP, AND WE…

CUT TO: D – INT. FRASIER’S LIVINGROOM – LATER

(Niles, Frasier, Daphne, Martin, Victoria)

FRASIER GUIDES NILES THROUGH THE FRONT DOOR. NILES IS STINKING DRUNK, WEARING A BERET AND SLOPPILY SINGING, IMPERSONATING MAURICE CHEVALIER:

NILES
(Singing, sorta) THANK HEAVEN….FOR LITTLE BOYS!
(he cracks himself up)

FRASIER
Sit down, Maurice, and I’ll make coffee.

DAPHNE
Niles!

NILES STAGGERS TO HER.

NILES
Aha! Mon ami! Mon cheri! Mon amour!
(Now doing Stevie Wonder) MY CHERI AMOUR! PRETTY LITTLE ONE THAT I ADORE!

HE PLANTS A SLOPPY KISS ON HER. SHE PULLS AWAY AT THE STENCH.

DAPHNE
Ugh! Scotch! You’re stinking drunk!

NILES
Oui, oui, madame!

HE GIGGLES, BOWS, AND THEN STRAIGHTENS UP WITH URGENCY AND HEADS STRAIGHT FOR THE BATHROOM.

NILES
(to himself) Wee-wee. Yes. Must wee-wee!

HE EXITS.

DAPHNE
What the hell happened to him? He was only gone half an hour!

MARTIN
Frasier, what did you do?

FRASIER
What did I do? Nothing! I was quietly drowning the sorrows from my past when Niles came in and began drinking like a sailor.

NILES (O.S.) – (singing C’est Magnifique!) OOH-LA-LA! Je t’adore, C’EST MAGNIFIQUE!

FRASIER
Or, like a can-can dancer.

MARTIN
Niles doesn’t like scotch.

FRASIER
After two doubles he adored it. He ordered another for each of us and drank them both.

DAPHNE
Good lord!

MARTIN
He had..what, four doubles in five minutes?

FRASIER
Then the bartender gave us each one on the house. It is apparently “chug-a-lug Friday” at Too Loose Lautrec, and Niles won.

MARTIN
So you drove home after all, huh?

FRASIER
No, we took a cab. Now both of our cars are in valet parking at twelve dollars an hour!

THE DOORBELL RINGS, FRASIER GOES TO ANSWER.

FRASIER
Who could that be?

MARTIN
Frasier, wait. I didn’t have a chance to tell you. She just called. She’s coming over.

FRASIER
Who is?

HE OPENS THE DOOR. VICTORIA IS STANDING THERE.

DAPHNE
Your sorrows.

FRASIER
Victoria?

VICTORIA
Hello, Butter Buns!

CUT TO: E

A BLACK SCREEN. IN WHITE LETTERS APPEARS, “OH, DANNY BOY…YOUR POPS, YOUR POPS ARE CALLING!”

INT. FRASIER’S LIVINGROOM – CONTINUOUS

(Frasier, Victoria, Martin, Daphne, Eddie)

MARTIN AND DAPHNE STAND HELPLESSLY BEHIND FRASIER AS HE AND VICTORIA LOOK AT EACH OTHER.

FRASIER
You are Victoria, I take it?

VICTORIA
You don’t remember?

FRASIER
I’m sorry. Please, come in. I admit, I remember the name but not the face.

SHE STEPS INSIDE.

VICTORIA
I changed my hair. I see you’ve changed yours, too.

FRASIER
Uh, yes. It’s slipped a bit. Oh, this is my sister-in-law, Daphne, and my father, Martin Crane.

MARTIN
Hello.

VICTORIA
Hi.

DAPHNE
Says you.

NILES IS STILL IN THE BATHROOM, NOW DOING HIS BEST PAVAROTTI…

NILES (O.S.)
THEEEEE WHALES ARE ALIVE! IN THE SOUND OF PUUUUUUU-JEEEETTTTTTTTT!

FRASIER
Er..that’s my brother, Niles. He’ll be right out.

DAPHNE
Not if I can help it.

SHE GOES INTO THE BATHROOM.

FRASIER
Please sit down. I think we should talk.

VICTORIA
Yes, we should. Thanks.

FRASIER AND VICTORIA SIT ON THE SOFA, LEAVING MARTIN STANDING ALONE.

MARTIN Hey, I’ve got some stuff to do in my room. I’ll let you two get reacquainted… or, meet or something.

(to the dog) Come on, Eddie.

MARTIN LEAVES, BUT EDDIE STAYS PUT.

FRASIER
You gave me quite a shock today.

VICTORIA
You gave me one ten years ago. I’d like for you to meet him.

THERE IS A MOMENT OF AWKWARD SILENCE. EDDIE HOPS UP ON THE SOFA, SITS BETWEEN FRASIER AND VICTORIA AND LOOKS AT EACH OF THEM.

MARTIN (O.S.)
EDDIE, WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT EAVESDROPPING?

EDDIE JUMPS DOWN AND RUNS INTO MARTIN’S BEDROOM. THE SILENCE RETURNS.

FRASIER
I apologize for the nature of this question, but it can’t be helped. How can you be sure the boy is mine?

VICTORIA
I can’t But I never slept around.

FRASIER
Neither did I.

VICTORIA
Advantage, me. That reduces the possibilities, doesn’t it?

ANOTHER PAUSE.

FRASIER
Would you like a glass of wine or brandy?

VICTORIA
No, thanks. I just came to ask if you’d be willing to meet him. I want to see the two of you together. There are similarities.

FRASIER
I…I don’t know.

VICTORIA
Neither do I, but I face that question a hundred times a day. Every time I look into my son’s eyes I wonder where he came from. And I see you.

A TENSE PAUSE…

FRASIER
How did you find me?

VICTORIA
I went back to Cheers and asked about you. They told me everything: where you work, where you live…

FRASIER
Nice to know my old friends have my back.

VICTORIA
Look, I don’t want money. I don’t want anything from you except an answer to the question.

FRASIER
Am I the boy’s father?

VICTORIA
I think you are. There’s only one other man who might be but the timing would be slightly off.

FRASIER
The boyfriend who had dumped you just before we met.

VICTORIA
Now you remember.

FRASIER
Yes. You were very young and very sweet. I took advantage. I was in pain. Newly separated, cast out of my home. Neither fish nor fowl, I became a beast.

VICTORIA
(smiling) I don’t know about all that but you were a cute drunk.

FROM THE BATHROOM:

NILES (O.S.)
ROLL ME OHHH-VER IN THE CLOHHH-VER, ROLL ME OVER LAY ME DOWN AND DO IT AGAIN!

DAPHNE (O.S.)
Niles! Keep your hands to yourself!

(pause)

….NOT THERE!!

FRASIER
Cute drunk is something of a family hallmark. Look, Victoria, as a psychiatrist, I think it would be in the boy’s best interest if we determined this question of paternity before we put him in the awkward position of sensing our tension.

VICTORIA
I agree. I took him in for a DNA blood test today. You can go tomorrow, if you don’t mind.

SHE HANDS HIM A BUSINESS CARD. FRASIER READS IT ALOUD.

FRASIER
“The G-Men: Genetic Detectives – answering the question, ‘Who’s Your Daddy?'” (he chuckles) Where have I heard that before?

VICTORIA
Ten years ago in my bedroom. You shouted it over and over.

SHE STANDS, HE FOLLOWS.

VICTORIA
I’d better go. My husband and son are waiting downstairs.

FRASIER
(surprised and relieved) Oh, then you’ve married? You have a full family?

VICTORIA
For eight wonderful years. I told you I don’t want anything from you. We just want Danny to know who he is.

FRASIER WALKS HER TO THE DOOR.

FRASIER
Danny?

VICTORIA
Or, as you call him — “the boy.”

FRASIER
I’m sorry, I didn’t know his name. Danny. I like it. I’ll go to the lab tomorrow morning. And I’ll pay the bill.

VICTORIA
No, that’s…

FRASIER
I insist.

NOT SURE HOW TO SAY GOODBYE THEY SHAKE HANDS.

VICTORIA
Thank you, Frasier.

FRASIER
I have a son too, you know, Frederick. He’s just a little older than Danny. Maybe someday they can meet if it seems like the thing to do.

VICTORIA
I think I’d like that.

FRASIER
Well… Nice to see you. We’ll talk when the test results are in.

SHE GIVES HIM A LITTLE PECK ON THE CHEEK. HE CLOSES THE DOOR AND STANDS THERE FOR A MOMENT, FILLED WITH MIXED EMOTIONS BUT WEARING A RELAXED AND RELIEVED SMILE.

DAPHNE BURSTS IN FROM THE BATHROOM, HEADING STRAIGHT FOR THE FRONT DOOR.

DAPHNE
Well, I’m off.

FRASIER
You’re off? Where’s Niles?

DAPHNE
(breezily; unconcerned) Sleeping. In a tub of hot water. You might want to loosen his shoes and tie before they shrink. Oh, and if he dies, phone me in the morning. If not, don’t bother.

SHE EXITS AND…

FADE OUT. – F

INT. KACL – FRASIER’S STUDIO – AFTERNOON

(Frasier, Kenny, Victoria, Danny, Roz)

FRASIER IS WRAPPING UP HIS SHOW.

FRASIER
I’m afraid that’s all the time we have for today, Seattle. Stay tuned for news on KACL… (grinning with pride at his inventiveness) …”The Sound of Puget!”

KENNY ENTERS.

FRASIER
Oh, Kenny, it’s you. Good! What do you think of my idea for a new station slogan?

KENNY
I think it sucks. The Sound of Puget?

FRASIER
Musically, I agree with you. I just thought it might be good enough for radio.

KENNY
Your friend is here again.

HE SHOWS VICTORIA INTO THE ROOM AND LEAVES.

FRASIER
Victoria. Sorry to keep you waiting.

VICTORIA
(smiling) I had to thank you.

FRASIER
For what?

VICTORIA
For everything. For not shutting me out when I showed up at your apartment. For admitting the truth about our brief relationship.

FRASIER
(smiling) “The truth. It is a beautiful and terrible thing and should, therefore, be treated with great caution.”

VICTORIA
Who said that? Pliny the Elder?

FRASIER
No. Harry Potter.

VICTORIA
I think you must be a wonderful father.

FRASIER
There is no greater calling. I have a superb role model.

VICTORIA
Will you call the next time you’re in Boston?

FRASIER
Absolutely. Our sons must get to know each other.

THEY HUG WARMLY. SHE CROSSES TO THE DOOR TO ROZ’S STUDIO AND OPENS IT.

VICTORIA
Thanks for watching him, Roz. Danny, it’s time to go to the airport.

DANNY, A NEATLY DRESSED HOLY TERROR OF A TEN-YEAR-OLD, RUNS INTO THE ROOM…

DANNY
YAAAAAAYYYYYYYYY!!!! YAYYYYYY, I GET TO FLY ON AN AIRPLANE!!! RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!

ARMS OUT LIKE WINGS, DANNY RUNS A QUICK CIRCLE AROUND FRASIER BEFORE PUNCHING HIM HARD IN THE STOMACH, THEN RUNNING OUT THE DOOR. VICTORIA GIGGLES AND KISSES FRASIER’S CHEEK.

VICTORIA
I’ll look forward to your call.

SHE LEAVES.

FRASIER
(sucking for air) Me, too.

ROZ ENTERS, STEAMING MAD. SHE HAS “SILLY STRING” DRIPPING FROM HER HEAD. HER HANDS ARE BOUND TOGETHER WITH RECORDING TAPE. SHE GETS RIGHT IN FRASIER’S FACE.

ROZ
Are you little Damion’s father?!

FRASIER PRODUCES AN OFFICIAL-LOOKING PAPER.

FRASIER
Zero percent probability. Redemption is ours.

FADE OUT.

END OF ACT TWO – TAG

INT. A SMALL THEATER – NIGHT

(Roz, Frasier, Martin, Niles, Daphne)

ROZ, FRAZIER, MARTIN, DAPHNE, AND NILES ARE SEATED TOGETHER IN A THEATER. THE HOUSE LIGHTS ARE UP, AND THE ORCHESTRA IS TUNING.

ROZ
Are you disappointed that Danny isn’t your son?

FRASIER
Yes, just as I’m crushed that I’m not married to Roseanne Barr. No, I already have one son I rarely get to see. Danny has good, loving parents.

MARTIN
And a shot at growing hair on his butt.

NILES IS WEARING SUNGLASSES FOR HIS HANGOVER. DAPHNE IS UNSYMPATHETIC.

NILES
I wish we had better seats. The lights give me a splitting headache, and everything’s out of focus.

FRASIER
Oh, for heaven’s sake, Niles. We’re front row, center. Take four more aspirin!

NILES
My teeth feel soft.

THE ORCHESTRA QUICKLY FADES TO SILENCE AS THE HOUSE LIGHTS BEGIN TO DIM.

MARTIN
This is exciting! Are you nervous, Daph?

DAPHNE
Only because the leading lady is such a stiff, untalented twit. Everybody says I should have done the role myself. Oh, look. There she is.

MUSIC FROM THE ORCHESTRA SWELLS — THE OPENING BARS OF “THE SOUND OF MUSIC:”

ROZ
(To Daphne, sotto voce) Wow! She’s a lot older than you, that’s for sure.

DAPHNE
(sotto voce) And she’s got no voice. She says she used to sing professionally. Says she starred in American films. Hah! I say that’s a bucket full of dream-on!

CUT TO:

THE STAGE — CLOSE-UP ON JULIE ANDREWS. YES, THAT JULIE ANDREWS!

JULIE
THUUUUHHHHHHHHH WHALES ARE ALIVE! IN THE SOUND OF PUUUUUUUU-JEEETTTTTTT! THE RAINS SEEMS TO DRIVE FOR A THOUSAND YEARS!!!!!!…….

ROLL TITLES OVER…

JULIE
STAAAARRRRRRR-BUCKS FILLS MY HEART, NEAR THE SOUND OF PUUUUUU-JEEEETTTT! THE SPACE NEEDLE CHARGES YOU TWELVE BUCKS, FOR BEEEEEEEEERRRRRSSSSS!!

THE AUDIENCE LEAPS TO ITS FEET WITH APPLAUSE AND CHEERS. DAPHNE REMAINS SEATED, ROLLING HER EYES AND CLAPPING POLITELY.

FADE OUT.

END OF SHOW


When I wrote this spec script, I was approaching 60. Ken and I both knew I was too old to start pursuing a career writing for TV and movies.

In case you missed it last week, you can read more about age discrimination as explained by Ken Levine.

If you burn to write novels or scripts do it now. Learn and do the work. Dreams won’t wait forever.

 

The five stages of parenting

“Have you heard from the kids today?”
“Yes. They’re still safe. Fire crews are holding the line north of the 210.”
“Thank God.”

CarolAnn and I still refer to our children as “the kids,” though they range in age from 44 to 48.

I recently mentioned our oldest son, saying he was “pushing 50.” It gave me a jolt as I suddenly remembered a phone call I got from my father on my 50th birthday. We had a lovely conversation. He said, “When your kid turns 50, you really feel old.”

Dad died from his only heart attack just a few months later. I was still his kid.

A friend recently mentioned that I often write about aging. Well, we write what we know and those things that demand our attention, yes? I’m very lucky. I’m in my 70s, in good health, and exceptionally happy now that I’m retired and have time to enjoy my life in detailed moments, past and present.

There are five parenting stages based on your kids’ ages: infancy, childhood, teens, transition to adulthood, and the final stage, their fully independent lives. Each stage is a unique emotional time for Mom and Dad. For the kids, it’s just growing up.

My mother died five years ago when she was 87. I was 68. To the end, she still called me “Honey”.

As a parent, you try to remember the stages of your own life: your earliest years in grade school, learning to socialize, crying because you were scared or just didn’t understand. Hugs, soothing words, and kissing boo-boos often help.

The teen years are an explosion of insight and confusion thrown into a hormonal blender. Parents have to remember that and deal with it on those terms.

The transition stage is the hardest on parents. It’s when your kid moves out of your home with a hug, a smile, and a wave and walks away into their own world without you. As you wake up each morning without looking in on them, fixing their breakfast, or issuing loving reminders to start their day, you gradually understand that your little boy or girl no longer exists and never will again.

That’s hard. And while you continue to love them and celebrate their lives, you’ll never fully recover from letting go.

Until she died, my mom always told me she loved me. Dad was a Wyoming cowboy born nearly a hundred years ago. He said it, too, just not as often.

Now that I have a kid pushing 50, I tell him and his brother every chance I get. I’m telling them, and their own sons, right here and now:

I love you kids with all of my life.

Confessions of a recovering poet

For the better part of 40 years, I’ve made a pest of myself to poetry lovers. I’ve complained too often that too many poets seem to think they can declare their depth and genius by stringing together words that are incomprehensible and full of themselves.

I don’t like reading anything that has to be explained. Some of it is probably just over my head, but how would I know?

Today, I apologize and make a full confession: I, too, am a recovering poet.

As many of us do I went through my young writer poetry affectation stage back in high school. I just strung together words I liked in strict meter. I still believe that even free verse should have a rhythm, but again, how would I know? I never studied poetry and grew tired of pretense when I started writing plays and sensible prose (both of which I also never studied.)

This is the one poem I wrote that I love and keep. It’s calligraphed and nicely framed and displayed on a wall in our home. I wrote it for my wife, the lovely and feisty CarolAnn Williams, on our first Christmas.

I love and am keeping her, too.

My Christmas Carol

You are Christmas
and I am a child,
enchanted by eyes that sparkle
with the merry shine of a thousand twinkling lights.

As Christmas, you hold secrets:
promises of wonder
in yet unopened gifts.

And I am so filled with joy
that there is no room in me
for fear or despair;

The magic of Christmas is in me!
You put it there.

– For my CarolAnn, my wife.
December 25, 1988

I didn’t do the phrasing. I don’t know where to leave one line and begin another willy-nilly. I guess it’s to look cool. Yet again, how would I know?

I do know that our friend, the late Rosemary Schmidt, understood it. She put my words into attractive (if weird) line breaks while maintaining the meter.

Meter is a big deal to me because I used to be a drummer.

Anyway, I’m open to all the criticism I deserve except for my motive. When you love someone with all your heart, corny metaphors and even some metric missteps are totally acceptable.

Though I can’t know that for sure.


PS. A few years ago I started a Facebook page called Why I Hate Poetry. You can see it here and call it Why I Hate Dave if you like.

The QB, the PM, and me

The nice woman led me backstage to a new motorhome and indicated that I should go inside.

“This is our green room,” she said with a smile. “Make yourself at home. Somebody will come get you when it’s time.”

I thanked her, stepped up, and opened the door to find Terry Bradshaw alone, sitting behind a small laminated table with two prescription pill bottles in front of him.

Terry Bradshaw

Yes, that Terry Bradshaw: four-time Super Bowl champion quarterback with the Pittsburgh Steelers, two-time Super Bowl MVP, Pro Football Hall of Fame inductee, and the only NFL player with a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

His blazer lay folded neatly on the seat next to him. He wore a long-sleeved shirt and tie. He looked up and flashed a polite, though barely sincere, smile.

“Hey, how are ya?”

“Fine, thanks. I’m Dave Williams. I’m your emcee. They told me I should wait here until it’s time.”

I did not offer him my hand because I was a social dork, and he was Terry Bradshaw holding a prescription pill bottle.

“It’s a pleasure and an honor to meet you,” I added impetuously.

“Thanks. Same here.”

As I sat on the RV sofa opposite him, Terry twisted open an orange plastic Rx bottle, shook out a couple of tablets, and swallowed them with a swig of water from a plastic bottle.

I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I didn’t.

We didn’t have mobile phones in the late 90s. I couldn’t look down, pretending to be engaged in some serious business matter, and neither could he. But Terry finally broke the silence when he tossed back another pill from the other bottle.

“I have a pounding headache,” he explained.

I think I told him I was sorry, but I’m not sure. And there we sat, total strangers with nothing in common and nothing to say to each other.

Looking back on it, I would like to think he was pleased that I didn’t start peppering him with lame football fan questions. I might have if I had been a serious football fan, but to this day, I can’t watch a game without wondering why it takes 22 guys banging into each other to advance or stop the ball. Wouldn’t three guys on each side work just as well? Maybe I should have asked him that.

Terry took a stack of index cards from his jacket pocket and started looking them over. I assumed he was studying his speech, which was a great idea. I took out my one index card with my prepared introduction and studied its three sentences.

There was a tap at the door. Being closest to it and not being a famous athlete and TV star, I stood and opened it to find John Major, the most recent former British Prime Minister, standing on the step below with a pip-pip-cheerio smile on his Time magazine face.

I was literally looking down at him.

“Might I come in?”

John Major
As he entered, he explained, “I’m a speaker today. I was told to wait here.”

He did offer me his hand, and I took it.

“John Major,” he said.

I honestly don’t remember what I said, but I think it was something like, “Yes, of course, Mr. Prime Minister. I’m a local radio star, and I’ll be introducing you.”

On second thought, I hope I didn’t actually say, “I’m a local radio star.”

Whatever I said, the PM made his way in. He and Terry shook hands and exchanged a few effusively gracious words, as is the practiced habit of famous people when they first meet.

I was the fly on the wall.

I am dying to tell you about the fascinating conversation the three of us had over the next half hour, but there’s nothing to tell. As hard as I try, I can’t recall or even imagine anything that we would have said to each other.

I was eventually called to the stage and introduced Terry to the large, expensive lunch crowd. They loved him. He was charming and funny; that’s all I remember.

I did not go back to the Winnebago to shoot the shit with former PM Major. I’m pretty sure I walked to the no-host bar in the back of the room and asked for a beer.

Lessons you learn from your kids

Camping with my son a long minute ago.

I just learned something from my son. He’s older and wiser than me now.

We had a public disagreement on Facebook, and he really let me have it. It hurt, though that wasn’t his intent. The details don’t matter; they’re just between us. The point is that he taught me something.

For the sake of this essay, I’ll call my son Jeremy because that’s his name.

I’m 73, and Jeremy’s 47, but sometimes I still think of him as a kid.

I do, but I don’t. It’s complicated.

I knew he was an adult when he went off to college nearly 30 years ago, but that’s where most of my personal memories of him end. That’s where we started to grow apart.

The tricky thing about parenting is that you have two lifelong relationships with your children: when they need you and when they don’t. It’s the whole point of parenting, right? Give them what they need and then let them go on to live their own lives.

Forty years after this picture, Jeremy has a long, happy marriage and a brilliant adult child of his own. In many ways, he’s the finest man I know. And sure, I take some credit, but just a bit. He also has a mother, a stepmother, teachers, friends, and a thousand other inspirations I know nothing about.

Children grow up and fly away from the nest, but as just one parent, your relationship is grounded in the past of birthday parties, Christmas mornings, and teary, skinned knees. You try to hold onto that feeling but reach a point where your heart can’t follow.

We stay in touch, but sometimes I need to be reminded that my son hasn’t lived with me for well over half of his life.

“You have nothing in common but his childhood.”

My wife of 37 years lovingly explained that to me a few nights ago.

Jeremy and I still love and respect each other. We just told each other so. And in the wisdom of age, we’re probably closer now than ever.

Sometimes it’s just hard to keep up.

I guess I’m still letting him go.

Anticipation: It keeps life alive

I get excited this time of year. Always have.

It starts on a specific though unpredictable day each August when midday shadows suddenly become a bit softer. It’s very subtle, but I notice it every year. The season is changing.

Now that I mention it, you’ll notice it, too.

September anticipates the serene melancholy of fall. Squirrels get busy stocking up for winter—we all do. We pull out the summer clothes from our closets and fluff up our long-sleeved flannel. We look at the mess in the garage and think about paring it all down.

Where are those Christmas lights? I need to find them.

Looking forward to what comes next is natural whether we’re thinking about next weekend, the holidays, or a spring vacation we’re planning. But as I get older, now that I’m paying attention, I’ve started anticipating each new tomorrow and discovering small things I’ve always seen but never really noticed.

Anticipation is what makes life worth living. Best of all, it’s personal. As my dear friend and blogging partner Anita Garner so eloquently put it:

“Anticipation is the only thing I can control. It’s the looking-forward-to part of life and I get to decide when it starts and what it means.”

That sentence is what inspired my thoughts here and many more. If we have your attention, read Anita’s wonderful perspective here:

https://theagingofaquarius.com/ag_blog/anticipation/

This Is Happiness

Email regret, Faha rain, and my friendships with Ed and Niall.

I got an email from Ed Pyle this morning. It arrived with perfect timing and placement, in the middle of my stack of electronic junk mail just as I was settling in with my sunrise coffee. Ed’s note rescued me from the spam before my mind got busy with to-do lists, before the day got cluttered.

Ed rarely sends me emails and his subject heading was everything a good headline should be, curious and intriguing: “Email and THE book”, it read. Otherwise, the message content was just a link with no greeting, no explanation, and no signature.

Wary 21st-century cyber sleuth that I am I was suspicious that it might be a phishing lure and not a note from my friend. Knowing better than to click on unexpected links I followed the clue visible in the URL to a thoughtful New York Times article by best-selling author Ann Patchett.

Here it is: https://www.nytimes.com/2024/10/15/opinion/ann-patchett-regret-email.html

Sadly the Times has a paywall so I’ll give you a summary in case you don’t have or want a subscription.

Patchett was asked to admit a single regret and she thought long and hard before deciding her greatest regret in the past 30 years is email. Her explanation cited my favorite book This Is Happiness by Irish novelist Niall Williams.

“As though an infinite store had been discovered, more and more stars kept appearing,” Noe says about the nights in Faha. “The sky grew immense. Although you couldn’t see it, you could smell the sea.”

That’s the way it was in Provincetown, the way it was in Ireland, and I’m sure that’s the way it is now, except that if I were now in Provincetown or Ireland on a clear night, I’d probably be at my computer checking my email. I love email, and I hate email.

Our modern toys and magical conveniences have ensnared us. That’s Patchett’s point and the understated subplot of This Is Happiness. Ed Pyle sent me a pristine hardbound first edition when it came out a few years ago and we are both still enchanted by it.

…unashamed romance for a nostalgic tradition of storytelling, where exaggeration and eye twinkles might in fact just bring you closer to the truth. Sublime.’
—Hilary White, IRISH INDEPENDENT

Ed was my boss before he became my friend. It wasn’t until a few years after we parted daily company in a radio station newsroom that we began swapping notes on Facebook. They led to mutual affection for our shared sense of humor and search for insight.

This Is Happiness satisfied my hunger but it also made me crave more of Williams’ unhurried talent for meandering through a story without jolts and flashes of overwrought drama. His stories don’t grab you, they seep in like a soft nourishing Irish rain. I quickly read everything Niall Williams has ever written and fell in love with the writer and maybe the man himself.

Then I took an online fiction writing class from Niall, a weekly meeting inside his Kiltumper home via real-time face-to-face encounters with the author and some ten or twelve other students. He taught us to write by writing. We read our work to the class and Niall shared with us his wisdom.

That was happiness.

The brevity of Ed’s email and the terms of Patchett’s regret made me realize I need to spend more time reaching out to friends in person when possible or by phone and less often by computer. I am vowing to use text messaging only for “Yes,” “No,” and “Can I call you?” And while I love nothing more than sitting at my keyboard, spilling my thoughts as I feed my mind, I will save time every day for engaging the world outside. I will continue to talk with my prized hibiscus. Dog walkers will get a wave and a greeting from me. Conversations will be ignited and strangers will become rewarding acquaintances.

Some may even become cherished friends like Ed, Niall, and me.

Boomers, Bosco and Red Ball Jets

This is an abbreviated portion of a chapter from a book I’m writing. As slowly as I write I figured I might as well put this much in blog form. Maybe it will encourage me to get on with it.

Surviving Childhood

One of the things we aging boomers love to talk about is how much safer the world used to be when we were kids.

I guess it was in some respects.  Mostly, though, I wonder how we survived.

As kids in the 1950s and 60s we were allowed to roam our entire neighborhood from sunup to sundown free from fear of death or kidnapping.  Nobody was ever snatched off the street.

We didn’t have drive-by shootings.  Heck, we didn’t have drive-thru hamburger joints.  Back then if you wanted to buy a burger or shoot somebody you had to park the car and get out first.

It was a simpler, more forgiving time.  But it was also a daily horror show we never even noticed.

Cars didn’t have seat belts until the mid-sixties and by then they seemed silly to those of us who grew up literally bouncing between the back and front seats as our parents sped along two-lane highways.  They didn’t mind in the least as long as we didn’t start fighting.

Enough protection to stop you from shoving a kitten or puppy in there but little hands were welcome.

We had room fans with no protective covers to keep little fingers out of the whirling steel blades.  If you had invented the electric fan doesn’t a protective cage over the front just seem like a natural piece of the big picture?  How did they not think of that?

I never heard of a single injury.

The heat in our homes came up from the floor through metal grates that got hot enough to sear a waffle pattern into tender toddler butts and feet.

Everybody smoked cigarettes, cigars and pipes everywhere.  I mean everywhere: on buses and trains; in grocery stores, movie theaters, restaurants, churches and in every room of every home in America.  That’s where this attachment to “fresh air” started, you know.  Think about it.  No matter where you live these days, big city or wide-open spaces, the air is no fresher outside than it is inside.  But you still say, “I need some fresh air,” and then you step out of a filtered, air-conditioned room into downtown San Bernardino. When we stepped outside in the fifties it was like walking into the Alps. Nobody complained about smoke. It was just a natural part of life.

Dogs ran free when we were kids.

You’d let the dog out and he was gone to who-knows-where until he eventually came back to the porch and waited happily to be readmitted to the house.  That might be the next day or the day after that.  If he bit somebody while he was out you never heard about it. They didn’t sue, they just swore. If he tangled with another dog you’d see him trot back into the house at dinner time, tongue and tail wagging joyously, with one bloody ear and a mangled eyeball.  You didn’t take him to the vet unless he’d been hit by a car and even then if he could hobble out of the street on three of his four legs Skippy was good to go.

We had deadly toys.

We would have wars using air-powered BB-rifles that allowed us to fire tiny steel balls with enough velocity to embed them under the skin of another kid, a dog or a cat.  It stung but we loved it.  This is where we first heard the sentence, “You could put an eye out with that!”  But nobody I knew ever lost an eye to a BB-gun assault.

If there weren’t enough BB-guns to go around, we’d just throw rocks. Seriously, rock fights. And worse.

We had toy bows and arrows.  Oh sure, the arrows had rubber cups on the end.  You just took those off, threw ‘em away and whittled the wooden shaft into a pencil-sharp point.

We had firecrackers.  We made bottle rockets out of wooden match heads cautiously jammed tightly together into glass aspirin bottles.  When they weren’t made carefully they became instant bombs, igniting in hand and shooting shards of red-hot glass dozens of feet in all directions.

I’m not making this up.

One idiot kid I remember used to lie down on the ground and have the rest of us drop a huge rock — say, the size and weight of a bowling ball — right over his face. He’d always roll out of the way before the rock hit the ground.  He never failed.

We climbed trees, great cottonwoods in my grandparents’ front yard, scampering twenty feet above the ground.  Once I fell, skinning my bare back as I slid down the trunk of that great tree, landing hard on its exposed roots.  Grandma sprayed Bactine on my injuries and gave me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on white Wonder bread.  I watched Popeye on TV and felt a lot better.

We jumped off the roof of my grandparents’ house with totally ineffective home-made parachutes fashioned from a bed sheet with ropes tied to the corners. One of my goofy cousins used to climb onto the sloped roof of their two-story house and bounce up there on his pogo stick.

We made go-carts out of two-by-fours and orange crates with tin coffee can lids for headlights and roller skates for wheels. A steep hill provided propulsion, a rope tied to each side of the front axle made for a delicate steering mechanism that was just as likely to dump you into the middle of oncoming traffic as it was to steer you out of danger. There was no braking system. For that you merely had to wait until the thing slowed of its own diminishing inertia or crashed into a parked car.

When I was a kid we had plenty of playgrounds in our neighborhoods and schoolyards were never enclosed by locked fences and gates. Still, we often just played baseball or football in the street. A parked car was first base or end zone marker. Second base was a smashed tin can; a water spigot was third. We played with broken wooden bats that had been glued, nailed and taped back into service. The baseball had ripped seams and a cover peeling off. Once the tear got so big the ball made a fluttering sound when thrown we’d peel it off completely and wrap the remaining ball of yarn into a solid mass of black electrician’s tape that needed to be repaired or replaced after bouncing along the pavement a few times. Any baseball becomes hard to see after sunset, especially one made of black tape but we played long after daylight had faded to deep purple and the cars rounding the corner into left field had their headlights on.

As I think back on those days fifty-plus years ago I can’t remember any boys who didn’t have patched jeans and scabs on their knees and elbows. Many of the girls, too. Blood was simply a part of everyday life through no small fault of our own. We all fell off our bikes into asphalt and parked cars because were just clutzy kids. Occasionally one of the real numbskulls in the neighborhood would  intentionally ride his bike off the roof of a house or try to leap a row of thorn-laden rose bushes on a bike with the help of a pathetically engineered plywood ramp. These stunts nearly always ended in bloody failure but they didn’t stop us from trying again.

Nobody died. We seldom cried. And now we worry about our own kids and theirs.

They missed so much.

© Copyright 2010, Dave Williams. All rights reserved.

Happy birthday to me!

Today’s my birthday. I’m 73!

July 6, 2023 Bushmills, Ireland
Me, pensive: Giants Causeway, Bushmills, Northern Ireland, 2023

I know, I know – as an old man I’m supposed to harp philosophically and say things like “age is only a number” and “you’re as young as you feel”. Those cliches are true but they feel too modest.

It’s my birthday! That makes me happy, I feel special today and am old enough to admit it.

Please indulge me just for a moment while I talk about the things old people always talk about, though we’d rather not. There is a point to all of this.

A year ago, just before my 72nd birthday, I had a health scare that ended with the great news that there was nothing wrong with my heart or brain. How many people get that kind of reassurance into their eighth decade?

That led me to retire from my radio career, a heads-up that it was time to get off the rat wheel and make every day Saturday. CarolAnn and I don’t have the money to go gallivanting around the world as future retirees dream. I still want to take a great vacation when we can but I love my wife, our dogs, and our home. A lot of people have none of that.

In the past month I’ve been diagnosed with type-2 diabetes and nearly simultaneously had all of my teeth extracted to make room for dentures. I was born without teeth and that’s how I’ll go out. Wish it could be otherwise but you know what the older old folks used to say, “You can wish in one hand and spit in the other…”

I don’t remember how that ended. It never made any sense to begin with.

Diabetes is manageable and the dentures will be useful when my gums no longer hurt and I learn to eat without feeling like I’m chewing with a mouthful of Legos.

An aside: If you’re looking for a dead solid perfect weight loss diet try combining sugar and carb restrictions for diabetics with the severe limitations of eating without teeth. In six weeks I’ve lost 35 pounds!

So, yeah, I’m thrilled to be 73. My dad died five months before he got there. That weighed on my mind for most of the past year, it really did, for two reasons: At first I was merely hoping that I wouldn’t keel over as early as he did. Then it finally dawned on me that Dad would be over the moon in love with the fact that I outlived him. For some reason that makes me proud.

Dad and me c. 1953, Land Park, Sacramento

I still talk to my dad. Not out loud but whenever I have a question I know he could answer, I ask him. I can hear his wise and loving answer as plainly as if he was here in the room.

I hope to live another 20 or 30 years. I’ll probably be lucky to manage another 10. But if I should pass and anyone asks, you tell them I died a happy man. No matter when or how it happens it will be true.

I’ve crossed the finish line. Now I’m just taking victory laps.

Dave – August 6, 2024

Teeth matter

July 27, 2024

I’m getting old.

We say we’re “getting” old because we don’t know exactly when old happens and we keep pushing it back. I’m about two weeks from my 73rd birthday and still waffling on the definition of old. But along the way, I’ve gotten some physical bulletins that are impossible to ignore.

Unlike everyone my age I know, I will share my experience with you. You’re welcome.

The first heads-up was realizing that I need to take advantage of every public bathroom I see, whether or not I feel the need because when I do feel the need, it might well be too late.

Why didn’t somebody warn me about that? It seems like it would have been a neighborly heads-up between “getting old” friends. Just tell me, “You’re going to start leaking if you don’t pee in every nearby urinal or toilet.” That seems like a polite piece of advice, doesn’t it? Tell your friends.

A few days ago I had my remaining teeth taken out of my head. I now have no, zero, teeth.

The back story is lifelong, I’ve always had lousy teeth. Even as a child of the 50s, I had many cavities and horrific experiences with Dr. Clifford and his slow, smoke-emitting drill.

I’ve always brushed. I have occasionally flossed, (wink-wink). But while other people went in for semi-annual checkups I stayed away because nothing in my mouth ever hurt even as my teeth simply began disintegrating for no apparent reason.

I had one tooth break while I was eating soft, non-crunchy ice cream. A couple of years ago I found a broken tooth in my mouth while I was sleeping. WTF?

So, CarolAnn and I decided it would be best, and ultimately cheaper, if I would just yank ‘em all and get dentures.

As of three days ago, I have no teeth but expensive dentures that look like those wind-up chattering toys we’ve all seen.

So many things people don’t explain as you get older. And the websites don’t help because they’re written with AI prompts by marketing pros 50 years younger than you are. Some of them still have baby teeth.

The good news is that my dentist, periodontist, and oral surgeon, all enriched by my patronage, agree that the procedures thus far have gone perfectly.

The bad news is my gums are now swollen and painful. I talk like Daffy Duck, lithping and thputtering.  Trying to eat soft food like a banana with new dentures is the same as chewing with a mouthful of Legos.

Look, as I told my dentist, Joe Smith (yes, his real name), just yesterday, I don’t get all twisted over things I can’t change. It is what it is. I’m alive, reasonably alert, and happy.

The professionals tell me things in my mouth will get better. I paid to trust and believe them.

But you know what? Either way, I wake up every morning with my wife beside me, the dogs are ready to be let outside to pee, and then I make their breakfast and my coffee.

It’s a new day. Life goes on.