I have actually made an executive decision.
I'm gonna continue publishing The Paper, but I'm gonna check myself into, and work from, a local retirement home and, as a sideline, become a gigolo to the lovely, and often wealthy, ladies who live there.
I expect I'll be in my newly assigned room about four hours before I start getting casseroles delivered to my room to welcome me. (I took notice of this phenomenon when several of my contemporaries had their wives pull a quick disappearing act on them and up and died. The very next morning a long line of loving and caring little old ladies all showed up with casseroles. All of these little old ladies were widows, divorcees or spinsters).
I rather imagine, once I get all dolled up in my nifty powder blue leisure suit, my white shoes and my matching white belt, and slick down my hair with lots of sweet smelling pomade, and practice my most seductive smile . . . that I will soon earn the title of "The Tiger Woods of North San Diego County."
Of course, Evelyn may not approve.
Received several comments on my new career as gigolo to wealthy retired women in retirement homes, chief of which was from old friend (and brilliant writer) Kent Ballard:
Tell her (Evelyn) you're working undercover on an expose of women in retirement homes who are addicted to chewing tobacco. Tell her of the sour-pussed old women who have brown drool running down their chins, staining their dresses, and smelling up entire facilities. Make them sound so haggard and loathsome that Evelyn wouldn't go near one on a bet. Make sure she sees you packing lots of Alka-Seltzer for your stomach and Vicks Vapo-Rub to dab under your nose. She'll stay away from those places like they were plague houses, while you molest and pillage to your heart's content.
Then make up a horrible-sounding medical condition to tell the nice old ladies in the homes so you won't have to eat their godawful casseroles, but that your doctor recommended drinking vast amounts of alcohol to kill the rampant bacteria in your knees. Soon they'll drop the casseroles and be bringing you half-gallon jugs of booze, which you can kindly share with them--then loot 'em for all they're worth. Thank them ever so much for bringing you the expensive liquor so your knees don't get so infected you become crippled while your pour them another one and tell them their diamond earrings really don't match the beauty of their eyes and the old gals will yank them off immediately, putting them on a table just before they pass out with a smile on their face. Call room service to have them removed, and if they come lurching back several days later after recovering from the first hangover they've had in sixty years tell them they must be mistaken. You've never seen them before.
Unless she's wearing an emerald necklace that would choke a Tyrannosaur.
In that case, repeat.
From Jim Kuden:
Good for you Lyle -- when you get settled -- ask Evelyn to call me -- I have a very rich friend I would like her to meet.
Oh yes -- send me what you are drinking --- maybe I`ll join you -- after I ask Pat first of course.
From George Lentulo:
I love you. And Evelyn too.
From Bob Niderost:
I'd buy stock in Pfizer (http://www.pfizer.com) and see if they will send you lots of samples of their "little blue pill." Evelyn may not mind as much.
From Sid Colquitt:
Worst decision you'll make! Beware of little old blue haired widows bearing gifts of glutenous delights. Beyond those beguiling toothless smiles is an evil plan to bury you in endless honey-do's.