A Pulled Groin, Mollies, Cucks and Why I Will Never Again Run for a Bus

I totally knew better, but…

The bus was two blocks away. It was right there, pulling up to the stop. And the next one was probably 15 minutes away. Had to get somewhere, I’m impatient, I can make it and…

pexels-photo-374132.jpegYep, I ran. An all-out sprint. OK, as close to an all-out sprint as I can muster at my age.

Made it. With a second or two to spare.

Whew! Was a little out of breath as I boarded the bus, but no worse for the wear. And then, the next day … woke up and my groin hurt. A lot. Something down there was pulled or tweaked or inflamed or some combination of these painful options. And then, my left knee started to hurt. A lot. Whenever I bent it, which you kinda have to do in order to walk.

And so, I now hereby solemnly swear: I will never, ever again run for a bus. Never!

No matter how close it is. Another bus will come. They always do, it’s how they work. Saving 15 minutes isn’t worth four to seven days of pain.

It seems I’ve reached the age where running for a bus can be hazardous to my health. It pains me to admit this, and to have to make this solemn pledge, but, as they say, Father Time is undefeated. And is kicking my butt. And groin.

So, three painful, limpy days later, I missed the bus home (barely) … and was waiting for the next one at the stop, which was on campus, on N. High Street, inches from the patio of a bar. It was late Friday afternoon, about 4:30, sort of a spring-like day, and thousands of Buckeyes were out kicking off their weekend of drinking. It was hard not to eavesdrop.

“Pledges are not people,” one guy said. He was there with another guy, a pledge in his frat, I presume. The two of them were chatting up a couple of girls. I think the goal was to impress the girls and get them to attend their upcoming frat party.

“We only have Mollies,” the pledge said.

Mollies?

I figured Mollies were drug slang, but for what? Hey, I already told you I was old. Turns out Mollies are MDMA, a synthetic drug that alters your mood and perception. You know, Ecstasy. Mollies are quite popular in night clubs. And, so it seems, frat parties.

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And why did they only have Mollies at their frat party? What’s the alternative they didn’t have? Was tempted to tell the two girls to run, but was worried they might pull a hamstring.

The subject changed…

“Our landlord is suck a cuck,” the first frat guy said, trying a new tactic to impress the girls. “Do you know what a cuck is?”

I wasn’t sure. Is it short for cuckhold … a guy whose wife cheat’s on him?

Fortunately, Mr. Big Shot filled the girls and everyone waiting at the bus stop in on cucks: “His wife definitely cheats on him. I could have his wife.”

A little later, the two girls migrated over to a different part of the patio. Was totally relieved. I hope, I pray, they didn’t go to the frat party … and that the frat guy doesn’t “have” his landlord’s wife. Who does he think he is, college Donald Trump?

And so, there you have it: All the reasons I will never, ever again run for the bus.

Cary Grant Is In Big Trouble for What He Did To Katherine Hepburn

The Philadelphia Story is on TCM tomorrow (Sunday March 18) at 4PM. Seeing it listed brought back memories of a column I wrote a long time ago that now, in the age of #MeToo, seems relevant. Here’s what I wrote on January 27, 2002.

Something’s always bothered me about the opening scene of The Philadelphia Story, the 1940 flick starring Cary Grant, Katherine Hepburn and Jimmy Stewart.

The romantic comedy opens with Cary storming out the front door of his mansion. Kate, his soon-to-be ex-wife, is fast on his heels, carrying Cary’s golf clubs.

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With a fierce look in her eyes, Kate pulls out a club and snaps it across her knee. With steam coming out of his ears, Cary approaches Kate, his left hand in a fist and poised to pop her one in the chops. At the last instant, he pulls back his fist and, with his right hand, grabs Kate by the face and flings her to the ground.

I know this is make believe, the movies and all, but it bothers me every time I see it. And Turner Classic Movies has been showing it a lot lately as part of a series of clips celebrating the history of the movies.

So, I decided to do something about it … and invited Alan Rubenstein, the feisty former Bucks County (PA) district attorney, and currently a feisty Bucks County judge, to watch The Philadelphia Story with me. Turns out Alan is a huge movie buff and a big Cary Grant fan. He even knew his real name: Archibald Leach.

Unfortunately for Cary/Archie, that’s not enough to get him off the hook with this
judge.

“That’s technically a simple assault,” Alan said after Cary threw Kate to the floor. “Today, Katherine Hepburn could immediately contact the police and say: ‘My husband, Cary Grant, assaulted me. I fear for my future safety.’ The police would advise her to immediately file for a PFA (protection from abuse order) and within 72 hours a hearing would be held.”

“Alan, if you were the judge and saw that video in your court, what would you rule?” I asked.philly3

“I could, on the strength of that alone, grant a PFA. In the worst-case scenario, for Cary Grant, he would be excluded from the marital residence, would pay temporary support and for 18 months be prohibited from any contact. He could also be arrested for simple assault and prosecuted.”

“What if he had gone ahead and punched her with his left hand?”

“He could have been arrested on the spot, if she suffered some type of injury. The police could have been called and charged him with simple assault. The maximum sentence is one year.”

Alan continued: “There has been abuse between spouses since there were cave dwellers. It’s only been in the last 15 years that it has come to the forefront. Men routinely commit aggressive actions, acts of assault. And it’s not just men. In the past, the stigma was on the victim. Now, it’s appropriately on the ones committing the assaults.”

I know I’m 62 years late on the whole Cary/Kate incident, but hey, I didn’t have a column back in 1940. If I did, Cary would have been in big-time trouble.

OK, there you have it, my column from 16 years ago.

The Case of the Mysterious Backpack: Another Lost Wedding Band Story

So, I’m at a party and suddenly a great lost wedding band story breaks out…

Coincidence? Or are these blog posts sparking discussion, conversations and storytelling all over the world about lost wedding bands? I’ll go with coincidence. Or the fact that I asked if anyone at the party had a great lost wedding band story.

pexels-photo-89089.pngLauren: It was 2007 and I was home from college after spring semester, before my summer job as a counselor at Camp Cheerio Adventures.

Me: Camp Cheerio Adventures? Like the cereal?

Lauren: Like the cereal.

Me: I didn’t know Cheerios were so adventurous. What is it you do with them at this camp?

Lauren: Ha-ha Mr. Funny Guy. My dad and I went on a hike and at the top there’s a rock scramble. So, he took of his wedding band and put it in my backpack in this extra zipper pouch.

Jeff: Why?

pexels-photo-547116.jpegLauren: Because sometimes his fingers swell up. We did the hike, no problem, and at some point during the next few days, before I left for camp, he remembered I had his ring. But it wasn’t in the zipper pouch. It was gone. I worked at the camp all summer, for eight weeks, and used that backpack every day. I finished the summer, got home and opened the bag and there it was. His wedding band!

Jeff: How did you tell him you found it? What did you say?

Lauren: Now that I think about it, maybe I wasn’t home when I found it. I think I was back at college and I called him and said “Dad, you’re not going to believe what I just found.”

BTW: Jeff has an inscription inside his wedding band: Vous et nul sutra.

For those of you who can’t read French: You and no other.

OK, who else has a great lost wedding band story? Either email it to me, or invite me to your party.