I suppose I should come clean. I’m not really a professor at MIT – although Boston’s my old stomping grounds and I did work as a janitor at MIT for a couple years, good hours, flexible – and I’m not Tom Cruise, Britney Spears, a Barbie-doll dealer or any of the other young people that I claimed to be in previous entries.

     My name is Abe Cooldrinagh and I’m a retired senior. At 92 I figure I’m pretty near the oldest blogger on the web. I just started this here sight twelve days ago after my grandson – Michael – hooked the computer up to the plasma screen. The letters are now about a foot tall which is what you need to read at my age. (If books came the size of billboards I’d be a happy camper. I’d just get them to set up a Jack London book on the side of the road on the way to the Pharmasave and I’d be in business.)  Mary, my wife, doesn’t like the fact that she misses her shows but that’s the price of progress. I have things I have to tell the world:

     WORLD’S OLDEST BLOGGER REMEMBERS ELECTRICALLY CHARGED BUMPERS. And you know what, those bumpers were even more fun because we just threw whatever crap we had in our pockets on top of them to see what would happen. I’ve never seen so many rats fry in my life.

    So anywho I’ve written under different names just to show you how easy it is to lie on the internet. I want this to be a lesson to all you. Don’t lie !!  My children are sick and tired of hearing my advice so I’m moving on up. Everyday I’m going to write a story with a moral.

   Here’s today’s story that’s based on fact:







    At about four in the afternoon, the door flew open with the force of a gale storm hurricane. There were shouts and cries like a pack of refugees were seeking shelter from the demolition of the world outside. Was I worried ?  No, I figured it was just my grandson, his wife and their three kids. They were over for Sunday dinner. This was how they made their entrances, an historic reenactment of Hurricane Katrina.

    Mary tells me not to exaggerate but at 92 I figure my entire existence already amounts to an exaggeration. What else am I supposed to do with my time ? Knit ? 

     So the Original Brat Pack (OBP) is redecorating our entranceway in shoes and jackets and I’m just finishing my Sudoku with one space left. I’m trying to concentrate but its too late because I hear footsteps tearing up the stairs with shouts of Great-Grandpa, Great-Grandpa !! There’s no way I’m going to finish it so I get up – which always take a bit of prep work – and greet the great-grandkids on my feet to prove to them that I’m not dead yet. (And believe you me, at my age you’re constantly under the death-watch. My grandson, Joshua, is just waiting for me to croak so that he can get his inheritance and retire early. I carry a mirror around with me so that I can breath on it and show him that I’m still alive.)

     I get the hugs and hellos and then we have to move into the living-room where Mary has some snacks and toys for the kids.

    “Hey Gramps, can I ask a favor ?” Joshua asks almost immediately. He’s worried that I’m going to be pushing up daisies any second so he has to get his favor in right away. I HOLD UP MY WRIST RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIS FACE WITH MY INDEX FINGER ON THE PULSE. “It’s still ticking. Don’t worry,” I tell him.

     “Can we borrow your wheels this weekend. I’m afraid our transmission is out and we’d like to go up island to do some camping.” He says “wheels” to make me feel young. To butter me up.

      But do you think I’m going to hand over the keys to the OBP ? Do you think I want them tearing up the insides of that van, chopping into its resale value ? Forget it, is what I tell him.

    And that’s today’s lesson:

    No Joshua Cooldrinagh, you cannot have the keys to our minivan. Not now, not ever !