Is there a doctor in the house?

After spending a week looking like that mouthbreather Napoleon Dynamite, I think I might be over the worst seige by one of at least 400 varieties of cold viruses. So this week I stayed away from the ice rink to walk until I could breath through my nose again, opting instead for walking at the, the, the, oh, man, the mall. Because I don't like to shop there, ever, I feel quite overwhelmed by the Christmas musak and barrage of, shall I say, umm, merchandise practically falling out of each shop doorway at me. I'm there with a large portion of the senior population way before the shops open and its warm and pleasant enough, but by the time I leave, my eyes are glazed from seeing so much I couldn't, wouldn't, can't buy, buy, buy.

Let me back up to relate the following experience. Last week while walking around the hockey rink, over and over again (7 laps = 1 mile/ sigh) I had occasion to help an older gent find an unlocked door to the rink. He was tall, wore a beige jacket, slacks, dress oxfords and was the spitting image of my dad who 'has been dead lo these many years'. . .when we finally found the unlocked door, he smiled and wouldn't you know, he was missing some teeth, just like dear old dad! He only made one lap around the ice and we waved at each other when he left. His 'presence' rattled me and I had to shake my head as I finished my laps; what the heck would possess my dad to stop by a hockey rink on a Thursday morning in Minnesota? Well, so maybe he had a message? Nothing came to mind but, who knows, maybe I just needed to be reminded of his big schnozz that stuck straight out from his face or how he dressed up to go to McDonalds. While at the mall this week, every day I've seen the same guy who looks like the real Santa in every way: short, a little round, red shirt, red suspenders, long white hair and beard and even little glasses. When we pass in the mall he smiles and waves. And I call him Santa now.

Even though I'm no stranger to this type of occurrence I hesitate to recall that when I commuted to Chicago every day I swear I saw John Lennon a couple of times at the train station. He'd be looking at his newspaper and then look me straight in the eye. O.K., well, how about last summer when I thought I saw Jerry Garcia working on a road crew? I creep myself out, and yet, maybe admitting this could somehow get me a room in a nice hospital somewhere. . .I could use the rest!