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Doug Blough

Three cheers for Barry Sprowl, a Johnstown, Pa., young man who truly understands the concept of “family.”

This is another of my adult deficit hyperactivity disorder columns, unable to focus on one subject before flitting to another. Forgive me, but I have a lot to say about a bunch of stuff. So without any further au jus: 

So what did you do on your summer vacation? I watched TV and worried. Not very impressive, but as you’ll see later, there were other factors at play besides my innate slothfulness since childhood, which if my Dad were still alive, he would vigorously vouch for.

The newspaper headline jumped out at me like an elderly man rising from a bush to flash a group of startled nuns: “Study finds most mammals need 21 seconds to urinate.”

Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather. Not at the time frame — 21 seconds is about what I’d have guessed — but at the absurdity of some studies.

Just as suddenly as a sneeze at a funeral, silent darkness came upon me.

At 6 p.m. Saturday during Labor Day weekend, a tragic act-of-God occurred and continues unabated as I write this. After a wicked afternoon thunder/lightning storm, the power went off all over my little neighborhood. It wasn’t yet total darkness, but the approaching night loomed menacingly. There was weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth at my townhouse, my friends! I’m a shut-in, ya know?

And the cats vs. dogs debate rages on. I’m one of the few who can truly say I feel strongly both ways with no clear preference. Dogs and cats combine (preferably curled up together on the couch) symbiotically to form God’s greatest gift to mankind.

I was debating on which show to watch and which to record when I began watching the “60 Minutes” segment about a man named Nicholas Winton.

All Nicholas did as a young man was to come out of his cushy, successful life as a stockbroker to save 669 Czechoslovakian children from the Nazi invasion. And here I was fretting about how much DVR memory I had left.

Today I did something I did a lot as a boy that brought me great pleasure. No, I didn’t drag a hidden Playboy from underneath my bed to read under the covers by flashlight; it’s been several years since I’ve done that.

No, I went bowling. And after only once in the last 20 years, I was jubilantly stunned that I’ve still got it — and then some.

Carly Simon sang: “You’re so vain; you probably think this song is about you. You’re so vain, I bet you think this song is about you; don’t you, don’t you?”

(There may have been one more “Don’t you?” but I’m not positive).

Some people blather on and on, jabbering forever on one subject. Not I.

Page 6 of 11

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