Some of you may have read about this old man. His name is Ollie. I met him a while back on a beach, and then at a bar, drinking a decent largess of sloppy Guinness. He’s an old guy who seems to grow on you pretty fast, and then Poof, he’s gone in a cloud of Einstein-like quantum dust. I’m surprised he let me have this picture, but I am leery of what he’s going to do if he finds I posted it on my website. Do you think he’ll have the shadow men pay me a visit again?

His wild tornado of cotton-candy hair is difficult to get past at first, but then, I must admit, I am envious of it because I’m a lot younger than his 100 years, yet, have much less in the way of hair follicles. I don’t care. He’s taught me a lot about life, and well, I think, about myself. He’s smart, for sure, but also tough as a limping badger if you corner him and well, what I like best about him is that he knows what is right, and when to defend what is right, even to the death. And what is right, often, is that he tells me to pray and believe in the Lord Almighty.

He’s guards a mountain of secrets it seems, and he has yet to share many of them with me, but there is one secret I want to know so much that it burns my amygdala like a roasted almond. Those who have read about him know what I’m saying, right?

The hot chicks dig him. They love to dance with him, even with his twirling cane when he sings country songs or even Al Jarreau.

He’s got something most of us do not understand. But even if I don’t find out what that is, it doesn’t matter: I am honored that he has chosen me to write his story.