I was good friends with the famous Russian revolutionary, Vladimir Lenin. We got along well most of the time, unless he brought his cat, Andrei. I’m terribly allergic to cats.

Lenin knew this but would sometimes bring Andrei in tow. I would get upset, and Lenin would say that to be a member of the proletariat, one must suffer for the common good. I would argue back that when a comrade knowingly makes another suffer, he becomes a member of the bourgeoisie.

The fight would escalate until Andrei the Cat would postulate about how the demise of Utopia was inevitable as long as people were involved in trying to create it.

I remember the day I was born. It was on a Friday. Back then hospitals closed at 5pm on Friday. The doctors, nurses, the rest of the staff went home and came back 9am Monday. My mom showed up ready to deliver at 4:59 pm. She had to be admitted, but of course the doctors and nurses who delivered me were pissed because they had dinner plans and were hoping to catch Gunsmoke on TV at 6:30 pm.

So they rushed my delivery (4 minutes, still a record at Zachary Taylor County Hospital) and had my mom out the door at 5:03), which made my dad happy because he was curbside, sitting in the car, with the motor running, honking and yelling out the window for us to hurry it up.

I used to be chums with the 13th President, Millard Fillmore. We used to hang out at the White House and eat gin-soaked pears in the West Sitting Room. (Originally it was called the Sitting Room, but I encouraged Millard to add the ‘West.’)

Once he told me, “Mr. Bee, this country of our’n is in a tumult, as if salt and pepper were mixed up in the same shaker, and were fightin’ for dominion.” I nodded vigorously. He said, “I ‘preciate your concurment.”

I’ve discovered over the years that a good deal of nodding is the best way to make a friendship stronger.