Yes, Friggatriskaidekaphobia is real.

For me, the date and day usually hold good things. The last Friggatriskaideka was no exception, but my good fortune did not come to me in the usual way.

While delivering newspapers, it is often hard to find a parking spot. Visitors and business owners tend to take up the available spaces.

There are five kinds of parking spaces — curbs without markings, curbs with red, yellow, or green paint, paid parking lots, and far-away parking spots.

The plain ones are the hardest to find. The red ones mark fire hydrants, the yellow is for deliveries, and the green, 15-minute parking.

Unfortunately, I pulled into a green spot the wrong way as a shop owner’s car and an antique bicycle blocked the use of the closest yellow zone. After delivering to a nearby saloon, I saw law enforcement roll up with flashing lights.

I let the pair in the car know I was delivering papers and I would be moving along in a minute.

That was not satisfactory as one got out of the unit and said, “I’m going to cite you for driving the wrong way.”

“You can’t do that,” I said. “It’s a misdemeanor and you have to witness me doing it to write me a ticket. I am parked in the wrong direction though, so you have every right to ticket me for that.”

“We have ourselves a lawyer,” the other said.

“Let me drop these off and then you can cite me,” I asked. “But when you do, will you please print both of your names and rank on it so I can write an article about how you are protecting the citizens of this town?”

“A threat?” the one with the ticket book asked.

“No,” I said, “I jus’ wanna explain how you two overlooked the two violations across the street since nine this morning only to ticket me while working.”

Both looked at where I pointed, “I’m sure it’s on surveillance somewhere, including how you’ve managed to ignore both since beginning your shift.”

The one with the citation book snapped it shut, saying, “Make it quick, then move on.”

Yup, Friggatriskaideka has always been good to me.

Weeks back, I attended church with my son and daughter-in-law. It was a ‘Share Your Testimony’ Sunday, and being moved by the Holy Spirit, I did.

Unbeknownst to me, the entire service was video recorded for later Internet streaming. Anyway, I expressed how God talks to me like a drill sergeant would a Marine recruit, meaning he cusses and can be harsh when I fail to heed his direction.

My testimony offended many people attending through the superhighway, telling the preacher that God does not talk like that. So the powers that be edited me from the stream to quell the outrage.

It was easy to see the hypocrisy.

Then I learned the preacher also addressed the issue with the congregation, agreeing with the complainants. If I see this so-called preacher, I will ask about the old saw, “God meets sinners where they’re at” and how can anyone righteously judge my relationship with God, speaking for Him?

Actions like these are why I do not like organized religion and stopped attending church years ago.

My Cousin Elmo says, “They call it May because is may be be sunny, it may snow, it may be 20 degrees or it may be 90.”

While I survived changing a tire without hurting my back, I did manage to trip over our front porch steps with both feet and fall. Fortunately, I did not break the arm I extended during the tumble.

And I’m unashamed to say that I lay on the cement for a few minutes than needed, enjoying its coolness. This evening though, I’m sorting an ice pack and sling.

Being a quick study, I’m learning how to type with one hand, finding it serious business but feasible. Drinking whiskey to deaden the throbbing of my heartbeat as it pounds through my arm is also doable and every bit as earnest.

My opinion is that I am no longer simply adulting but have taken up the more significant mantle of senioring.

It is nice when I can find some humor in a situation I don’t particularly like.

Namely, I had to help my daughter-in-law change a flat tire on her already wrecked car. And as usual, it did not go smoothly for me.

First, I have to take care not to hurt my already fragile back any further than what sitting, standing, and laying do for it. Secondly, being rear-ended, the compartment holding the spare was crumpled.

On top of that, the screw securing the spare in the tire well was bent, and I could not get the fly-nut off. After pounding at it with that thing claiming to be a jack-handle, I asked my daughter-in-law if they had a pair of pliers.

She looked at me puzzled, “What do they look like.”

I suppressed a chuckle as I sent her to their apartment to find one.

She soon returned without the pliers, but by then, I had used the jack handle as a lever to loosen the fly-nut and pry the tire out of place. Within minutes I had the flat off and the donut on, and I did it without hurting myself.

My Cousin Elmo says, “It took ‘2000 Mules’ to install one jackass.”

His last words to me were, “Very. Fung. Shway.”

It was a comment from Robby on a painting I had finished and posted to my social media site. Like everyone else, I had no idea it would be the final time I’d hear from him.

Before I get there, let me go here.

Fifty years before, we thought we had lost him. I say “we” because it was a small town, and our school was even smaller, so when tragedy struck, it felt like the world had crumbled on everyone.

Robby Van Dusen had drowned, was revived, and on life support. Reports were that he’d been in the water for over 20 minutes and that doctors had called time-of-death and were walking away when he coughed himself back to life.

It wasn’t his time back in the day, but that changed on Thu., May 5, when, for a second time, when doctors removed his life support. On that day, Robby returned home again.

Once he returned to school, Robby seemed slower than the other kids. He had to relearn to eat, walk, and talk before being released from the hospital.

While it seemed unfair and hard to watch Robby struggle, he was at peace with it all. He would later say that he had seen Heaven, a claim that elicited snickers and unmerciful teasing.

A few days ago, Robby fell off a ladder, breaking his pedicle, or partes interarticulares, of his axis vertebra, or the second cervical vertebra. The process is colloquially known as a ‘hangman’s fracture.’

At times like this, I tend to question God’s judgment, asking Him, what is the effing point?

It was another late night of printing the newspaper. It took about seven hours to finish up, meaning it was about 11 p.m. as I headed to the car and home.

Yes, I am still having my truck worked on. Once the price tag had reached the five thousand dollar mark, I decided I may as well break the bank and have the repair go through the aging beast with a fine-toothed comb.

At any rate, operating on only four hours of sleep, I managed to do my radio show, which I can’t find on the Internet and now feel compelled to ask about, and I delivered all of my papers. Then I did my best, and without breaking the law, to beat feet back to the radio station for a staff meeting.

Five minutes late, I arrived to learn of its cancellation, and an email dispatched telling me so. An email — I never thought once to check my email when a text is so much more common these days.

I’m surprised no one sent me a fax.

When most people envision the architectural landmarks of Nevada, their thoughts likely gravitate to the dazzling expanse of the Las Vegas Strip. The bustling cityscape boasts an array of towering hotels and buildings that seem to scrape the sky.

However, the tallest structure in Nevada is not within the confines of Sin City. Instead, Shamrock Tower, at 1,478 feet, near Jessup, rises over the mountainous ghost town once inhabited by 300 souls and is privately owned by Dave Metz.

Erected in 2012 following the approval by the Bureau of Land Management, the guyed tower is held in place by expansive cables tethered within rugged terrain amidst relatively flat surroundings. Today, this towering edifice hosts six radio stations, including KUEZ 104.1 FM, for which I am currently working.

Though FCC records list its location as Fernley, it is far from any urban center. The tower is a landmark visible to travelers on Interstate 80, and despite its allure, venturing towards or scaling it is prohibited, and contact with it is reserved solely for maintenance personnel due to inherent dangers.

Comparing the Shamrock Tower to counterparts nationwide shows it pales in height to the KRDK-TV Tower in North Dakota, towering at 2,060 feet, or the Petronius Platform, which reaches 2,099.74 feet.

While in the Air Force, before the Marine Corps, I was called up by my squadron commander, Capt. Smith to help out at Brooke Army Medical Center because I had paramedic training. They had received a fight from Okinawa of 20 or 25 Marines severely burned in a JP4 fuel fire. Between studies and drills, I reported to the Army’s premier burn center to assist in debriding the dead or necrotic skin from these injuries.

The duty left me mentally scarred but gave me the desire to become a Jarhead myself, though I had no idea of this then. Odd, I know.

Then my wife came home from work with a deep burn to her left upper arm. She refused to go to the hospital, leaving it up to me to clean and dress.

While I did my best for her, she will have one hell of a scar once it heals. Third-degree burns are like that.

It was hard not to think about how those Marines sang the Marine Corps Hymn at the top of their lungs and shouted encouragement to one another as they endured the scrubbing and picking until raw, healthy flesh was all that showed.