I HAD NOT fathomed that holocaust deniers existed until L sat me down for a history lesson. I was 23. L was in his early 50s.

“Hitler was a great man,” he lectured. “He never sent any Jews to their death. That was all propaganda to create sympathy for Jews.” But there are films and photos, I protested. “Hollywood fakery and special effects. The Jews control Hollywood, you know.” There are eyewitness accounts! “All liars or paid off by the Jews.” The Diary of Anne Frank! “A forgery.”

Incredulous, I kept rebutting until L abruptly ended the conversation. “Just shut up!” he exploded,  storming from the room.

Over time, I noted the many “newsletters” that L took. Some claimed to reveal what really went on in government. Others offered sure-fire ways not to pay taxes. There were whackadoodle cures. There was an endless parade of get–rich–quick schemes. He fell for them all.

Mind you, he was a good guy. Loving, generous. Just a bit lacking in the critical thinking department. At least, I reassured myself more than once, people who believe this kind of crap are scattered, relatively few, and relatively harmless. 

Little did I know that, only a few years hence, we would have social media, which in turn would allow nutty thinkers to find one another, grow their numbers, and spread their influence.

And here we are.

We can blame the social media to an extent. More so, the blame lies with how people think. Or, rather, fail to think.

One day I wisecracked about baldness to my then–biggest client. He was a chrome–dome, but then, permit me to direct your attention to the above photo of my own chrome dome, snapped but minutes ago. I figured if anyone had a right to wisecrack about baldness, I did.

But then, not all chrome–domes appreciate the use of their pates for comic material, and from the manner of his prompt frown I immediately gathered that he numbered among said not all chrome–domes.

That night I couldn’t sleep. Not for fear of losing his business—he wasn’t petty—but for fear that I had been thoughtless. The moment I arrived at work the next morning, I phoned him. “I feel terrible,” I said. “I shouldn’t have made that baldness wisecrack. I was out of line.”

He replied, “Sorry to disappoint you, Cuno old boy, but I’ve been desensitized for decades. Once I asked my barber why he charges me the same amount he charges customers with a full head of hair. He said he gives me a discount, and the rest is a finder’s fee.”

I slept better that night.

YOU PROBABLY know that about half of house fires start in the kitchen. Well, I recently held up my end by setting ablaze the countertop of my kitchen island.

​How, you ask, how? I’ll tell you. Sheer stupidity.

I wish to take this opportunity to disabuse you of mistaking me for someone smart enough to have kept an extinguisher on hand. This, despite having made a mental note to obtain one after listening to Episode 228 of the delightful Built to Go podcast, wherein host Jeff Wagg addresses the topic.

Before continuing with my present-day kitchen saga, permit me to back up a little over 60 years to a time when I, a friend, and my older brother Pete were walking through the pine forests of Lake Luzerne, a quaint, upstate New York resort town where my grandparents had a summer cabin. My friend and I were eight-ish years old, so Pete would have been 11-ish. Finding ajar the front door of a nearby, long unoccupied summer home, we decided to enter and explore. The home had no power, so Pete rummaged about the kitchen, where he found a candle and matches, and, unfortunately, a small can of lighter fluid. Having difficulty lighting the candle, he deployed the lighter fluid upon it and, in the process, upon the kitchen counter. Then he struck a match, and the counter went up in flames.

My friend and I grabbed brooms and hurried outside. Pete hurled burning objects out to us, which we beat with the brooms. This tactic was not the smartest. It was, after all, a pine forest. Its floor was a carpet of dry pine needles. As we toiled away, visions of racing for our lives through a forest engulfed in flames—and knowing we were the cause of it—terrorized me.

Then inspiration struck. Pete grabbed a mat from the kitchen floor and used it to smother the flames. Disaster had been averted. Eight-year-old I stood—and present-day I remain—amazed at the young lad’s resourcefulness. 

(I wish I could tell you we tucked our tails between our legs and left. Nope. Pete relit the candle and we explored the house. I never said we were smart kids.)

Now, back to the present day and my kitchen.

“Thanks” to that childhood experience, I had an idea. I happened to be wearing a bathrobe over sweats. I whipped off the robe and used it to smother the flames. 

The realization that some six decades ago we could have been responsible for burning down that vast, lovely forest haunts me to this day. Now I add to that the harrowing realization that, had I not happened to have been wearing a bathrobe and happened to have had that childhood experience, I could have burned down my home, quite possibly my neighbors’ homes, and a good many magnificent Oregon trees.

Later that day, I bought fire extinguishers.

* * *

I BEG The Oregonian to cease carrying the People’s Pharmacy column. This, based on my understanding that newspapers have an obligation to bring reliable information to readers.​

In today’s column, “Bathroom staple may help ease redness of rosacea,” a reader claims that a homeopathic product was effective for her husband. 

Homeopathy is the notion that diluting a harmful substance to an average of less than one molecule per dose produces the opposite of its usual harmful effect. It’s like saying you can turn the entirety of Crater Lake into a sleeping potion by stirring in a drop of coffee.

Yet rather than respond with medically responsible information—namely, that homeopathy has been repeatedly demonstrated to have no effect—People’s Pharmacy replied, “Others may find that your husband’s regimen is also helpful for them.”  Not to be overlooked was the headline, referenced above, suggesting the same.

This is not the first time People’s Pharmacy has misled. Not long ago, the column argued that testimonials constitute sound medical evidence. Nonsense. Humans routinely fool themselves. It's called the placebo response, and it’s the reason that quality medical research incorporates controlled, triple-blind studies.

(But it worked for me! some readers will surely protest. No, it didn't. Re-read the preceding paragraph.)

Misinformation is not harmless. Encouraging people to opt for quackery over real medicine puts health, sometimes lives, at risk.

In the interest of not helping spread quackery, please dump People’s Pharmacy post-haste.

One fine, very rare day, my CPA dropped the ball. When I pointed out the error, he said, “I am so sorry. The reason this happened is that I’m an idiot.” He then set about bending over backward making it right.

Thirty years and my move to another state later, he is still my CPA. I refer him every chance I get. (Call Shane at Grant Strickland CPAs.)

I’m well aware that anyone can screw up. Hell, it’s entirely possible that even I have done so once or twice. It is the manner in which one takes responsibility that speaks worlds. 

“We deeply regret any offense anyone may have taken …” is no apology. It’s a “we are sooo misjudged.”

“We always strive to blah blah blah … our very best blah blah blah … highest standard of excellence blah blah blah …” is no apology, either. It’s boasting and an attempted defense.

How refreshing — and rare — it is to hear, “We blew it, we’re sorry, no excuses. Here’s what we’re doing to make amends and ensure it never happens again.”

The best PR practice isn’t deflection, obfuscation, or minimization. The best PR practice is owning responsibility.

I am not eager to write, much less publish, this piece. Discussing my gastrointestinal issues before readers is not my idea of a good time. Speaking of which, trigger warning: I’m going to open by discussing my gastrointestinal issues.

I have lived with said issues, the result of a surgical mishap, for 20 years. I have tested diet, meds, probiotics, special undergarments, positive thinking, sacrificing a pumpkin spice latte on an altar, and more, all to no avail. The upshot? Let’s just say that sometimes my innards give me minutes if I’m lucky, seconds if I’m not, to take a seat in a restroom. I shall leave to your imagination the inconvenience and humiliation that I have, on occasion, endured when none was at hand.

Last week I found myself in a large public building, making a beeline in the direction of a mercifully easy-to-spot restroom sign. Alas, it turned out to be the women’s room. No men’s room was in sight, and on this occasion my innards had no intention of affording me time to hunt for one. I later learned that the men’s room was one floor down. I would not have made it.

So it was that, not for the first time, I slipped into a women’s room. Mind you, not even the most casual observer would mistake me for female. I’m six feet tall, 220 pounds, bald, and bearded. I have a baritone voice. No wonder the woman reading a magazine in the lounge area looked up with surprise. “I’m sorry,” I stammered, “I have a condition and I can’t find the men’s—”

“Don’t worry about it,” the woman interrupted, motioning toward the doorway to the stalls, “go ahead.”

By the time I reemerged a few minutes later, a second woman had joined the first in the lounge. Again I began an apology. “No problem,” the newcomer said. I thanked them both, hurried out, and disappeared down the hallway as fast I could.

This little adventure took place in a city where people tend not to be uptight about such things. Had it taken place in Utah, my home for 43 years, there’s no telling what kind of hubbub might have ensued. 

Or maybe not. Even when I lived in Utah, my condition tended to win understanding to my side. Moreover, I think you’ll agree that no harm was done. After all, if you have ever visited a women’s restroom, you know that the stalls tend to provide privacy.

But … suppose I’d been in Utah … and suppose I were a transgender woman. In that case, I might be writing about my adventure from a cell instead of my office. Which, when you think about it, is absurd. Condition or no condition, if a straight male does no harm using a women’s room, neither does a transgender woman using a women’s room, nor a transgender man using a men’s room.

If you think transgender people are de facto predatory, you’re just plain uninformed. If you think a restroom is a sexual predator’s preferred hunting ground, let’s hope you’re uninformed and not projecting. The overwhelming majority of people who enter a restroom are there to go potty. Let them.

As I said, I don’t enjoy sharing personal medical matters. But if it might nudge one or two self-appointed morality police an iota closer to basic humanity, I’m willing.