Whatever man. My head-to-mouth reading game wasn’t that strong.

As for upstairs, I mean, it’s pretty tough to compare your reading speed to someone else.

• “I read 52 books last year!” Ok, did they read and listen, or just read? If the latter, that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re fast; they just set aside more time.

• Reading next to someone? Hear them flippin’ more frequently than you? Doesn’t mean shit! Maybe they got a little Slaughterhouse-Five while you’re grinding through some David Foster Wallace.

I’ve had 2-3 fair moments to judge my mental reading speed.

Feel like one time we got a new book to read in English class. Had 10 minutes left in the period. Teach takes a knee (metaphorically speaking): “Go ahead and read for the last 10 minutes. Give you guys a little head start on tonight’s reading assignment.”

I remember locking in. Which really wasn’t on par with my behavior in high school. Was more of a fuck around and find out kid. Anywho, I’m in there. Reading. Grinding. I hear a couple flips around me. Immediately judge myself, “Ok, I have a couple more sentences left. I’m not the fastest but…” Flip. After my flip, I hear a collection of flips. “Ok. Not podium, but feel like I beat about 60% of them.”

Cut to 2026.

Must’ve slowed down with my old age. Always knew it to be true in my hockey and basketball leagues, but upstairs? Mentally? Fuck man…

Always had visions of me growing old, constantly challenging my mind, learning new traits and skills. Being that old guy in a college classroom. Writing, reading, watching, always stepping outside the comfort zone…

Not worth it anymore.

No saving me.

I am now stupid.

- Bobby D

During every Whole Foods trip, every time I walk past the bakery and eye the vast array of desserts. I always think to myself, “How sick would it be to just have an absolute sesh and crush half of these fuckers.” Slices of cake, macaroons, cookies, god that would be amazing. This day was different though… Yeah, I had my weekly dessert visualizations, but I also had one about the bar.

Yeah, the Whole Foods bar. For some reason, I’ve been glazing over the fact that Whole Foods has a bar where you can crush actual beers. Maybe it was a subconscious effort to not fall for the “cool, hip” grocery store look and vibe they’re clearly going for. “You guys respect craft beers. I get it.” My inner cynic never let a flow of thoughts transpire around the fact that an extremely popular chain grocery store has a bar.

As I was waiting in line to check out, I looked over at the bar and saw myself sitting in a high-top chair eyeing the different drafts available. Nobody in a 15-foot radius of me. Glowing with a calm, confident aura.

Maybe it’s a post-beer, maybe it’s a pre-beer. Little Hazy to help you focus on the shop ahead. Little Kolsch to celebrate another cross out on your to-do list. Maybe a little both? Get the shopping gears turning with a quick pint. Follow it up with a “good for me, I bought food for the week” victory flight.

Then it hit me, “You don’t even need to shop.” Could just roll up and rip a Pizza Port Chronic in peace. I mean, I never see anyone over there. Catch up on some text messages, look at flights for an upcoming trip, or tuck the phone away and just straight people-watch.

Now I’m fully into it. “Yeah, this is going to be my new play.” Another light bulb, “The snack and food selection is unstoppable.” Drinking beer at a bar and not confined to chicken wings, burgers and fries. Now don’t get me wrong, I dig classic bar eats just as much as the next guy, but I’ve never paired a draft IPA with an appetizer sampler consisting of cucumber noodles, butter chicken and meatballs. Crush a fresh apple. Build up enough courage to finally buy a bunch of those desserts.

“Excuse me… which craft ale do you think pairs best with this cherry cheesecake?”

Just have a sesh!

- Bobby D

Maybe it’s not too late. Everyone loves an underdog story. Be the Rudy or Mark Whalberg in that one football movie and shock the world. “From Substack to the Most Exclusive Table in the Dining World.” Reads the 2029 November Edition of Food and Wine Magazine.

Could start writing food reviews again, that’s right, I said again. Your boy used to absolutely RIP reviews back in the day. But what if I write a bunch of food reviews and it doesn’t get me anywhere? Never get bumped up to the majors and in the judges’ chair. Would be a complete waste of time… It’s not like I’d be writing these reviews for the love of the game. I’m exclusively doing this so I can sit down in a chair, get served a bunch of food, get paid, repeat.

I’m also not looking to “shoot for the moon and graze the stars” bullshit. Nah… it’s food judge or bust. “You know my dream job was always to be a Pit Master’s BBQ judge. That obviously didn’t work out, but now I own my own BBQ joint!” Nah… It’s giggling with Tom and Gail or bust.

Where do you even apply? Think there’s an Indeed job application that pops up every 10 years:

“Bravo”

“Food Judge”

“Our reality TV division is looking for someone to be our next judge on Top Chef.”

“You’ll get served exquisite food, give your opinion on how it tastes, and yes, you’ll be paid actual money to do this.”

“Must have an extensive background in food and be comfortable on camera.”

Not sure if I can rely on Indeed or LinkedIn here. Might have to take the “get my foot in the door” route. Get to know people, start rubbing elbows with some higher-ups, sabotage my way to the top. Eh… quitting my job and moving would be kind of a grind. Especially with no guarantee of becoming a judge.

Damn man. Be cool if there was like a lottery to see who the next judge was. Somehow rig it. Wouldn’t have to put in a whole lot of effort there, which would be kind of sick.

I guess I could start a TikTok of me reviewing food. Bring a little comedy to it, skim a thesaraus before hand and drop all sorts of cool adjectives. “Umm… Not sure how I got here, but immediately followed,” says Gracie2163. It’s 2.5 scrolls deep in the comment section, but it does have 1 like, which is dope. Top comment is, unfortunately, “Aren’t you a little too old for content like this?” 362 likes.

They’re not going to TikTok to find their next judge you dumb fuck. You gotta… Well, I don’t know what I have to do. Be a tall, good-looking woman, or an aging semi-retired chef, or hey… they have guest judges on all the time. Yeah dude, I could work my clout up with the sole purpose of becoming a guest judge for an episode. “We have guest judge Bobby Dolan, who’s a Maryland native and certainly knows his way around a crabcake.” “I most certainly do, Kristen.’ Laughs

Now I’m doing it. On set, critiquing crab cake after crab cake, dropping killer adjectives, charming similies, was that a Cal Ripken reference? This guy’s good. “Thanks for having me. Would love to do this again sometime.”

18 hours later. “Hey Bobby. This is Kristen. Tom is way too sick to judge tonight. Are you available?”

“Hey Bobby. This is Kristen again. Tom has been let go. He sent a wild email to our President and CEO. He swears it wasn’t him. He keeps saying he was hacked, but the decision has been made. Tom’s out. Would you like to not only finish the season with us but become our next full-time judge?

Bang.

- Bobby D

I don’t know who invented the front porch, but whoever did is a fucking genius. I spotted an old guy just straight posting up on one the other day and legit got pumped. Rocking chair, cold drink, taking in the soon-to-be sunset. Legit said, “fuck yeah” out loud. Girlfriend was confused. Then I was confused why she didn’t seem to understand why I thought the reaction was more than warranted.

Maybe I’m just a simple man, Skynyrd style, but you give me a two-bedroom house with a front porch in a small town... I’m good. Cancel all future possessions.

I live in LA, so when it comes to owning a house (god forbid a house with a front porch), I’m basically screwed. CBTM needs to 10x before Uncle Bobbo starts looking at some standalone properties. Which, you know, I’m ok with. I like my life. A couple extra bucks can’t hurt, but chasing the dollar isn’t ever going to be my #1 priority. That is, until I saw this guy on his front porch.

I need this. Lil’ bev, lil’ rock (rocking chair), lil’ sunset, lil’ waft of a cherry pie cooking in the kitchen, lil’ “How the boys look? State?, lil’ chat with the sheriff, lil’ open carry.

Need. Whatever it takes. Steal, cheat, con my way into a front porch. Squatter? Might be worth it. I’m telling you, the way the guy was posted up… not a care in the world. Sins, completely washed away. That’s the thing with front porches man, they don’t care who you are, where you came from, how you got there. Nah… front porches create vibes and you’re just the vessel.

I need this shit in my life.

- Bobby D

It happens man. People get hangry. In my delusional world, I like to think my hangry levels are pretty tame. I can go a while without food and/or sleep and still somewhat figure it out. Other people aren’t like that, and I fully respect it. I mean, shit, I clearly have my flaws. If I have a weird interaction with a server, I’ll think about it for 12-16 hours.

I won’t get too into the psychological wiring of my girlfriend, but her levels of hangry are 2-3 steps more potent than mine. She doesn’t get frustrated or irritable too often, but the other day was a different story.

She was hungry and frustrated that I didn’t have any snacks. Just something I do. If I have snacks, I’ll devour them immediately. Beach season’s coming up. Gotta stay dialed, ya know! I told her I could scoop her something, but that wasn’t the vibe she wanted. The clock was running low. We had a little shindig we were hitting at 3:00, a little wine tasting. Then it hit me, “Oh no, she needs food before those first two sips, or we’ll be on a one-way ticket to Buzzville, USA!”

Old me would’ve pushed the issue. Ran my mouth and acted like a clown with the sole purpose of trying to cheer her up. That shit doesn’t work man. Never has, never will. I don’t care if Don Rickles comes back to life, pops in the room and does the tightest 10 minutes imaginable. Laughter will solve nothing. Hell, laughter won’t even occur. She needed food and she needed food ASAP.

Right down the street from the wine tasting is this burger spot that has one of her favorite salads. A little kale salad with a big ol’ chunk of chicken patty. It’s pretty good. Not as good as their burger, but it plays. I said, “Hey. Let’s head there beforehand.” We had a plan in motion. And you know what I did? I kept my mouth shut and didn’t say a goddamn word. Now’s not the time to try and make pleasant convo or talk about serious things. Now’s not the time to try and crack jokes or mess around. Now’s not the time to try and curate a favorable playlist for the ride there. No. No and No. You keep your mouth shut and open it when she has food.

Now again, I’m no better. Like I said before, my hangry levels are very tame and barely exceed “slight frustration”. But I’m also a nut job when I watch sports. I’m sure she has a playbook on me. “After a tough loss, I always say I’m craving some ice cream. This isn’t for me though; it’s for him. He thinks he’s doing something nice, but my goal is to get him to eat ice cream so it chills him out. Works every time.” - My GF’s playbook after my team suffers a horrendous loss.

- Bobby D

A lot of things piss me off: closers walking the lead-off hitter with a two-run lead, ordering hot coffee and it being lukewarm, when people drop “since” and the time span hasn’t really been that long, e.g., “Their first major win since 2024.” It’s been 2 years, chill with the since. “Their first Stanley Cup since 1974.” Ok, since kind of hits there.” And yeah, I’m also anti e-bikes... makes me feel like an old head.

I mean shit, I guess I’m already kind of old. I’m currently the 3rd oldest person at the company I work for. Sure, I still feel young, but that’s what every old person well off his or her prime says. “I still feel young!” as they watch the world they once know and love crumble beneath their ankle socks. Whatever man, e-bikes are soft.

Watching these fucks go 35mph in a bike lane completely rattles me. Should be a crime! Too soft to pedal, too soft for a motorcycle. Instead, they settle for 40mph on your local bike trail. One squirrel sighting away from completing ripping the head of ole Fluffy. You wanna go 38? Go hang with the big boys.

Almost drilled a kid the other day on one. Dude just completely blew the stop sign. On his way to Billy’s house to play PS5 and eat elite snacks. Not saying that’s a bad thing. Hell, I did the same! Except it was N64, PlayStation, and X-Box, but the main difference between me and the boys back in the day and the youth nowadays, is these kids can easily go wherever they want, whenever they want. Now, maybe this is jealousy talking, but when I was a dumb fuck riding my bike around, me and the squad had to ask ourselves if a trip was worth it. For instance, my buddy Peter had a great house growing up. Killer basement, elite snacks, dope computer room. The only issue was you had to bike up the biggest hill imaginable to get there. After basketball, or after ripping fries at McDonald’s, we had to ask ourselves how bad we wanted it. Was lemonade, popcorn and a basement sesh worth the grind we were about to endure? I tell you what, that lemonade always tasted a touch sweeter after going full on Tour De’ France yellow jersey up, at the time, the steepest hill I ever encountered. Calling your friends out who get off and start walking their bikes, fucccck that. Grit, grind, Crystal Light, Orville Redenbacher, Chips Ahoy, Pablo Francisco, W.

Now these fucking kids buzz over to Chipotle 10 miles down the road whenever they have a craving. Unreal. Bike path, 60 mph. “Why is this guy mad? It’s a bike lane!”

Jealous? Maybe. Worried about Fluffy? Oh yeah. Sick of the, “Oh look how fast I can go down this quant bike path where people gracefully walk and take in the beauty of nature?” Big time.

You wanna go 35. Go play with the big boys.

Not sure where the shift occurs, but it’s a fascinating pivot in life that often goes unnoticed. Somewhere along the line, we stop calling dibs on the top bunk.

A once fun, adventurous sleeping vessel no longer possesses the zest and charm it once had. Now, it’s a chafe, a bullshit E-tier Airbnb sleeping arrangement. From love to loathe. Where did it all go wrong?

Did its appeal simply wear off? Oh look at me, I get to climb a ladder before I sleep like some grizzled pirate, yawn. Oh look at me, I’m sleeping high in the air, yawn. Oh look at me, if an intruder comes I’m the 2nd safest person in this room, yawn.

Or was it because of college? The people who slept up there grew tired of drunkenly scaling their bed every night. (Little harder to get up there after polishing off 14 Natty Lights, I’ll tell you that much!) Bringing a girl back and surprising her with the fun game of “climb the ladder before we make out.” Having sex in one position like some dork.

Something about climbing up there at a young age. Getting settled, nestled in. Breathing in that cool, next to the ceiling air. Safest I’ve ever felt. Now I watch these jail documentaries where dudes straight murder eachother over who gets the bottom bunk!

Was just on a top bunk. Guys’ trip, golf. It was the least-desired bed, and since I can really sleep anywhere, I slept on her.

Did it feel extremely unstable when climbing the ladder? Yeah.

Did it make a shit ton of noise when I tossed and turned? Yup.

Was it sweet that I had a different sleeping view than I’m usually accustomed to? Not really.

Could I feel any hint of giddiness that my younger self would’ve experienced when sleeping on the top bunk? Negative.

What the fuck happened to me man?

Was watching Blackberry the other day. Great movie. I tell you what, some fantastic needle drops: Joy Division, Slint, The Strokes. Holy playlist.

Lot of great scenes in that movie, but one really caught my eye. The dude from Always Sunny, Glenn Howerton, is at a pay phone. Convo doesn’t go to his liking and he pulls off this slam/hang-up Move. Dude just starts violently hanging up the phone until it breaks. Might’ve been inspired by De Niro honestly. I remember him pulling off a similar Move in Goodfellas. Although De Niro was in a phone booth and had the luxury of going slam, slam, push, push. Bro tipped that sumbitch!

I’ll tell you what man. Shit looked like a fucking rush! Wish I could pull it off, but yeah, shit’s extinct. Haven’t seen a pay phone in years.

Now don’t get me wrong, I dig the advancement in modern technology, I really do. Cell phones are sick. Your boy can immediately pull up Gunnar Henderson’s split stats at a moment’s notice. No need to open the laptop, take a quick trip to the computer room, library, or some MLB database… Nah, left pocket, baseball reference, .372 against righties west of the Mississippi when Mercury’s in retrograde? Thata beb Gunnar! But… I will say, the idea of blowing off some steam on the vessel or middle man (so to speak) that delivered this devastating information sounds kind of fun. Especially knowing I won’t have to pay for it. (Unless some snitch sees me and waves down the 5-0.)

I’ve broken a lot of shit in my day out of rage: 2 putters, my hand, an X-Box controller, a Sonos. The putters and Sonos were free, but knowing me, I’d feel pretty guilty raging on a pay phone. Hell, I felt guilty breaking something that was personally mine. Destroying an object meant for a community, I’d be in shambles! Try to reason with myself, “These things are funded by billion-dollar companies. They have plenty of money, who cares!” All while deep down still feeling guilty. It’s the principle of the whole thing ya know.

Maybe pay phones make a comeback. Some new cool, trendy phone service provider makes a guerrilla marketing push and installs a couple pay phones in Times Square, DTLA, or outside Jerry’s World. “Look at me! I’m talking on a pay phone!” Snap, snap. Post, post. Like, like, like, comment. “Eh… thought it’d do better…”

Not me. I’m calling Frankie to see if it’s done. “Sorry, Bob. Turns out there’s a new sheriff in town.” “What? Frankie… What did you do? FRANKIE!!! WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO!!!” Slam, slam, slam, if it’s a phone booth, push, push push, “FUCK!!!!!”

Although furious at the time, two weeks later, I’m over what Frankie did. That’s the game ya know. Gotta Move on. Only thing stuck on my mind is the guilt I feel about destroying that pay phone.

What’s funny is, with my lifestyle, there’s a 0% chance anything I hear on a pay phone would be worthy of kickin’ its ass. “Hey man. Bad news, 9:30 wasn’t available, so I booked the 11:00 tee-time.” “Yo. We’re going somewhere else, Johnson’s ran out of Guinness.” I mean these guys are on the verge of losing their company and finding out their friend got whacked. A little minor felony is the least of their worries.

- Bobby D

More writing on the other account I work on.

Could Be The Move - Movesletter, Instagram

Was a gorgeous Tuesday night: slight brisk in the air, clouds dancing around the waxing crescent hung deep in the sky, footsteps and soft conversation of couples getting in their late-night stroll. Was also roller hockey night for your boy, so I was all sorts of jacked. (Been on a losing skid recently, but those post-game Guinnesses still hit like crack.) Got my hockey bag, stick, a positive attitude and made my way to my car. Step, step, look up, bang, a coyote just straight eyeballing me. Bro’s right by my car, about 20 yards away. He’s frozen, I’m frozen. My first thought: “Is he chill?” “Dude have rabies and ready to risk it all?” Hell, he was probably thinking the same thing about me! Anyways, I was cautious. Heard people walking just behind me. Turned around, older couple. “Hey guys. Just a heads up, there’s a coyote right there.”

Old guy didn’t break fucking stride. “Oh cool! Look hun!” The wife veers a touch to the left towards the other side of the road. I start moving slowly to the left as well, see what Mr. Coyotoe does. Old guy slows to my pace. “Where do you play hockey?” This crazy bastard just straight up takes his eye off this wild animal. Now I got two sumbitches eyeballing me.

I try to be polite, make a little eye contact, answer his question, but 80% of my attention is on the coyote.

Wife’s probably seen this song and dance one too many times. Her husband stopping for a long convo with strangers, that is. “Let’s keep it moving hon.”

Coyote starts moving. Makes his way up the hill towards one of the bigger bushes. Even slips a little. Looked a little embarrassed. It’s ok man, looks slippery!

Old guy wishes me luck and the couple continues on their “we’re not scared of shit” walk.

I make it to my car, look to my right and see the coyote. He’s about 15 yards away and now has a friend. “Bobby, you have a hockey stick. You could fuck these things up.” The thought calmed me down a touch. Still, my attention will not leave these fuckers. I put my stick in the car. Big, just need to open the trunk, toss the bag in and we’re golden. Then I thought, “Just throw the bag in the backseat and get out of here!” Made a move to do so, then toughened up. Nah, this is my house (apartment). Made my way around to the trunk. Coyote and friend are still checking me out. I audibly say, “Don’t worry about me boys!” The old guy must’ve heard me because I heard a laugh down the road. I often talk to wild animals like that, feel like it eases the vibe. Breaks a little, “Is this guy going to kill me?” tension.

Now I’m in my car, W. Start driving off. Felt safe, in control, no longer scared. Scared or cautious? I don’t know. Probably a little scared.

Fuck man, a part of me wishes I could be like one of those cool guys who aren’t scared of like 75% of animals. Steve Irwin is the extreme, but people like that. You know, that vibe hunters and fishers give off: “Look, a gator! Hell! Good eatin!” “Look, a moose and her baby. Let’s go give them a high five!” Approaching a 150-pound dog they’ve never met before: “Belly rubs!” Not me man. Whether it’s a big dog, squirrel, goose, fuckin’ crane, I’m always waiting for one of these fuckers to freak out.

Scared? Little bitch? Cautious? Coward? I don’t know man. Feels cautious until you’re next to someone who doesn’t break stride.

The hierarchy at the gym is pretty simple: the bigger you are, the more weight you pull, literally and metaphorically. Now sure, you probably guessed it, I’m pretty high up there. Not really, although I’m fascinated with the idea of jumping on gear. Just for shits and gigs ya know. Head back east for a family function, absolute behemoth. “Damn. Bobby must be doing his pushups!”

I’d say I’m in the 70 percentile at the gym I work out at. I know what I’m doing, have solid etiquette, clearly hammer beers on the weekend, but will push (or pull) a set to failure with the best of em’.

The other day I’m rippin’ the ab crunch machine. I wasn’t planning on using it; some guy was taking forever on the calf machine, so I went to a nearby spot to keep an eye on him. Behind me, there’s another ab crunch, and I could feel the top of the food chain, most jacked, 100th percentile guy’s aura just straight BEAMING to my 6. Over some “Pixies” or whatever the hell I was listening to, I could hear another guy ask Mr. Olympia if he could work in. Wild strategy, fuckin’ Sam Sulek was putting on a clinic. Could hear him straight rippin’ his first set to failure. Maybe I’m glazin’ too hard, but feel like super yokomotive guys have earned solo machine rights. Anyway, the calf machine guy gets up. I hurry through my set. Stand up, wipe down the machine. Scwarzenagger was on deck, he sees me, hard eye contact, does a quick point. I already know what he’s asking. I give him a quick couple nods and a soft thumbs up.

I’m sure everyone in the gym noticed. Could sense some 71, 75 and 77 percentile peeps tighten with envy. “He’s jumped the ranks,” they whisper. I usually stick to myself when I’m getting my pump on, but anytime there’s an interaction with someone, I try to be as nice and friendly as possible. Not anymore. Not in the 85th percentile.

The idea of turning down the lights at a restaurant sounds terrifying. Couldn’t imagine the pressure: everyone immediately reacts, sometimes you hear slight audible gasps. So many people have the same thought in mind: “This feels too dark.” “They should make it a touch brighter.” In all my years of dining in restaurants, they’ve never come back to tweak the dimness setting. Quite remarkable actually. These servers, or owners, or whoever possesses the courage to jump on the light dimmer is batting 1000 in their mind.

I’d be too weak for this job. Too much of a coward. Would never be able to trust my dimming abilities. I’d go too dark, then too light, then “pretty good”, no… I should go darker because when it gets dark outside the lights will be too harsh. I’d completely fall victim to my audience’s reactions. (I’m sorry Rick Rubin.) Scanning the room after my first slight dim. “They seem disappointed.” Oh no. “I can go brighter?” I audibly blurt. “No it’s fine,” says the poor lady next to me who responds out of the pure kindness of her heart. She can sense the poor puppy dog energy currently pulsating out of me. “Is this guy usually the dimmer? He’s horrible!” she says as I walk back behind the bar. She doesn’t say that but I heard her say something as I left and it felt like she said that.

Unsung heroes. I always think they go too dim, but after 45 seconds, I completely stop thinking about it. They never miss. Thank you dimmers.