Into the Lion's Den

Sun worshipper that I am, some would say that my natural habitat is the devil's playground.
So, it was with some trepidation that I made an appointment to see a dermatologist.
Still, I have survived 58 years of golden rays; what do I care what some skin freak thinks?

Initial indications at the office were good. The receptionist was as dark and adorable as yours truly. (She may have been of Indian descent.) The doctor's assistant was equally dark.
(She may have been African American.)

To protect the innocent, I will not give my doctor's real name, but it was something like "Vivian Italiano." I thought my chances were pretty good; I looked forward to meeting an olive skinned simpatico.

I was not prepared for Edgar Winter's daughter. (admittedly, this is an obscure reference: Winters was an Albino rocker of the 70's.)







My ghostly doctor greeted me with an icy stare, and a disdainful announcement that she would not say another word. Not surprisingly, she couldn't help remarking that she couldn't believe I was in her office. She sarcastically followed with "so, do you live on the beach?" I gleefully responded, "as a matter of fact, I do!"

Incredibly, I've never been more comfortable in a doctor's office, clothed in nothing more than my underwear and a hospital gown. So, after a cursory review of my epidermis, and an apparently inadvertant snapping of my underpants, I remained completely content in my own skin.

Much to her dismay, Dr Italiano reluctantly announced that there was surprisingly no evidence of skin damage on my person. (I think she was disappointed.)

Once again, I have flaberghasted the medical profession!

I am Pop.

I am Jimbo.

I AM Peter Pan.



I am Medical Marvel. (Call me "Double M.")







Yada, yada, yada.... doc agreed to join me at a "clothing optional" beach next winter.



(I can be soooo charming.)