People long for connection. They want to run across their long-lost Uncle Herb and whisk him off to the Coney Island of his mind, yank him out of his wheelchair and slam him down in the front car of the Cyclone, sit next to him while his knuckles turn white gripping the bar as the bloody thing plunges and streaks over the silver rails, wipe the drool from his chin when the ride’s over and then stuff him full of hot dogs and sauerkraut.

Some people don’t have an Uncle Herb so they join the Moose Lodge or the Rotary Club. Or they go on a two-week cruise in the Caribbean and pray the Pakistani waiters don’t blow up the ship. Others collide head-on on an Internet blind date and fly off to a far-away city to meet a total stranger. Still others join a Glee Club or a Barber Shop Quartet. A few become Scout Masters and build fires with young boys by rubbing sticks together.

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