Well, That Was Fast: I Got My First Hinge Match
Remember when I said the Tinder experiment was over and I had moved on to The Hinge?
Remember when I wondered how long it would take before I got a match?
Apparently, the answer was:
Not very long.
I woke up this morning and got a bit of a late start. No dialysis today, so there wasn't an alarm dragging me out of bed at an ungodly hour. I eventually got myself moving, checked my email, and there it was:
“Niel and Kelli, you matched!”
Wait.
WHAT?
I actually matched with someone?
On a dating app?
Already?
I was surprised.
I was amazed.
And against everything I've learned from online dating thus far, I was even a little...
Hopeful.
Her name is Kelli, and she's in Conway, South Carolina.
That's roughly an hour away from me.
Some people might look at that distance and say, “That's kind of far.”
I look at it and say:
I like to drive.
Problem solved.
But First, I Had Stuff to Do
Despite receiving this potentially historic notification, I didn't immediately drop everything and begin crafting the greatest opening line in the history of online dating.
I had things to do.
Also, let's establish something very important:
I don't spit mad game.
There was no:
"Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?"
No carefully researched pickup line.
No ChatGPT-generated Shakespearean sonnet about her eyes.
I eventually opened the conversation with:
“Hello Kelli! How are you coping with the stupid heat and humidity?”
Smooth?
Debatable.
Authentic?
Absolutely.
Because it is stupid hot and humid.
We're in South Carolina in August. You can walk outside for four minutes and somehow need another shower.
So rather than pretending I'm some suave dating-app Casanova, I went with something every person in South Carolina can currently agree upon:
Why is the air wet?
And now...
I wait.
This Is Where the Experiment Gets Interesting
The first hurdle has officially been cleared.
I got a match.
Now we move on to Phase Two of The Hinge Experiment.
Will Kelli respond?
Will we have an actual conversation?
Will we discover we have things in common?
Could there eventually be a drive to Conway—or somewhere in between—to actually meet another human being in person?
Or will the universe continue its recent tradition of using dating apps to teach me valuable lessons about cryptocurrency, WhatsApp, and international investment opportunities?
I don't know.
But right now, I'm choosing optimism.
A real match appeared.
I sent a completely normal message.
She's about an hour away.
I like driving.
And, most importantly, nobody has tried to sell me anything yet.
This is already progress.
Now we wait.
Pray with me, Forest. Pray with me.
Pumpkin Spice in August? Krispy Kreme, We Need to Talk.
I live in the Low Country, where today’s high was 95 degrees with approximately 99% humidity.
Did it actually feel like 120 degrees? Maybe not according to science. According to the amount I was sweating? Absolutely.
Tomorrow, we get to do it all over again. The forecast calls for 94°F — about 34.4°C — with a heat advisory.
So naturally, this is the perfect time for...
PUMPKIN SPICE.
Wait. What?!?!??!
I received an email today from Krispy Kreme. And before anyone starts judging me, I don't go there that often. I apparently maintain enough of a relationship with Krispy Kreme that they know how to find me when they have important doughnut-related news.
The email announced some limited-time flavors.
Café Mocha. Okay. Chocolate icing, coffee-flavored buttercream swirl. I'm listening.
Maple Cheesecake. I like maple. I like cheesecake. This relationship has potential.
Biscoff Cookie Butter. Yum. No further questions.
And then...
Pumpkin Spice Cake.
Excuse me?
IT IS AUGUST 11.
Can we please slow down?
What's the rush?
Is pumpkin spice really that addictive? Are there people sitting around in July checking their calendars and whispering, "Just a few more weeks..."?
I don't understand the draw.
We've spent years complaining that teenagers are growing up too quickly.
Then retailers decided that apparently Christmas needs a three-month warmup, so the moment the last trick-or-treater leaves your driveway on Halloween, somebody starts playing Mariah Carey and putting inflatable reindeer on the lawn.
Now apparently fall doesn't even have to wait for summer to end.
We're skipping right over Labor Day.
We're ignoring the swimming pools.
We're pretending the beach isn't approximately the temperature of the surface of Mercury.
PUMPKIN. SPICE. IS. HERE.
Meanwhile, much of the country is dealing with heat advisories, and here in the Low Country I'm trying to determine whether I actually need to shower or whether standing outside for five minutes already counts.
I don't want a pumpkin patch.
I don't want a sweater.
I don't want to hear about crisp autumn air.
I WANT THE AIR CONDITIONER TO KEEP WORKING.
At this rate, the seasonal calendar is going to collapse completely. Pumpkin spice will arrive in June, Halloween candy will hit the shelves around Easter, and we'll be buying Christmas trees while we're still setting off Fourth of July fireworks.
Krispy Kreme, the Café Mocha looks good.
The Maple Cheesecake looks really good.
The Cookie Butter might actually get me through the door.
But Pumpkin Spice Cake?
It's 95 degrees outside.
Let the pumpkin sleep.
Its time will come.
Call Me a “Keith”: Why I Called 911 on Highway 17
I was on my way to Costco to pick up the essentials: medication, toilet paper, and Tide Pods. This was after watching Ice Cream Man—video review coming soon.
I was heading north on Highway 17 in Mount Pleasant when I noticed a motorcyclist splitting lanes. I believed lane splitting was only legal in California, but I thought nothing more of it at first.
Then things started getting dangerous.
The rider was weaving in and out of traffic without holding on to the handlebars. He appeared to be playing around with the drivers of a black Toyota Tundra and then a silver Nissan Frontier. Traffic was being disrupted, and the situation looked like it could easily cause an accident.
I’d had enough, so I called 911.
I gave the dispatcher my name, location, and a description of what I could see: a white male riding a black motorcycle, wearing a black helmet and a black backpack. I also described the other vehicles involved. I couldn’t see the motorcycle’s license plate, so I said so.
When asked, I provided my full name and phone number. As everyone continued moving, I kept the dispatcher updated on our location.
The dispatcher asked about the motorcycle’s make. I wasn’t going to speed or put anyone else at risk just to get a closer look. Eventually, traffic slowed—and so did the rider—allowing me to see that the motorcycle was a Kawasaki.
The group eventually pulled into Oakland Market, near Walmart.
To be clear, I didn’t call because somebody annoyed me or because I wanted to police every questionable decision on the road. If the rider hadn’t been creating a possible accident and jamming up traffic, I wouldn’t have called.
Maybe nothing would have happened. Maybe everyone would have made it home safely without my involvement. But when someone’s behavior puts an entire road full of people at risk, I would rather make the call than later wish I had.
So go ahead. Call me a “Keith.”
Citizen Alert vs. Neighborhood Chatter: Which Delivers More Value?
Tonight, I was at Mount Pleasant Towne Center waiting to see Motor City (video review coming later tonight at https://NielFlamm.com/videos).
While I was there, my phone buzzed with a Citizen notification.
The alert informed me that there was a newly registered sex offender in my area. The screenshot is attached.
To be clear, this isn't a discussion about the individuals on the registry, the constitutionality of registries, or the criminal justice system. Those are separate conversations.
The registry exists.
What struck me was the timeliness and usefulness of the information.
I don't currently have young children in my guardianship, but knowing that a new registrant has moved into the area is information many people may find relevant.
Citizen offered additional details through its paid subscription, including the registrant's name, address, and other information.
Instead of subscribing, I spent a few extra minutes on the South Carolina Sex Offender Registry and was able to locate the publicly available information myself:
That experience reinforced something I've been thinking about while comparing neighborhood apps.
Too often, what I see on Nextdoor are lengthy discussions about HOA disputes (after covenants were voluntarily signed at closing), complaints about barking dogs, arguments over young people on e-bikes, or other neighborhood frustrations.
Those conversations have their place.
But receiving a timely notification about publicly available safety-related information felt significantly more valuable.
For me, that's where Citizen currently provides something I haven't experienced with Nextdoor.
Technology should help people become more informed about their communities—not just more informed about neighborhood disagreements.
Join the discussion at NielFlamm.com/blog. Leave some feedback—I'd love to hear from you.
Parking Between the Lines: A Radical Concept?
I headed to the Regal Palmetto Grande to catch a movie and, before I even made it to the theater, I got today's "parking performance review."
As I was looking for a spot, I came across this previous-generation Toyota RAV4. It wasn't just a little crooked. It was parked right across the access aisle next to a handicap space.
Now, because I'm a right above-knee amputee with a prosthetic leg and I rely on handicap parking when I need it, I pay attention to these things. Before I get out of my own vehicle, I almost always take a second look to make sure I'm centered between the lines. It takes maybe five extra seconds.
Those painted blue and striped areas aren't decoration. They're there so people using wheelchairs, walkers, prosthetics, or other mobility devices have the room they need to safely get in and out of their vehicles.
Maybe I'm old-fashioned, but I still think staying between the lines is a pretty good idea.
What's next? Maybe I'll start stopping at red lights too.
Sometimes the smallest acts of courtesy make the biggest difference for someone else.