I like when the ketchup pours out too fast and Peckinpahs the fries.

I like when waves snatch your flip-flops, and you chase them into the laughing sea.

I like when I can reboot the glitchy cable box, so that I can watch more overpriced TV.

Full disclosure: Most of the things I fix end up breaking again. But if I half-fixed them once, I can half-fix them again.

The other day, I tried to flush the woodpeckers from Suzanne’s creaky mountain cabin, then accidentally slimed her siding, foam filler dribbling down the exterior wall.

Day by day, I’m becoming the Ted Lasso of romance and home repair.

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I could probably plop 14,000 calories a day in my mouth before remembering to chew.

I’ll remind you that most people in our family stay very sharp until well into their 30s. And I’m twice that.

Honestly, I’ve been a little disoriented since they started putting those backup cameras into all the cars. Now, pulling out of the hardware store leaves me dizzy.

Back to cooking for a moment …

Never admitted this to anyone but you: On occasion I have scraped the mold off an otherwise decent piece of bread and served it up.

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• Dad jokes are the best jokes.

• Mom jokes are good too, though.

• Bulletin: The Lakers have not been sold today.

• To me, most dark comedies are barely comedies.

• But “Flirting With Disaster” is brilliant — and possibly the funniest dark comedy you’ve never seen.

• Love is light.

• Love is lit.

• “We need scientists in this world but not a world of scientists.” — Winston Churchill

• In short, don’t forget books.

• Just remember, everyone has a stray hair that pokes out somewhere.

• To me, Brooklyn Italians are an elite subset of Italians.

• Like the Chicago Irish.

• Or Boston terriers.

• Did you know there’s a sleep disorder named after Rip Van Winkle? Well, now you do.

• “We’re surrounded by rant, not reason.” — reader Anne Meeker

• Wait, is she talking about me?

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They wake me in the morning way too early.

See, dogs have this alarm clock inside them, right next to their oversized hearts, and when the clock strikes 6 a.m., the alarm clock goes off.

Doesn’t matter if it’s dark or snowing or you drank a little too much tequila the night before. They don’t seem to care.

Look, I’ve been getting up with babies for 40 years. What’s a few years more of that, right?

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Have you ever met anyone so taken with the minuscule and mundane: lashing rains, chili dogs, little churches on the edge of town?

Dear gawd, I hope not.

When I lie in the summer grass, which is often, I harken back to the yards of my Midwestern youth — plush, shag-carpet lawns, the pride-and-joy of Barrington, Illinois, which to this day has the prettiest front yards the world has ever seen.

To run barefoot through such grass was a sacred experience. Your feet turned green. When you fell, your knees and elbows turned green too.

As kids, we’d dogpile atop each other in that grass, all these green kids growing itchy in the neck, till the moms called us home to dinner.

Devon! Dave! Huckleberry!

The lawns of my hometown were the carpets of kings. When I reached a certain age, I started to spot opportunity. Like Vanderbilt, like Carnegie.

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Spotted one the other day at Charlie’s station, a dad so happy with anticipation that he looked on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Now that’s happy.

No idea where he was going — it didn’t matter. Shortly, he would pile the kids into the just-washed family car. There’d be games, books and Pirate Booty in the backseats.

The hope? To get 100 miles in before the first bathroom break. That’s the hope. Rarely happens.

American dads are all Portuguese explorers. We head off this time of year, at the behest of Spain, to find new trade routes.

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That blew their minds a little. Good thing we had wine around.

I also suggested that, since Christians believe that God shared his only son, would He later — at some critical juncture for civilization, and in an effort to help and understand our very flawed human world — send to Earth his only daughter.

In that case, watch out. For I seriously doubt she’ll be as kind and tolerant as her brother.

That got an uncomfortable laugh, the kind I specialize in more and more.

Look, the world is full of shams and scams, so we search hard for something meaningful. Like humor writing, for example.

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To this day, there is no bad situation that, with a little extra effort, I can’t screw up even more.

Which is why it’s important for all of us to keep a supple heart. Who knows what life may bring?

I remind you of that as I share with you now, my much-anticipated recipe for potato salad made with store-bought frozen fries, crisped in the oven. Or even that bag of takeout fries, three days in the fridge.

Wouldn’t my snarky Irish ancestors be proud? I can just hear the great chefs of the world, thinking, “Dang, wish I’d thought of that!”

Now maybe you’ll understand why I’ve become an important “influencer?”

Here’s the thing about influencers: They are often incredibly beautiful, like me and Martha Stewart. Influencers are often paid huge sums for endorsing products they don’t really care about in the first place.

That is decidedly not me, though I’m not above that. You have to “seize opportunity at every opportunity.” I learned that at Harvard.

Hence, I have yet to be paid, though when Ore-Ida, or one of the other makers of frozen fries, gets wind of this culture-changing dish, the dollars and restraining orders may finally begin to flow.

Heads-up: This dish is almost a Canadian poutine; it’s also very close to being a sonnet or a poem.

When you first taste this, you’re going to wish Longfellow were alive, just to capture the deep emotions summoned by this white-trash potato salad.

As it is, a book deal and a major motion picture are already in the works. The animated Minions franchise would be a natural fit, since Minions are yellow, like fries, and some of our finest working thespians.

Granted, I recently vowed never to see another Minions movie. The minions are cute, I’ll grant you that. But so are certain vermin. Honestly, I’d rather be slowly consumed by crabs than watch another Minions movie.

So, we may end up passing on “Minions VIII,” the one in which Gru opens a diner and begins pouring Minions into the deep fryer by mistake (can’t you just hear them bumper-car running around and chattering with unfounded fear?).

Remember, Americans latch onto a lot of simple stuff, that’s our main contribution to global culture.

Seriously, remember all the fuss about ranch dressing during the recent World Cup, how visitors discovered and loved a common dressing that we’d always taken for granted?

I expect french-fry potato salad will ride that same wave of what I call “a mystifying illogic” . . . the kind that leads to incredible success for stuff that makes no sense. Like K-Pop Demon Hunters, for instance. Or mushroom coffee.

One last note before my final note: There is probably nothing as beloved as french fries. I often order fries with a side of fries. It’s probably the closest I will ever get to a threesome.

Like many, I prefer steak fries — you know those big fat honkers the size of a canoe. I also, as you know, have a weak spot for actresses of a certain age, 65 to 110.

Specialists have traced this predilection — fries and aging actresses — to the same genetic trigger that makes me bark and sing opera after a second gin.

I’m also prone to launching into limericks and theories about the Irish economy. Trust me: It’s fun from a distance.

Unfortunately, there is no cure for this. You must learn to live with it.

That’s what I’ve done with all my shortcomings, which are vast and mostly unconquerable.

Without further ado, here’s the recipe for frozen french-fry potato salad, which really needs no introduction, no elaborate stream-of-consciousness explanation whatsoever, as you’ll soon see.

In the end, I’d like to be remembered, not for my contributions to science, or the humor arts, or the seven Nobel Prizes, but for this simple recipe:

FRENCH-FRY POTATO SALAD

—Bunch of frozen fries, baked crisp in the oven.

—Add diced dill pickle, red onion, mayo, Dijon and salt and pepper to taste.

— Add a smidgen of Worcestershire sauce.

—Add a pixel, a K-Pop, of horseradish.

—Cram it all together in a bowl and tilt-a-whirl it around a few times.

— Sprinkle with paprika.

—Serve chilled.

Your world may never be the same.

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Coming next: Boats, Babies, puppies and so much more.

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“If I fell in love with you, would you promise to be true…”

Appreciating the Beatles more than ever these days while reading a book that Peterman loaned me. “John & Paul” is about the creative fusion of Lennon and McCartney, how they’d work a new song, most of the time for weeks or months.

It also examines John’s professional jealousy, particularly Paul’s success with “Yesterday,” which changed the Beatles from a rock band to the greatest English act since Shakespeare.

Ah, those lads … cheeky, witty, wise beyond their years. Paul wrote “Yesterday” at 22; John wrote “In My Life” at 25.

As with many legendary songwriters, their hearts were better than their voices. But what words.

“Eleanor Rigby…waits by a window, wearing a face that she keeps in a jar by the door…”

Weren’t we lucky to be alive when all that happened? Aren’t we glad that Paul and Ringo still behave like the cheeky lads we’ve loved for 60 years?

Too often, we celebrate the wrong stuff — tech moguls, money, movie stars. What we really need these days: songwriters.

As with many great artists, there is a wistfulness to the Beatles’ best work, painterly reflections on loneliness and disappointment. Plus, inevitably, a haunting beauty.

To me, music helps set our broken bones. It’s the medicine we take when lovers quit loving us or kids grow up and move on…the dog dies…a best pal passes…the blood test comes back wrong.

When life piles up, and simple words fail us, there is always music — a tiny sign that God is still sitting at the keyboard late at night, messing with the keys.

The reason our house is unusually quiet? Late yesterday, Smartacus and I raced to the west side for two medical emergencies:

1. Cakes had fallen with a stick in her mouth and was headed for the emergency room;

2. Rapunzel had an infected bug bite that was causing a scary fever and chills.

Life turns on a dime, doesn’t it?

There we were, me and my Ringo, finishing up our chicken bowls, on a rather routine night, when the calls and texts started pouring in. Cakes was headed to the ER; her aunt was too.

My immediate reaction: Was this all a bad dream?

Smartacus and I jumped in the car and raced over.

“I’m sure it’s all fine,” I said during the cross-town trip.

“Yeah, it’ll be fine,” said Smartacus.

“All fine,” I added just for insurance.

As hoped, all was fine indeed. Cakes didn’t need emergency care after all, she’d merely cut the roof of her mouth. The pediatrician, examining iPhone photos, assured her mother all was well, though a close call, for sure.

Rapunzel’s bug bite/infection was a bit tricker, but after four hours in the ER, she came home patched up and fine.

Smartacus stayed over to buy bagels the next day, and help with child care. I came home at 1 a.m. to tend the dog.

Now — next morning — it’s unusually quiet around here. No Smartacus, no TV, no sizzling bacon, just the echoes from a wild night that turned out to be OK, as Lennon sings:

“Imagine no possessions,

I wonder if you can,

No need for greed or hunger,

A brotherhood of man…”

That’ll never happen, John. Nice try. Then again, why not?

Meanwhile, the vagaries of life are both cruel and comic, just like the Beatles were to each other from time to time.

“[Cakes] was doing full B-movie, campy horror-film type sound effects, drooling and weird voices last night after it happened and i presumed it was all self manufactured but i couldn’t tell for sure,” Cakes’ mother explained the next day in a family text.

Soon after, another text that is really a discourse on the quirky nature of a mother’s life:

“[Cakes] woke up talking and moving fine … and then as we were leaving for school she showed me she could still do whatever weird gurgling-her-saliva sound effect thing she was doing after the accident and i said ‘oh good, so that’s just a trick you can do, not the accident?’ and she said ‘yep!’ with absolute enthusiasm and skipped away.”

As the Beatles knew, sometimes the universe wears dark trousers; sometimes it prefers a party hat.

Life’s a walrus.

And what doesn’t kill you makes you funnier.

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Next week: The much-sought recipe for french fry potato salad.

— I laugh at jokes that aren’t funny, just to be liked.

— I make potato salad out of frozen fries.

— I still like elbow patches on sweaters.

— I don’t mind running into people at the grocery store.

— I excel at awkward small talk (my first language).

Here’s a tip for Boomers. If you run into someone you haven’t seen in a while, don’t ask about the kids or grandkids.

First, you don’t really care that much. Second, the kids are grown, so we shouldn’t behave like fanboys anymore.

No, if you run into old friends, ask about their recent hip replacement. Ask about that new knee. Ask about their joints in general: shoulders, elbows, wrists.

Because our failing joints are now our children. They require extra care. And we spend inordinate amounts of time and money on them.

Also, if you’re forced to engage in small talk, never ask someone about his or her sex life. In our suburb, that’s like asking about a dead relative. Chances are they’re still grieving.

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This Bavarian-cream churro represents the satisfying marriage of two glorious cultures, the slurpy honeymooning of joy and glee.

My suggestion: Warm it in the microwave and top with vanilla ice cream.

Epiphanic is too weak a word.

This Bavarian-cream churro confirms what I believe more and more: Life is whimsy; life is a whole lotta dumb sugary luck.

As you know, when Whistler’s model didn’t show up as planned, he painted his mother instead.

“Hold still, Ma. I think I’ve found my masterpiece.”

Aren’t all mothers?

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More on that in a moment.

Meanwhile, what a World Cup — like a Super Bowl mixed with an Olympics mixed with an alien invasion.

I wanted to root for Spain, for they play a virtuoso version of futbol, but then I recalled how Franco launched fascism in Europe. That was many paellas ago, sure. But to forget is to forgive.

One thought: Why don’t soccer refs issue Gold Cards for remarkable plays? Or, when a player trips over his own feet and doesn’t raise his arms in protest, as they always do.

Reward good, honest play with Amex cards, and maybe a free oil change. It’s about time the world celebrated class.

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This means that — this season — smooth linens are out and vintage sea captains’ sweaters are in.

And if you insist on wearing your stains, be sure to layer them.

Increasingly, night crawlers and meal worms are an issue. More on that in a moment.

For such a homebody, I seem to be getting around a lot lately, right?

There’s Suzie’s cozy mountain cabin, the one with the ghosts and the creaky floors.

You should see us celebrate a summer sunset up there — like lipstick, a little smeared. Or the catch-and-release of a baby bluegill.

To me, fishing is the closest thing to sex that isn’t sex. I love setting up the lures, the lines. My knots are lousy and my luck even worse.

Yet, I love fishing. And I really love, once I’ve caught one, the joy in letting it swim away.

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That’s not to mean they aren’t spectacular events.

Here, let me show you…

My granddaughter Mookie celebrated one lap around the sun the other day, with a flurry of her young friends, in a Santa Monica park four blocks from the beach.

It was hilly. It was sappy. Nice spread — BLT sandwiches and tunafish. Lots of humus. Cupcakes galore.

The thing I always notice about Mookie is the way she reflects the light. Sunlight. Candlelight. Starlight.

No matter what, her eyes are a field of shimmering blueberries, as if a little moist from a mid-summer rain.

As with all grandkids — yours, mine — I love her so much I might just explode.

“Perpetual benediction,” is what Wordsworth called it.

In short: Let children and grandchildren be our every prayer.

Or not. Totally up to you.

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• Find your new.

• Find your true.

• The World Cup is my new kink.

• “Attack life. It’s going to kill you anyway.” — Stephen Colbert

• So if you can’t seize tomorrow, pick a day next week.

• Investing in SpaceX is like investing in Einstein.

• Falling in love is like dabbling in the occult.

• The American Shakespeare? Mark Twain.

• Or was it Whitman?

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It will be a crush when it’s over, and I don’t like crushes as much as I used to. I pass a line of car valets. They have the eyes of men about to be executed.

They know that everyone will soon pour out all at once demanding their Rivians and their BMWs: some tipsy and happy, others tipsy and mean, all just wanting to get home.

Home. Is there a better word? Home. It’s almost musical.

Home, where the dog dances when you walk in. You flick on the kitchen lights. You collapse on the couch.

Home. Warm as Mom’s lasagna. Soothing as a barroom full of friends.

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Remember? One book featured a bunch of talking bunnies. Another had a polar bear and a mouse. The books seemed written by saints and Sunday school teachers. So boring.

Next time, maybe some Vonnegut.

But you’re not even 2, and you seem to really enjoy simple repetition. I’m your Papa, and I’m pushing 70; I enjoy simple repetition too.

So we settled into you mom’s super-comfy chair, the one she rocked you in when you were born, all 7 pounds, 7 ounces of major American manhood.

And we read your baby books.

I could smell the day’s sunshine in your hair. My hand fell on your plump bare knee. You could probably use a little more gym work, buddy, maybe some kettle bells, more resistance training.

Not yet though.

For you, a fitness plan is roughhousing on the couch with your big sis or lounging in front of the TV with the family dog.

That’s good too, Puddles. I think that’s probably what Schwarzenegger did at your age, besides lifting cars.

FYI, we all had dinner at the overpriced, underseasoned Mexican joint, the one you love. As you know, I hate Mexican food. I always eat too much,

Anyway, we asked what drinks they had for kids. The server recommended tequila.

When the food arrives, you eat maybe half a molecule. Your sister eats a proton, a couple of neutrons. I promised you dessert anyway.

I should regret that but I don’t.

Because you approach a $6 cup of vanilla ice cream the way Ted Williams approached the plate at Fenway, the way Bach approached a sonata in Leipzig.

You make it yours.

A gleam comes to your eye, a legend’s quiet confidence. Seriously, you can eat ice cream with the best of them. One day, I predict you will be a first-ballot selection to the Ice Cream Hall of Fame. .

When we finish the ice cream, we wheel you six blocks toward home.

Please tell me, little dude, what’s happened to baby strollers? When your mom was young, we had these umbrella strollers, so light and slight. You could slip one in your jeans pocket, like a set of keys.

Today’s strollers are on steroids. They’re big rigs. We could’ve fit you, your sister and 15 Teamsters in that stroller. We could’ve mixed concrete and poured a highway.

Whatever. It’s a very fine stroller. I mean, what do you expect for 2,000 bucks?

In time, I’m sure your Papa’s calves will recover. And surgeons can probably rebuild my ruined back.

After your bath, you run wet and naked through the living room, to the delight of adults who are only wet and naked on birthdays and anniversaries.

You remind all of us how glorious it is to be at peace with your bod. Your tummy is your trophy. It is glorious and full of ice cream. Far as I could tell, you were a very happy and contented man. You were Bacchus.

And then we read your storybooks, just as I do with your sister, just as I once did with your mom.

It was, gotta confess, as magnificent a 20 minutes as I’ve ever experienced, and I’ve been around this rock a few thousand times.

We read four books, the themes of which I have no idea, but they were full of love and tolerance and all sorts of other outdated concepts. There were no fight scenes, no drug use, not a single broken heart.

What lies are your parents feeding you? In what world, will you thrive after hearing such softness?

Goodnight stars,

Goodnight air,

Goodnight noises everywhere …

The soothing rituals continued as we slipped you in your so-called “sleep sack,” which is this toga thing your mom makes you wear. Seems like a straitjacket. I could probably use one myself.

Toga!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Then we went over the alphabet — twice. After that, came your bedtime bottle, which you drank — chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug.

Point is, if you ever need a grandpa to put you to bed again, I’m your guy. I think your mom has my email. I’m also “in the book,” as they say.

Honestly, there is no book, but if you want to find anything about my past marriages, my checkered career, or that time the bank almost took the house, it’s all available right there online.

Or just call.

G’night, Puddles.

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Next week: Celebrating summer’s splash zones.

Happy Fourth, everyone!

I see summer, as Colette once said, in a ripening peach.

If we’re lucky, summer is always in our hearts.

Some summers the memories pile up, one after the other, like a July 4th potluck where there isn’t enough space on the red-checkered table.

Some summers you eat through.

Some summers you sleep through.

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I write for the collective soul of suburban America, that tired old thing, that shredded has-been.

Honestly, I love the suburbs when the residents are out among themselves, laughing and showing off their dogs and their kids, cheering Little League or buying berries at the farmers market.

I loathe suburbs when they’re all buttoned up — doors locked, lips sealed, secrets kept, wall clocks ticking like car bombs.

Cushy quiet unnerves me. Ask anyone. It’s like a funeral where nobody shows up.

Conversely, I remember my first week in a college dorm. Everybody was everywhere. Kids you barely knew walked in and out of rooms, borrowing beer and record albums, the wandering minstrels of higher education.

Female classmates visited and wouldn’t leave, some of them. They’d just camp out on some dude’s bed and spend the semester. Once in a while, you’d find them in the men’s room shaving their pits.

That’s what college was like in the ‘70s. Feral. Utopian. Unsustainable.

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I have friends I like to kvetch with … to whine and groan.

I have friends for hanging out at sports bars or ball games.

My friends are like medical specialists — this one for this, another one for that.

I have friends to get serious with. I have friends with whom I’ve never shared an honest moment.

Don’t care. I am rich with friends. I have a treasure chest of these silly dolts.

And sometimes I wish it locked.

You know how it is. Sometimes you just really need a jelly donut, a dynamite burst of pleasure, a pop of pure decadence.

That’s where real friends come in. Need one? Make a phone call, send a text. L.A. is loaded with fun folks who’d like to have a beer and a taco some night.

As it happens, I’m free Thursday. Fax me. I’ll fax you back.

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