IN JUNE, 1968, MY NEW WIFE AND I honeymooned by driving around the state of Florida on my Triumph motorcycle. The last night, almost home, we stopped in the little town of Chiefland, checked into a motel, had dinner, and went to see whatever was playing at the town’s only movie theatre. It turned out to be “The Ambushers,” the third of four films starring Dean Martin as Matt Helm. The theatre was crowded with locals, a high percentage of which sounded like young kids. They got even louder during the scenes where Matt Helm is performing exciting stunts on a motorcycle, which turned out to be the same Triumph that I’d parked outside the theatre. So when the show ended and we walked out, my bike was surrounded by little kids, oohing and aahing. I threw my leg over and kicked the starter. The cycle roared to life. “Matt Helm,” I heard a little voice scream. My wife climbed aboard and off we went, back to the motel. For weeks afterward, I suspected that my wife was fantasizing about Dean Martin. My suspicions were borne out one night the following month when, lying in bed, she said: “I never knew you had an ostomy, Dean.”

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