The 7 Best Songs on my Ipod: March 2010

We'll get to that later but first a question for those of you who own an Ipod:

Does your Ipod hate you as much as my Ipod hates me?

I have been nothing but a gentleman to my Ipod since I purchased it last week, using the proceeds from the sale of all 475 of my CD's to pay for it. I have not stuffed it, keeping it at a svelte 10% of capacity. I have promised to accessorize it with hot holders, cool carriers, and special sexy input and output jacks. I have demonstrated a compulsive attention to recharging.

Still it hates me. I know this because when I play it in "shuffle" mode, it will routinely play the music I either dislike completely or dislike a little. It will only rarely play the music I like and it has totally avoided the 7 best songs in its warped and cruel memory.

It has joined a long list of home products that have made it their mission in life to make me crazy. It's an axis of evil, a grotesque gang of gadgets. Included in this malicious mechanical mob are my vicious can opener, which can open my thumb in two seconds but is incapable of opening anything made of metal; my despicable toaster oven which refuses to toast any piece of bread evenly, but rather will burn one side the color and consistency of charcoal while defying the laws of physics and flash freezing the other; my simple-minded water heater which will cause the water to vary in temperature from "hot enough to cause instant blistering" to "Norwegian Fjord Cold" with just a millimeter's adjustment to the dial; and finally my absurd cell phone, which will blithely ignore the numbers I carefully input with my delicate, trained fingers and instead will randomly call people on our planet with whom I have no business and who are usually not in a mood to be disturbed. I won't even mention my openly antagonistic alarm(ing) clock which will not only tick at a decibel level close to that of a Springsteen concert on nights when I am having trouble sleeping, but will also go into "quiet mode" like Sean Connery's Red October submarine on mornings when I require assistance in waking.

I don't trust any of them and I haven't for a long time. But I really thought the Ipod would be different. After all, we both share a love of music. It's a member of the Apple family of products and they are supposed to be nicer and kinder than PC's. It was very easy to assemble. With 160 gigs, I thought it had a mind of its own, but it has obviously joined forces with its ill-tempered brethren.

There are 2,521 songs on my Ipod. If I play it continuously, from first song to last, I will hear the final song sometime in May of 2231. Of the 2,521 songs, (By the way, they're not all songs; some of them are symphonic movements and a few of them are spoken pieces. Just between us, this kind of shabby characterization shows you what I'm dealing with here.) I would estimate that I enjoy and look forward to hearing 2,000 of them. My Ipod insists on playing the woeful 521 losers over and over again, defying all the laws of probability. I tried to remedy this melodic mess by creating a few play lists which contained nothing but my faves. I even gave the play lists clever names like "Panhandle Potpourri" or "Navarre Knockouts". A perfect solution, I thought. Wrong. Inevitably there would be a hierarchy of songs on the play list. Certainly I liked all the tunes but, just as certainly, I liked some more than others. Using all of its 160 gigs to devise this clever scheme, my Ipod would only play the songs I liked the least and almost never shuffle in my absolute favorites. This made my listening experience worse than ever because I knew those great songs were right there, just waiting for the inevitable electronic impulse, but they rarely if ever made it to the top of the heap. The Ipod would callously reshuffle them to the bottom any time they were approaching the top.

Maddening. I think the only way to show it who's boss (and who owns the warranty) is to refuse to recharge it until it literally begs for its life. It's called tough cyber-love.

OK, the 7 best songs on my Ipod are:

7. Bach's Unaccompanied Cello Suite #1 by Yo Yo Ma
6. Music from The Mission by Ennio Morricone and Yo Yo Ma
5. Birdland by Weather Report
4. Come Correct by Matt Getman and the Trespassers
3. Waters of March by Antonio Carlos Jobim and Elis Regina
2. The Koln Concert Part One by Keith Jarrett
1. Giant Steps by John Coltrane

Even the great Sarah Vaughn, Tom Waits, Miles Davis, and Leonard Cohen couldn't climb this mountaintop. It's a shame I'll never get to hear any of them!

Ain't life grand?
J

seriously...just for a change: March 2010

First, a long overdue thanks to those brave people who have been following and, sometimes, enjoying these lame thoughts. I'm quite sure that you all have your own trials and tribulations; after all, who doesn't? It's called life. Yet you have generously taken an interest in me and my musings; you have offered me encouragement and clever commentary; you have made me feel welcome in your hearts. This is a very nice thing for you to have done and I appreciate it so much.

OK, that's enough about you. Let's get back to me.

I'm not crying as much as I used to. During the darkest depths of winter I could count on probably 4 or 5 crying "episodes" a day. They would happen randomly and would last a minute or so. They were almost never tied to a specific stimulus but rather seemed to happen of their own accord. For some reason, the car was a particularly fertile area for tears. Again, these tearful moments in the car were not memory-specific; they weren't tied to a favorite song on the radio or a favorite place or destination. They just happened, quickly and beautifully, and I was grateful for every one of them. Like many members of my peculiar species (male), I've never been very good at showing my emotions publicly; maybe that's where the car comes in. It's a private, safe enclosure where my emotions can have free reign and nobody has to know about it.

Except the couple in that Mazda staring at me.

At any rate, now it seems the tearful episodes are fewer but more specific in nature. They happen maybe once or twice a day, and they are usually tied to the idea that there is some nice or important event that Ada will not witness: like some of the twins' achievements, (Sara performing in her school's version of "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" or Sam demonstrating his reading prowess) or one of Matt's gigs, or some big piece of news from Josh or Cindy. There is a lot of pain that comes with this line of thinking; i don't know if I should "allow" myself to think this way, but I doubt there is much I can do about it.

Time is probably the only "cure," and a very imperfect one at that...

A particularly disturbing scenario played itself out in the post office line the other day. It was one of those times when I wish I had said something, but didn't. I was waiting in line when a gentleman even older than me struck up a conversation. I welcomed the chance to chat. He was from Michigan (quite a few folks from the Upper Midwest turn up in these parts) and without knowing a thing about me, he started railing against Obama and the Democrats. I politely told him I didn't feel the same way but, of course, he was entitled to his opinion. He smiled and then told me about his son, an Iraq combat veteran who was still stationed over there. I told him I hoped his son got home safely, but I had the feeling that he was of the opinion that Democrats or Liberals didn't have sons or daughters fighting over there.

But that really wasn't the disturbing part. After all, this is a very conservative area and there are many aspects of politics on which reasonable people can differ. Here is the part that bothered me. With no prodding or urging from me, he began filling me in on the high crime rate in the area. And he did it gleefully, it seemed to me. He took great pleasure in telling me about the looting episodes during one of the hurricanes that plagued this area a few years ago. My only lame response was to shake my head and say, "That's a shame."

This is what I should have said: Why are you taking so much pleasure in telling me this? What are you really trying to say here? Why aren't you telling me about the thousands of citizens who didn't loot and would never steal? Have you personally ever had anything stolen? If it's that bad here, why are you still vacationing in the area?

Maybe I'm being overly sensitive and a little naive, but I don't need or want that kind of negativity around me. If you're going to tell me sad stuff, at least do it sadly, please, or don't do it at all.

I went to the Navarre Water and Sewer Department today to sign up for water service in my upcoming rental at Navarre Beach. Connie, the woman behind the desk, was very good at her job and filled out all the requisite forms in a pleasant and efficient manner. Toward the end of the process, Connie asked me for my driver's license. I handed it over to her, wondering why she'd need that. She made a copy of it and then took it over to a laminating machine and created a makeshift ID card for me. I asked her why I would need that. She told me that in the event of an evacuation, the only people who are allowed back onto the island after the "all clear" are people who have that particular type of ID card.

Like I said a few episodes ago, we're not in Kansas anymore.

Much love to people of both parties,
J

My Car Radio and Other Useless Thoughts: March 2010

As standard equipment on my 2010 Chevy Malibu, I have XM Radio, which is a commercial-free, satellite-based, double-sonar, star-guided, infrared, stereophonically programmable system.

I made all that up. I don't know how it works. I only know I like it.

There are hundreds of XM stations available. It is niche broadcasting at its finest. Here are some of the niches:

all jazz (and real jazz too; none of that smooth jazz nonsense) I've put this in the #1 position on the dial. (Actually, it's not a dial anymore.)

all classical (I've programmed that station into the #2 slot in case i ever have to impress someone.)

about a zillion sports stations (evidently, in this part of Florida there is some interest in SEC football; when you register to vote you have to declare your party affiliation and whether you're a 'Bama or Gator booster)

CNN Radio (I've programmed this one so that I can annoy any conservatives who might be riding with me.)

Fox News Radio (I've programmed this one so that I can bring on a migraine at a moment's notice.)

Here are a few of the other XM station options available: All Things Pork, The Catfish Station, The All-Sinatra Station (I'm not kidding!), The All-Sha Na Na Station (I am kidding), The Renault Station (That would be a nichette), Whatever happened to...?(This one doesn't exist, but what a great station that would be!), Bad Stuff You Didn't Realize about Your New Malibu (I knew I should have bought the Fusion).

With all these stations on XM, it will be a while before I work my way down to lowly FM or especially AM. While I was driving here in my dependable old Honda, I did find a weak local AM station which was broadcasting a kind of "Swap Meet"...people would call in with stuff they wanted to trade or sell and others would call in with offers to buy or trade. It was fascinating. There was nothing offered of real value in my opinion; it was all pretty much used up junk; yet, there seemed to be someone out there interested in everything that was being offered. Would this show survive in more prosperous times or in a more prosperous area? I wonder what a "Central Park West Swap Meet Radio Show" would be like...

Caller #1: Howdy, y'all. I have a 2008 Lexus coupe I'd like to swap.

Host: Well, she is 2 years old. What'er ya lookin' to git for her?

Caller #1: I'd like 2 tickets for a Yankees game.

Host: For a 2008 Lexus? You must be dreamin' sweetheart.

Caller #2: I'll swap 2 tickets to a Yankees-Oakland game for that there Lexus if'n y'all will throw in paid parkin' for a year.

Host: Looks like we've got ourselves a swap, y'all.

...or somethin' like that...(Hey, they can't all be gems!)

Apropos of nothing, yesterday I signed a one year lease for the 3-bedroom condo on Navarre Beach. Linda, the landlady, mentioned that she and her husband, Travis, have a lot of "extra stuff" for the condo in storage, and that she will email me an inventory and I can have anything on the list brought to the condo. That inventory hasn't arrived yet, but here is what I hope is on it:
1. salami
2. an XM radio user's manual
3. a Gulf Coast pronunciation guide
4. a Red Sox waste basket (I had one, but it didn't make the trip)

Finally, a little story about the sunset picture. Every now and then something happens on this odyssey that lets me know that I'm not traveling alone. I went down to the beach to try and capture the beauty of this particular sunset, and I saw a couple trying to take a picture of themselves with the sun in the background. Being the expert photographer that I am, I approached them and told them that I'd be happy to take their picture. They obviously hadn't read this blog so they quickly agreed. After I took their photo, we got to talking and they asked about me. I told them Ada's sad story and the woman grasped my hand.

"I'm a hospice chaplain," she said. "I know what you're going through. I think you're doing a very brave and wonderful thing by coming down here." We spoke for a half hour. There were some tears.

How does that happen? How is it possible that on a quiet stretch of beach at sunset one evening, I happen to meet a person so closely connected and so in touch with Ada's beautiful battle?

Ain't life grand?

Much love,
J

A Golfing Life: March 2010

One of the reasons for this journey to southern climes is to acknowledge and feed my passion for golf. When I examine when and how this magnificent obsession started, I must confess that it took me by surprise. Most of my "athletic" life had focused on tennis. I was not only a non-golfer; I was an anti-golfer who was convinced that there could not be a dumber undertaking than golf.

Tennis had been my obsession since my preteen years. My father introduced me to the game and I was immediately hooked. I was self taught. I would watch people I thought were skilled and try to mimic them. I remember clearly saving up to buy my first racket, a T.A.Davis Imperial model, gorgeous with all of its gleaming laminates. To earn the money for the racket, I worked at Harvard Stadium vending in the stands during one football season. When I excitedly counted my "profits" from the first game I was dismayed to learn that I had lost about $8.00. I must have given some guy, presumably a Harvard student, the wrong change, and he never told me. There's probably a better than even chance that person works in the Massachusetts Legislature today.

Things got a little better as the season progressed and I eventually had enough money to buy that racket by season's end. Of course by then it was too cold to play tennis so I had to wait until spring to finally use it. It's hard for me to describe how much I loved that tennis racket. It was so artfully and beautifully made that I would just stare at its intricate logos and deep brown colors in awe. It's entirely possible that I have never loved any "possession" as much as I loved that first T.A. Davis Imperial racket. (Think Ralphie from "The Christmas Story" and his obsession with the rifle and you'll get the idea. Luckily, I didn't put my eye out.)

Old friend Marty Flashman and I would meet at Dorchester's Franklin Field to play. The courts were horrible, coarse asphalt streaked with grass-filled cracks and fading lines. You even had to string up your own net, which Marty somehow owned. Of course to my eyes we were at Centre Court, Wimbledon. After I had improved, I would take the "T" to places like Milton and Brookline where some of the better players would hang out. Like most sports, the only way to improve in tennis is to play better players and learn from the drubbings you will inevitably take. Gradually, I developed my strokes, footwork, and understanding of the angles and intricacies of the game. My tennis heroes were the Aussies of the day: Ken Rosewall, Lew Hoad, and especially Rod Laver. I loved everything about Laver, but was especially proud that we were both left-handed. Much later I would devour every word of Bud Collins' great book about Laver, The Education of a Tennis Player. Collins' description of Laver was perfect: a 150 pound left arm hanging off a 90 pound body.

Eventually my tennis progressed to the point where I could compete at a club level. I even won the singles championship at my tennis club one year; however, in the interest of full disclosure, I must say that I diligently searched the entire South Shore for a tennis club in which the talent pool of men's singles players was at an incredibly low level. I was able to find such a club and happily won the men's singles championship defeating (in order) Mike (The Midget) Moriarty (I lobbed him to death!) and One-Armed Al Appleton in a thrilling tiebreaker. If Al's prosthetic hadn't gotten tangled up in the net, he probably would have beaten me. Still, it remains one of my crowning athletic achievements.

Eventually, I turned tennis into a second career, teaching private lessons, coaching high school, and running the tennis program at Camp Androscoggin in Maine. I was able to teach Ada, Josh, and Matt about the game and there were many exciting family matches, most of them ending in tears for one unfortunate family member or another. Those idyllic summer afternoons at the old Weymouth Tennis Club watching the boys battle it out on the court and then taking their frustrations into the pool for a spirited game of Marco Polo seem like a very long time ago.

And then one day around 1999 tennis just stopped being interesting to me. I still can't figure out how an activity that had been so much a part of my identity for over 40 years could one day just cease to be of interest. Perhaps it was the knowledge that I had climbed the mountaintop in tennis when I defeated The Midget and One-Arm and there were no more peaks for me to ascend.

With retirement looming, Ada and I decided to give golf a try. We were moving to a golf community in New Hampshire and we were ripe for a new activity we could do together. We took some introductory lessons together, starting the all too familiar process of getting hooked on golf. My addiction (I don't use the term loosely) became obvious one day when I went to the driving range for about the thousandth time and was able to get most of the balls in the bucket airborne. There is a certain "nothingness" that accompanies a well-hit golf shot that I believe is the essence of golf's addictive nature. By nothingness I mean a lack of vibration or jarring; the club face, ball, and ground are all where they are supposed to be and the ball just soars majestically skyward with seemingly no effort on the part of the striker. This happens rarely even now and I'm pretty sure it's why I keep coming back for more. Ada was only slightly less obsessed with golf than I was and starting with our retirements in 2000 we pursued the game every chance we could. After our initial fears that we would be clogging up the course for everyone else, we were thrilled to discover that golf was the only game in which almost everyone who played it sucked! We were no worse than most of the people we encountered and were mindful of playing quickly and efficiently. Soon we got over our fears and started going on golfing vacations to the usual places like Myrtle Beach, Hilton Head, and Tucson. We became thoroughly involved in the golfing life at our home in Eastman and were lucky enough to have made many great friendships through this game. It was mainly Ada's Eastman golfing buddies who hovered around her offering equal measures of meals and prayers during her illness.

I'm forever grateful to golf for putting such wonderful people in our lives. I hope I meet a bunch more of them on the panhandle.

Be well and much love,
J