Lyrics: December 2011

Recently, during an extensive automobile trip, I had occasion to listen to either my car radio or my Ipod for long stretches. It occurred to me that I have never understood the meaning of the lyrics in many of the songs that I have been listening to for years. Perhaps you can enlighten me.

For example, who is Rikki and why shouldn't he/she lose that number? Why would mailing it to oneself be preferable to writing it down somewhere and sticking it in one's back pocket? Isn't there some mnemonic device that would allow Rikki to remember it? Is this song really about how dumb Rikki is? I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'.

Why is Bruce Cockburn wondering where the lions are? Is this really a mystery? I mean aren't they primarily on the Serengeti or in zoos? There used to be a real old scrawny one in Franklin Park. Maybe there is the odd one or two in some rapper's penthouse, but I think we have a pretty good handle on the rest of them.

Why does some North Ontario town leave Neil Young feeling helpless? What does a town have to do with it? Could it have anything to do with some of Cockburn's lions on the loose? Don't they offer any self-help programs up there in North Ontario? What about Canada's vaunted health care system? I mean it seems to me that Neil could be a good candidate for a little pick-me-up.

What good would sending in the clowns do? If there is one character on the ground and one in the air, how would a bunch of clowns help? Wouldn't a ladder be more useful? By the way, does Sondheim mean real clowns or a bunch of goofballs like my golfing buddies?

Why is it such a big deal that James Taylor has seen fire and rain? Who hasn't? I've personally seen both of those things as well as mud, granite, and lava. I don't go around bragging about it, though. By the way, I've also ridden the full length of the Massachusetts Turnpike as far as that goes; gave the guy exact change too!

How come Lyle Lovett feels he needs both a pony and a boat? I mean, neither one would be particularly helpful on, say, the Massachusetts Turnpike. Wouldn't most people be happy with one or the other? It seems a bit greedy to ask for both. Maybe he intends to give one of them to Neil Young to make him feel better.

While I absolutely love every song he ever wrote, I must admit that I don't understand a single thing Leonard Cohen is singing about. Chinese tea and oranges? Traveling blind? Dancing to the end of love? How 'bout dancing to the end of the song? What is a drunk doing in a midnight choir? How did he make it past the audition? And so forth...

Of course none of this confusion is apparent in those older, wonderful songs from the Great American Songbook. I mean "I've Got You Under My Skin" is obviously about a case of poison ivy, "But Not For Me," is about my attempts to win Powerball, and "My One and Only Love" is about Tim Thomas of the Boston Bruins.

Well, despite my confusion, the long and the short of it is I will keep listening whether I know what they're talking about or not.

It's the same approach I take with my financial adviser.

Ain't music grand?
J

My New Planet: December 2011

Perhaps you read about the discovery, in a "nearby" solar system, of a possibly habitable planet called Kepler-22B. I've decided to get in on the ground floor of this baby and have recently purchased the left half of this planet for a song. Actually, I purchased just a little bit more than the left half, which gives me naming rights.

I'm naming the planet, "Joel." I think we were all tired of all those ancient gods anyway.

I purchased this real estate from an agent named Marge at a local Century 21 office. When I asked if she had any pictures of the property, she indicated that it would be 2068 before they could be developed. I probably should have been more skeptical, but I'm the trusting sort.

I guess this makes me the ultimate speculator.

I chose the left half of Joel because that half has a southern exposure. At least I think it does. There seems to be some question about where the sun is in that solar system.

I am determined that my half of the planet will be open for business to any and all regardless of race, creed, national origin or baseball team affiliation. I envision a half-planet with all the conveniences of the 21st century combined with the charm and innocence of the 1950's.

Steve Jobs meets Ozzie Nelson.

Of course as the only land-owner, I do feel it is within my rights to set up a few, shall we say, zoning restrictions on my half of Joel. I don't think any of these would be considered onerous or would offend anyone's libertarian sensibilities. If they do, you could always go live on the other half!

1. No one will be allowed to start a business or enterprise that begins with the letter "E"...you can't send e-cards or e-bills, e-manifestos or e-sermons. There will be no e-updates. I don't know about you, but I'm ready for a new letter.

2. There will be no reality television allowed. The Kardashians, Atlanta housewives, and Dr. Phils will all have to go get real jobs. If Rachel Ray wants to cook, she can damn well work at a restaurant. How about one called "Planet Joel"? It has a nice ring to it...like Saturn! Of course there will be plenty of other employment opportunities on my planet. If you're good at making maps, I could use you right now.

3. Everyone will have to take Latin. I know it's irrational, but it's nostalgic for me.

4. All restaurants will have to be slow-food establishments. One of the hamburger joints will have a sign that reads, "Over 12 served."

Maybe the other investors and I will get together and work out the rest of the details, but this does provide an interesting premise: If we could start over with a ready-made planet, what changes would we make? How would we avoid the mistakes we and our ancestors have made on this one: wars, famine, genocide and religious intolerance, the NFL overtime rules, Paula Abdul, Newt Gingrich.

If we had a totally clean slate, would we end up any better than we are now? Is "human nature" such a powerful force that any new planet would eventually become substantially a clone of the one we have now?

I'm anxious to find out. If you're interested in a quarter or third of a planet, send me an e-mai...oops...

Call me.

Ain't life grand?
J

The Last Picture Show: November 2011

Whatever happened to movies? There was a time in my life that going to the movies was almost a weekly event. Now I go to the movies maybe once or twice a year. Sure some of that has to do with DVD's and Netflix and On Demand and the like.

But a lot of it has to do with the premise of this entry: Movies suck now!

Of course this is just my opinion, but it seems to me that somewhere along the way the vast majority of movies stopped being anything that you could take seriously and became mere marketing opportunities or special effects smorgasbords or demographic exercises.

It seems to me that it goes something like this: If we make this movie about robots who turn evil and take over the world, we can get this many teenage males and this many 20-somethings and this many Europeans which will equal a ticket sale of whatever.

Sorry, but I'm just not interested. Instead of a special effect, I'd rather see a special performance, something that touches me in a real, human way. Those are quite rare these days and are very hard to discover because they are buried under too many explosions, squealing tires, and absurdly huge firearms.

Certainly there are exceptions. I think the "Lord of the Rings" trilogy was the perfect blend of special effects, acting, and storytelling. But that was ten years ago. That's a long time between boxes of popcorn.

Living in the Boston area gave me an unfair advantage when it came to movies. There were so many "art houses," in the Boston-Cambridge area, that it was always possible to see some of those little, independent films that are usually about performance and not just eye candy. Down here on the panhandle, there are no intimate one or two screen theaters; just those gigantic mega-theater-sound system-arcade-mall-multi-screened behemoths which only play the latest, loudest, studio nonsense. I miss the days of the Nickelodeon, the Orson Welles, the Harvard Square, even the little Dedham Cinema with the art gallery downstairs. I didn't love every movie I saw at these and other small theaters. Sometimes I thought there was a lot of hype or buzz over an independent movie that I thought was just average or worse. ("Sideways" comes to mind) But at least these movies had integrity, a vision, a reason for being beyond ticket sales.

Of course not every "big" Hollywood movie is terrible. The first two "Godfathers" come to mind. "The Natural" and "Field of Dreams" would be called mainstream movies that I think are both filled with great performances and beautiful stories. There are many others I could mention. The point here is that I think movies like the ones above are being made much less often than they used to be.

So not for nuthin', in no particular order, here's a list of 10 of my all-time "small" favorites:

10. Bang the Drum Slowly, 1973. With De Niro, Michael Moriarty, and Vincent Gardenia. A great "baseball" movie about all sorts of things other than baseball.

9. Big Night, 1996. With Stanley Tucci and Tony Shalhoub. The perfect little movie in my opinion. Great performances up and down the line.

8. Sling Blade, 1996. With Billy Bob Thornton and, especially, Lucas Black as the kid. Completely original and weirdly believable.

7. Tender Mercies, 1983. With Robert Duvall and Tess Harper. I guess I could do nothing but list Robert Duvall films here. I've chosen two for this list. He always does something unexpected or interesting. What a lovely, quiet, redemptive film.

6. Scarecrow, 1973. With Al Pacino and Gene Hackman. Wonderfully acted, beautifully sad movie.

5. Broadway Danny Rose, 1984. With Woody Allen and Mia Farrow. To me, this is Woody Allen at his best as a director, a storyteller, and a performer. Funny and sad at the same time.

4. 'Round Midnight, 1986. All time great tenor player Dexter Gordon playing a version of himself. This little movie had musical integrity and a lovely, heartwarming story as well.

3. Glengarry Glen Ross, 1992. What an ensemble and what a delight listening to David Mamet's peculiar patois. The brief Alec Baldwin bit is still one of the best five minute segments of any movie ever.

2. The Apostle, 1997. Another Duvall performance that mesmerized me. I actually think I would have contributed to his church.

1. Cinema Paradiso, 1988. Still the champion as far as I am concerned. A movie that loves movies in the same nostalgic, wistful way that I once did. Whenever I need a jolt or a taste of how magical movies once were in my life, I kick back with some chianti (hold the fava beans, please) and cry my way through this wonderful film. The Ennio Morricone score alone would be enough to qualify this incredibly humane film.

So there you have it. Some of my all time favorite "little" movies. I'm sure there are others I've neglected to mention, but each of these resonated in some meaningful way with me.

I doubt any of them were made with any thought about what kinds of action figures they would spawn.

I'll have a medium popcorn, no butter.

Weren't movies once grand?
J

Dim Sum: November 2011

A little of this...a little of that:

Cain not Able:

Herman, we hardly knew ye.

What a horrible, cowardly man! Here is what he is asking the country to believe: One time at a meeting of the National Restaurant Association board, he innocently mentioned to a woman employee that she was the same height as his wife. Cain insists that that sweet remark was enough to cause the woman to file a sexual harassment claim against him. Now, here's the thing: instead of firing this miserable, slandering woman and fighting her ridiculous claim in a court of law, Cain and the lawyers of the National Restaurant Association saw fit to pay her handsomely and have her accept a confidentiality agreement.

What? Huh? People, if you can't believe that, then you can't believe any of the other stuff he claims. That's how it works in these cases.

You want me to vote for a man who would go along with something like that? I'm sorry but I'd like to think that my President would have a little backbone and fight for what is right, even if it means getting a little bloody in the process.

Of course, there is another possibility. Herman Cain may just be guilty of the piggish behavior that, so far, four woman have accused him of. He may actually be that horrible cliche: the Chairman of the Board who actually thinks his power allows him to behave to women in any way he sees fit. A man like that would definitely need a Board that is willing to pay people off to keep quiet.

Obviously, I don't want that guy to be my President either.

So here's how I see it: if everything Herman has been saying is true, then he has no backbone and no principles and should be ashamed to parade himself out there to represent us. If everything Herman says is a lie, then he is little better than a predator, using his base of power to garner sexual concessions from women who are powerless to stop him.

President? Please tell me we haven't sunk this low yet.

Nick's

The other night Kate and I decided to go out for dinner and watch the Alabama-LSU football game, a very big deal in these parts. We decided to go to Nick's, a local place on scenic Rt 30A. Here is a true accounting of what the two of us ate and drank:

three margaritas, three glasses of chardonnay, a huge bowl of delicious homemade chili concocted with a real roux base lovingly prepared by an authentic Loosiana Cajun chef, an order of sweet potato fries, and an incredibly huge double cheeseburger with more sweet potato fries

The bill totaled $24.00.

Aside from wondering how on earth two people can eat and/or drink that much, can you believe the price? And everything was perfectly delicious.

Needless to say it looks like Nick's will become "our" place sooner rather than later.

Friends

I have been blessed to have many friends. Some, like Kate, I've only met since I moved to Florida. Some became friends during our teaching careers. As a matter of fact, Kate and I will be attending the Boston wedding of a daughter of one of those wonderful teacher friends this weekend. I also had the privilege of attending the wedding of another teacher friend's daughter last month. I was thrilled to have been invited to both affairs and feel so happy for all the parents involved. Both "matches" seem quite magical to me.

Some of the friends go back to teenage days at Boston Latin School or in Dorchester. I'm truly grateful for all the laughter we've shared over the years and I look forward to every occasion that brings us back together.

I have one set of friends from another country. They are the Davidson family pictured above. That's Steve, Carol, and son Jamie. I have been friends with Steve for over 35 years. We met in 1974 at Camp Androscoggin in Wayne, Maine. (The Rain in Wayne stays...you get the idea) Steve was a young math teacher from England who served as the head of soccer at camp. I was the head of tennis. We hit it off quickly, especially when Steve told me he'd like to learn more about the game of baseball. I told him I'd be happy to try and explain the nuances of the wonderful game as long as he promised to become a Red Sox fan. Steve said he'd be happy to do that as long as I would join the "Toon Army" which is how the fans of Newcastle United of the English Premier League identify themselves.

It was a trade that helped both teams, as they say.

It was because of Steve (alone at first, then joined by his wonderful wife Carol and eventually the amazing Jamie) that Ada, I and the boys were able to tour England. He generously arranged free lodging for us at his school and gave us the use of his car during our stay. What a fabulous time we all had, notwithstanding the damage I inflicted on Steve's beloved Renault.

Later, Ada and I were able to travel to France, Norway, and Spain in the company of all three Davidsons who were and still are brilliant travel companions.

Of course we were always eager to host them during their many trips to America. This included one sad last trip they made to visit us in New Hampshire when Ada was beginning to fail. They stayed with a New Hampshire friend for a week just on the chance that Ada would feel well enough for a visit. They were grateful for even the briefest time with her. Even now, I well up when I think of their patience and dedication.

It was wonderful to be able to host this fine crew last week here in Florida. Their "situations" are about to change dramatically. Steve is soon to retire after a long and incredibly positive stint as the Headmaster of Bradford Grammar School in West Yorkshire. Jamie is soon to enter university. I know we will be in each other's company from time to time and I look forward to it.

So there you have it. A little Dim Sum on this lovely fall evening.

Ain't life grand?
J

Trick or Treat: October 2011

I love candy. If you've been following these lame ramblings from the beginning, you already know that.

I love candy more than I love golf. I love candy more than I love fishing. I love Twix bars and Skittles and Nestle's Crunch and the entire Hershey family of treats and the remarkable Reese's cartel. Let's just say there are very few edible things that I love more than candy.

I really love candy.

Naturally, Halloween is the "holiday" I look forward to the most. Sure the warmth and glow of a lovely home cooked dinner on Thanksgiving is wonderful and traditional. The joyous squeals of children on Christmas morning are worth all the ensuing credit card agida. Even the underrated Arbor Day has a certain early American Johnny Appleseed charm. But none of these holidays comes close to engendering the feeling I get when I see a pillowcase filled with miniature Baby Ruths, Milk Duds, and bushels of candy corn.

I hope these revelations don't make me a bad person.

I love candy today as much as I did 60 years ago, when I was just entering the candy procuring years. Since I had no source of income then, I had to be creative in the ways I satisfied my candy Jones. I attended the children's Saturday morning service at the Beth El Hebrew School for the sole purpose of being rewarded with a Charleston Chew candy bar at the service's completion. God, Moses, even The Torah itself, had little or nothing to do with my desire to attend. It was all about the Charleston Chews. I was even willing to get in the candy line twice and con sweet old Mr. Cohen out of a second candy bar.

I was a five-year-old junkie, the youngest on record.

We had credit at the local grocery store on Dorchester's Blue Hill Avenue. The proprietor would simply keep track of our current obligation in a spiral notebook and my mother would pay him every couple of weeks. I ran up quite a confectionery tab in that sad little store. I vaguely remember Teddi chastising me for blithely assuming that any candy I desired was fine with her.

Of course there was a price to pay for this addiction. I was voted "Most Buoyant Boy" in my fourth grade class at the Sarah Greenwood School and my childhood dentist, Dr. Harvey Jacobs, became wealthy enough to purchase Colorado.

I may have mentioned I love candy. I once even managed to blend a belief in God with a box of Raisinets. I was about 10 years old, sitting in the Franklin Park Theater attending a Saturday matinee. I had used my cash allotment to buy the 25 cent ticket and a lovely box of Raisinets. I was polishing off the last of the Raisinets before the previews of coming attractions were over. I realized that this level of piggishness would leave me with about four hours of painful, candy-free movie watching. I decided to see if this whole praying thing I'd heard about in Hebrew School actually worked. I closed my eyes and sent a whopper of a prayer up to the heavens. It probably went something like this: "Excuse me up there; lately, I've been hearing about all kinds of your cool miracles like parting the Red Sea, raining toads, and turning people to salt. Very impressive, I must say. I was wondering if you might simply add a few more Raisinets to this empty box so that I can at least get through the previews. If you do, I promise never to sneak back into the candy line at the end of Saturday services."

I waited a few minutes for the prayer to "get through" and shook the box. Lo and behold, I heard the sweet sound of several Raisinets clicking around the heretofore empty box. Yikes, I thought, He really exists and He wants me to eat more candy! Who am I to refuse? I gobbled up those few extra Raisinets and tried for a few more. Sadly, that was the end of this particular miracle, but it was more than enough to put me on my best behavior for about the next five or six years.

It took me that long to figure out that a few Raisinets had partially melted and stuck themselves temporarily to the inside of the box.

One of the saddest nights of my life was the Halloween on which I had reluctantly agreed to forgo candy and replace it with cash donations for UNICEF. No amount of praise from the delighted "customers" could make up for the loss of an entire Halloween's worth of candy. I may have single-handedly fed a starving sub-Saharan village that night, but it was of little consolation to this chubby candy-corn craving candyphile.

I'm quite sure that most people felt as I did during their childhoods; however, they manage to move away from a love of candy as they mature. I mean it happens with comic books and breakfast cereal so why shouldn't it happen with candy?

Well, all I can say is I've never been able to divorce myself from this infatuation. When my own guys, Josh and Matt, were in their prime Trick or Treating years, I would always look forward to their return. "How did you do?" I would innocently ask. The boys would proudly display their haul. Little did they know that I was already planning to stealthily liberate just enough of their candy to satisfy my craving without arousing their suspicions. Matthew, being a heavier sleeper than Josh, lost the most product. Some years I went through his pillow case like a pack of locusts and all he was left with were Sweet Tarts and Jolly Ranchers. Uggh!

Now here I am almost 65-years-old and the old Halloween excitement is just as strong as ever. I have been trying to convince Kate that we will be inundated with youngsters at our new place and that we should really stock up lest we suffer any "tricks." Unfortunately, she checked with the old owner before he left. "We haven't had a kid show up here since before 2000," he informed her.

When Kate told me this I told her that kids around here tend to gather at a central location and have a more supervised Halloween than we had. So we'll be attending the tailgating "Trunk or Treat" at the Methodist Church on the 31st. I'll be handing out the Jolly Ranchers and trying to hold back on the Twix bars.

As a closing, please take this chubby walk with me down candy's memory lane:

Nestle Triple Decker, Waleeco, Bonomo Turkish Taffy, Fifth Avenue Bar, Carmallow Bar, Necco Wafers (the chocolate flavor), Sky Bar, Squirrel Nuts Zippers, Bit-o'Honey, Mary Jane, Atomic Fireballs, Charms, Root Beer Barrels, Ice Cube Chocolates, Pez, Nonpareils, Jujube's, Jujyfruits...

Ain't cavities grand?
J

Sam 'n Sara: September 2011

That's how I refer to them. Always with the 'n instead of the word "and," kind of like Chip 'n Dale.

They are my grandchildren and you'd better prepare yourself for what I have to say next:

They are the two greatest grandchildren in the world.

This means that my grandchildren are better than your grandchildren. And I don't just mean a little better. They are vastly better in every measurable way.

The sooner you come to grips with this, the easier it will be for all of us.

Of course I'm sure your grandchildren are fine "in their own way." I mean if I didn't know of the existence of Sam 'n Sara, and I bumped into your grandchildren at a Walmart or Dunkin' Donuts, I'm sure I'd be thinking, "Gee, those grandchildren are just about cute and pretty darn close to better than average."

Please don't blame Sam 'n Sara for any of this. They can't help it. First of all, they are twins and we all know that twins are by definition awesome. They're even better than triplets who, in my opinion, have a tendency toward slovenliness. Second of all, they seem to be very fond of me. I doubt that your grandchildren feel any kind of strong emotion toward me, a fact which has always bothered me. Sam 'n Sara seem to recognize the depth and power of my love for them while your brood just doesn't get it.

Again, please don't shoot the messenger, okay?

I'm not going to list all of the reasons why Sam 'n Sara are officially the two greatest grandchildren in the world. That would be considered boastful. But here are some of the more important factors. After reading this, I'm sure you'll agree, albeit reluctantly, that my grandchildren deserve their place at the top of the grandchildren heap.

If it's any consolation, there is a huge tie for second place.

At a restaurant, Sam will look directly at the waiter or waitress and confidently tell her that he wants a Sprite. He'll even add the word "Please." I mean, people, are you beginning to see what I'm talking about here?

Sara, thanks to her beloved Nana's tutelage, can knit and does knit. This means that while your grandchildren are playing video games or texting each other, my beautiful granddaughter is knitting. Now, admittedly, Ada never got the chance to teach Sara any of the finer points of knitting, so the only garment Sara is able to knit is one incredibly long scarf. However, I'm sure some day Sara will be able to figure out how to end this scarf, which currently extends from her home in Weymouth to lovely Newport, RI, and possibly start a new one.

Sam will watch the movie "Cars" anytime, anywhere. Just think of the dedication that takes. He knows exactly when the good stuff is coming and he is willing to sit through the boring stuff to get to it. Do you have any idea what kind of perseverance that requires? The same is true for all three "Toy Stories" and "Despicable Me." Anytime. Anywhere.

Sara can sing anything. I once taught her "One Note Samba" using fake Portuguese words and she parroted it back like a real fake Portuguese person. The other day I mentioned that I liked the song featured in a new Heineken commercial and Sara began singing it in the exact same style as the singer in the commercial. I bet your grandkids change the station when the beer commercials come on. That's what I'm talkin' about!

OK, all kidding aside, I hope all of you either already have or will soon experience grandparenthood, or great-unclehood, or great-aunthood, or any kind of relationship with children that allows you to love them freely without too much of the day-to-day disciplining that their parents have to do. I hope you get to watch in amazement as a child starts to figure out how the world works, what's fair and unfair about it all, and how he or she can make things better for one person or all people. I hope you get a chance to talk to a child over the phone and say something goofy which makes him or her laugh at your silliness. I hope you get to watch the day to day drama of schoolyard friendships, knowing full well that today's crisis will soon be forgotten as it is replaced by tomorrow's dilemma. Most of all, I hope you get to see a child act in a selfless, compassionate way to another child, thereby guaranteeing the possibility that GOODNESS will get to thrive for at least another generation.

These and many other gifts too numerous to mention are what Sam 'n Sara have bestowed upon me.

Which is why I can't help but proclaim...

Ain't life grand?
J

The Old Man and the Bay: August 2011

Day One (morning): I knew if I were going to land Ol' Charley, the monster of Choctawhatchee Bay, I'd have to start early. Ol' Charley doesn't tolerate dawdling and many an eager Panhandle fisherman has gone home disappointed and broken because he got a late start. The alarm went off at 4:30 am but it was unnecessary. I had already gotten up to check my gear. It is well known in these parts that Ol' Charley looks askance at the slovenly handling of gear. First I inspected the rod. What a graphite beauty! Brand spanking new from Walmart.Thick at one end and thin at the other, just like I wanted it, with little eyelets all lined up perfectly. Then the all-important reel, my beautiful mechanical advantage over this creature. Really, when you think about it, the reel is my ONLY advantage over this magnificent beast. He swims much better than I do. His dental work is better. He can change direction in an instant. I usually have to watch "Meet the Press" to do that. Truth be told, most people would say he smells better.

But he has no reel. And if he did, what would he do with it?

Nothin', that's what!

Whereas, I have this little Daiwa beauty that goes in two directions, out and in. Granted, sometimes when I want the line to go out, it ends up in a horribly tangled mess at my feet, forcing me to call off that day's adventure and spend the rest of the night with a magnifying glass, a crochet needle, and good pair of scissors.

Day One (evening): I put down the magnifying glass and grabbed the crochet needle.

"What are you going to do with that, Captain Ahab, harpoon the poor thing?"

Some questions don't deserve a response. I blithely ignored Kate and simply went about my business untangling the four or five hundred yards of monofilament that lay in a bizarre mess on the living room floor like a gigantic plate of angel hair pasta. During this procedure I managed to "catch" Coco, the neurotic Shih Tzu, a lamp, and my latest edition of Field and Stream. Not a bad haul, but not what I was looking for.

Kate headed off to bed thankful she too hadn't been hooked, and I continued getting most of my line back on the reel.

As I brushed my teeth and practiced my casting, I couldn't help think that the next day Ol' Charley and I would finally be face to face...and I would be the more disgusted one (by a little).

Day Two (morning): My day of destiny began with the perfect fisherman's breakfast: strong coffee, a burnt bagel and some cod liver oil. I needed the scent of my prey on my fingertips. Surprisingly, Ol' Charley is alleged to smell like burnt bagel (poppy seed) and not cod so I probably could have eliminated the cod liver oil. But I was into it, know what I mean?

As I negotiated the five minute walk from our new rented home to the bay, I began happily whistling the "Andy Griffith Show" theme song. Would this day end with my strutting around like a triumphant Sheriff Taylor or would I feel closer to sad sack Deputy Barney Fife? To tell you the truth I've always felt a little something for Aunt Bea, but that's neither here nor there.

I couldn't have been more confident. After all, this wasn't my first rodeo, as they say. I took up fishing back in my teens. Armed with only a rickety dropline, a bag of sea worms, and a hard salami sandwich from the G and G Delicatessen, I used to bravely navigate the waters of Quincy Bay with several other Aardvarks from the YMHA-Hecht House in a rented boat from Hurley's Marina in Hough's Neck. Five or six of us outdoorsmen would take up space in the sleek craft, nicely equipped with a 15 horsepower Evinrude. Rough seas, numerous equipment issues, and hooks stuck in one's fellow fishermen as opposed to actual fish were just some of the problems we had to learn to overcome. Another problem many of us had was a strong aversion to the taste of fish; however, this hardly ever posed any difficulty since the only way many of us could actually catch anything was to have the fish place themselves on the hooks and, as we all know, fish have no hands.

Adding to the problems on these fishing expeditions were the aforementioned hard salami sandwiches from the G and G Delicatessen. Under normal circumstances these beautiful, hand-crafted extravaganzas would be considered works of art; however, when combined with the inevitable motion of the boat and the smell of sliced sea worms...well, let's just say that when our boat was a-rockin', you definitely didn't want to come a-knockin'!

Admittedly, there has been about a 50-year gap between fishing experiences for me. I think it was probably that last hard salami sandwich fiasco that contributed to this hiatus, but, now, as George Costanza would say, "I'm back, baby!"

As I carefully tied on my special lure, a thing of beauty which closely resembled Warren G. Harding if he were a minnow, I must admit I felt a tiny droplet of remorse. After all, this could well be Ol' Charley's last day in the Bay. After today, he will undoubtedly spend eternity stuffed and mounted above our new fireplace. No longer would he frolic in the depths of Choctawhatchee Bay. No longer would he lord it over all the other creatures living in the bay and most of the creatures floating in boats above it.

The end of an era and I would be the one responsible. It kind of made me feel a little like Curt Schilling, if you know what I mean.

I carefully surveyed the watery tableau before me. My eyes had been trained to interpret every ripple or disturbance on the surface. Ol' Charley had no chance against my knowledge and cunning.

(Full disclosure: I wouldn't know the meaning of a ripple or disturbance if Moby Dick himself were surfacing...I just like the way that previous paragraph sounded...and now back to our true story)

I determined that a cast of about 60-63 feet to a point sou'/sou'west would do the trick. Using all my skill I whipped the rod back and forward and cast my lure exactly where I had determined Ol' Charley to be.

(Full disclosure: If I could cast this stupid thing within a half-mile of my intended target, it would be some kind of fishing miracle, worthy of the New Testament!)

Anyway, I knew it was just a matter of time. My fingers were on alert. Like 10 tiny seismographs, they have been trained to detect the slightest tremble.

(I'd do that full disclosure thing again, but I assume you're tired of it.)

Charlie hit that Warren G. Harding lure with all the force of an early Mike Tyson uppercut. It was all I could do to hang on to the rod. Believe me, I had no intention of letting my entire $21.96 investment get swallowed up beneath the waters of Choctawhatchee Bay. As I struggled to get control, I remembered Hemingway's timeless story of Santiago and his fish. Was I worthy of this fish? Have I honed my skills to a razor sharp edge? Do we have enough milk at home? Why am I having so much trouble sinking 4-foot putts? How funny is Louis C.K.? What's my favorite stringed instrument?

These and other questions too numerous to mention swam around my head as I struggled with Ol' Charley. Daylight faded into twilight and still our dance of death continued.

"It's you or me, Charley," I thought, "and I'm here to tell you that I intend to fish here for many more years or at least until this lease is up, so I guess that means it's you."

And just like that it was over. Don't blame Charley. He knew his match and he had too much dignity to try and escape. He faced his responsibilities like a man...er...fish, and I shall never forget him.

Let the photo of me and Ol' Charley serve as a testament to what a man can do if he has enough resolve and determination.

Or, you could use this blog to wrap fish in.

Ain't life grand?
J

43 Years Ago Today: August 2011

Ada and I were married exactly 43 years ago today. I felt like writing a little about that day and the 43 years that have followed in the blink of an eye, so with your kind indulgence...

August 25, 1968...Temple Emmanu-El, Marblehead, Massachusetts. It was the hottest day in recorded history. Anywhere. The temperatures topped off at 296 degrees as I remember. If there were any air conditioning at the Temple, I sure don't recall. At the last minute we changed our vows and inserted: "...in sickness and in health, whatever the heat index happens to be..."

Not to be gross but I clearly remember sweating right through my rented tuxedo during the reception. Yes, I was some catch. Ada, of course, was quite beautiful and unflappable. She was determined to have an enjoyable and fun wedding, whatever the weather. Ada was the opposite of a Bridezilla.

It's weird but I don't remember too many details from that day other than the general impression that we all had a good time despite the heat. There were no dramatic or embarrassing incidents to be relived through the years; just a lot of good friends and relatives who were all quite comfortable with this very expected union and were free from any stress over what might transpire at the wedding. Ada and I had been going out quite steadily since we were 15, so there were no real surprises here.

We had been thoroughly vetted, as they say these days.

Our honeymoon was, shall we say, less than extravagant. After the reception, we hopped into our 1968 Rambler American Coupe (similar to the one pictured above, but dark green in color) and headed north to New Brunswick and Nova Scotia. We boarded the ferry (I can't remember if it was Portland or Bar Harbor) and made our way to Canada for the next week or so. Mostly we just rode around enjoying the rocky coastline. It's hard for me to imagine now, but I don't believe we had any kind of itinerary. We just winged it in our hot little Rambler.

With the advantage of hindsight, I can see now how this honeymoon kind of symbolized much of our wonderful life together. There was absolutely nothing glamorous about it or about us. Every place we visited was grounded in reality: farms, lobster pounds, rocky coves, fishing villages. These were hardly all-inclusive resorts, but, then again, we weren't the all-inclusive type. (Seinfeld aficionados, please insert: "Not that there's anything wrong with that!") We were 21-years-old, quite unsophisticated, the opposite of worldly. The Maritimes were about as exotic as we could muster at the time. It would be much later before we would venture out "deeper in the pool" to fairytale places like England, Aruba, or Cohasset.

When we returned from our honeymoon, we set up our first apartment, in the Montclair section of Quincy, MA. It was a miserable, tiny place with a weird layout. I chose it because it only cost $100 a month. Like I said before, I was some catch! If Ada was disappointed in it, she never let on. Eventually, we left there for a nicer place in Waltham after the landlord became angry over our attempt to bring in a dog. Ada would soon begin her teaching career in Newton while I was working as a reporter for the Quincy Patriot Ledger. As I think about it, we must have shared the one car for both jobs. I was on the 4 to midnight shift, so I must have waited for Ada to return from school before I could get to work. Our first salaries were in the $5,000-$6,000 range, but with both of us working, we did fine other than the fact that we hardly saw each other most days. I'm sure that not having me around only increased our chances for a happy marriage.

We lived within our means. That was our style. Our cars, clothes, houses, vacations, and entertainments were always sensible. I don't ever remember making a conscious decision to live this way; it was just what both of us were comfortable with. We put up with a little personal discomfort rather than spend "wastefully." I guess we both felt that we were all meant to "suffer" a little; it built character. One way in which this attitude manifested itself was in the notion of never, ever, ever paying to park in Boston. If we had to walk 10 miles to get to the ballgame/movie/concert, so be it. Paying to park was an example of the kind of "luxury" we chose not to indulge in. Also, we never had a home with any kind of air conditioning. It was better to suffer ten or twenty nights a year than to give in to this indulgence, we thought.

We didn't consider ourselves heroic or particularly strong-willed and we certainly didn't mind what other people did. (Actually we tried to cultivate as many "air-conditioned friendships" as we could because our freakin' house was completely unbearable!)

Did we "miss out" on some enjoyable adventures and opportunities during those early married days? Of course. Did we mind? Not really. It's all about finding out what lifestyle makes you comfortable and being happy with that. I think by and large, we succeeded. When the boys came along, we were able to raise them comfortably if not extravagantly. I don't think Josh or Matt would say they felt deprived in any way.

Of course as the years wore on and we both kept working, we found that we could comfortably afford more so-called luxury items. At one point, I even consented to buy sunglasses. That was a big step for me, friends.

During our nine wonderful retirement years together, we certainly didn't hold back. Thankfully, and owing to our earlier fiscal conservatism, we didn't have to.

Tomorrow will be August 26th and I will stop wallowing in the past and will look forward to Kate's return from Jacksonville and our October move about ten miles from here to a lovely rented house right near Choctawhatchee Bay in Santa Rosa Beach.

But today was made for memories.

Ain't life grand?
J

A Vote for Mediocrity: August 2011

I would like to take this opportunity to announce my candidacy for the office of President of Most of the United States.

I haven't completely figured out which states I won't be President of should you honor me with a victory, but when I know, you'll know. That's a promise.

Oh heck, I can't stand the suspense any more than you can. Here are some of the ones that are going to be allowed in my new Republic and the reasons why:

Massachusetts: I know my way around and I speak the local dialect.
New Hampshire: No sales tax...people like that.
Pennsylvania: I know how it got its name and I love the Pirates' uniforms.
Rhode Island: Such a little cutie; low maintenance.
South Carolina: Great golf.
Maine: Lots of storage space; the whole top half is like a giant walk-in closet.
Minnesota and Louisiana: I haven't decided about the middle of the Mississippi River, but I want the top and bottom of it.
Colorado: I need at least one square one.
New Mexico: Plenty of parking.

Here are some of the ones I don't want in my Union:

Vermont: Too pretentious and a bit of a bully to New Hampshire.
Connecticut: Too hard to spell and can't seem to make up its mind between the Yankees and Red Sox.
New York: This is fun.
North Carolina and North Dakota: Sorry, but I don't want any Norths. I know it's a bit arbitrary, but sometimes you have to keep the citizenry guessing.
Texas: Their governor has said he might secede anyway; this way it's my decision.

Wow! It just occurred to me that doing it this way, I probably only need about 50 electoral votes to win. Jump on board, people, 'cause this train can't be stopped.

As far as my qualifications go, I have a long and illustrious history of public service. I was elected to the Boston Latin School Class Committee in 1963-64. To this day I have absolutely no idea what the purpose of the Class Committee was, but I served out my entire term which is more than some people can say. I was elected treasurer of the YMHA-Hecht House Aardvarks in 1963 which necessitated my keeping track of all the dues that people claimed they couldn't pay at each weekly meeting. I was also responsible for determining what we would have spent the dues on had I been able to collect any. Come to think of it, this makes the recent round of crazy deficit negotiations seem sensible. As an undergrad at Temple University in Philadelphia, I served as a floor leader in the Johnson Hall men's dormitory. Some of my responsibilities were cleaning up vomit and making sure no one had sex. The two jobs seemed to go hand in hand, although I'm pretty sure Kenny Rosenthal was able to...never mind, we'll just call that Executive Privilege. In my 31 years as an educator in Hingham, MA, I served on numerous committees. Sometimes I even went to the meetings. At Eastman in New Hampshire, I was the Tournament Chairman of the Golf Committee for three years and never managed to win a golf tournament. This speaks both to my sense of fairness and my lack of golfing ability.

I could go on and on, but I think it's best to let the rigors of the campaign reveal my true nature. Speaking of the campaign, I'm sure some of you are eager to volunteer in this grass roots effort or, more importantly, contribute cash to this historic movement. I'm not going to lie to you (yet!). We're strapped for dough, so strapped I had to let my campaign director go. It was both a financial and a philosophical decision. This guy wanted me to attack my opponents personally, focusing on old acne scars and remnants of lisps. I preferred to make this campaign about the important issues of the day like “Is Islam contagious?” and “Is there such a thing as too much caliber?”

There are some who have said that my religion might make me unelectable. After all we haven't had a Jewish president or even a nominee, although many people would be surprised to know that Dan Quayle originally spelled his name Kvell. (You'll just have to ask someone if you don't understand!) To put everyone at ease, I've decided to kick off my campaign with a giant prayer meeting at Dorchester's Franklin Field. The evening will feature some of the most inspiring prayers ever heard including “Would it have killed you to have made Israel bigger?” and “Hey, Noah, let's open a window and let the mosquitoes out, waddaya say?”

Finally, there is the question of party affiliation. To be honest, I haven't exactly been thrilled with any of the usual suspects and I may have to start my own. I'm toying with the name “Dependent” Party. It's kind of like an Independent Party with bladder problems.

Our motto could be “We're Number One!”

Sorry,

Ain't life grand?
J

Banff....f: July 2011

Yes, I added an extra "f" because Banff...f is "effing" fenomenal! The pictures don't do it justice, believe me.

The town of Banff...f is located in the middle of Banff...f National Park in Alberta, Canada. It's about a ninety minute drive from Calgary. Kate and I spent a week there recently and were blown away by the beauty of the place, the abundant wildlife, the friendliness of the locals, and the frightening cost of a nice lunch.

Ada and I had visited Banff...f back in the late '80's in the dead of winter. We were heavy into cross-country skiing in those days and had read about the famous Banff...f Springs Hotel and the wonderful x-country skiing in the area. Actually, given the way we approached this sport, we should have called it Cross-Country Falling. Anyway, it was a wonderful trip and the skiing was remarkable despite temperatures that stayed right around 0 (but it was a dry heat!). I remember that our room at the venerable Banff Springs Hotel was one of the only rooms without a view, so we had that going for us. I also remember that on one of our drives along the scenic Bow Valley Parkway, a rarely seen lynx slunk by our car during a rest stop. I'd show you a picture of it, but I got so excited I fumbled with the camera and got about 100 out-of-focus shots of what might have been some sort of mammal or perhaps an odd looking bush. I've always wondered what Banff...f looked like in the summer, so this was an opportunity to scratch that particular itch.



We were delighted to discover that flying from the Destin area to Calgary was not too difficult. Continental took us from Ft. Walton Regional Airport to Houston and then non-stop to Calgary. A rented Ford Fusion took us the rest of the way to the park and our accomodations: a week's timeshare at the Banff...f Rocky Mountain Resort. I swapped a week on the Cape in November for a week in Banff...f in July. Boy, did someone get screwed!

We took several terrific excursions during our week, but the Bow Valley Parkway and the Icefields Parkway were absolutely magnificent. The Bow Valley Parkway connects Banff...f with Lake Louise. It provides a slow, scenic 35-mile alternative to the high speed Trans Canada Highway. On any given day lucky motorists will see elk, bighorn sheep, wolves, bear, moose, or busloads of people from Japan. We rode this beautiful strand almost every day and saw everything except moose. One day we spied a group of bighorn sheep grazing by the roadside. After taking a bunch of mediocre pictures, we moved on down the road and saw a large, black wolf slinking in the direction of the sheep.

"This oughtta be good," I said to Kate.

"Maybe we should warn the sheep," Kate suggested.

"I don't speak bighorn," I said sheepishly. (sorry)

At any rate, as the wolf got closer, we watched intently. One of the sheep scented the wolf and immediately bounded away down a steep nearby slope. We never saw what happened to the other sheep, but I guess Nature has a way of evening things out for all concerned.

We were enthralled by the beauty and the possibilities of the Bow Valley Parkway and traveled all or part of it each day. Further down the line lay the Icefields Parkway, which begins just past Lake Louise and continues for 150 miles toward Jasper. While it is harder to view wildlife because of the higher speeds allowed on this road, the natural beauty of the lakes, glaciers, and mountains make it worth the effort. We tried to ride this parkway on an "iffy" day with rain and temperatures in the 40's. We had rented a neat GPS-activated narration gizmo that plugged into the car's cigarette lighter. It was like having a very well informed, (almost too well informed if you get my drift) local expert in the car with us. As the narrator commented on this peak or that glacier, Kate and I tried desperately to see even a glimpse of what he was going on about. Alas, the fog and low sky rendered all of the natural wonders invisible. We were determined to get back to that drive and a couple of days later, the weather was as sparkling clear as a crisp New England September afternoon. We had returned the GPS gizmo, so we had to make up our own narration.

It went something like this:

"On your left you will see yet another 12,000 foot peak. You've been looking at these peaks for almost a week now so I don't know what more I can say about them except that some people claim this peak resembles a group of ladies playing Mahjong while other people look at this peak and see a group of really big rocks which eventually come to a point. Personally, I don't want to get involved."

After a wonderful week of viewing majestic peaks, lakes so blue you could only describe them as "really, really blue lakes," elk and bighorn sheep up the yin yang, and old railroad hotels and chateaux that evoke memories of old railroad hotels and chateaux, Kate and I were anxious to get back to sea level where the temperature is in Farenheit, the dollar is worth what it's worth, and speed limits never read "100".

Ain't life grand? eh?
J

Coco's World: July 2011

Kate's ridiculously cute, impossibly neurotic Shi Tzu is named Coco. Actually, it's Cocohoney. Kate had named her Honey and her grandson Jack added Coco because he felt she looked like Coco-puffs cereal. At various times Coco will respond to these two names as well as Rosie, and Rose Petal. When I say "respond", I mean the dog might blithely look over her shoulder at you as she chooses to ignore your request.

Lassie she ain't.

Coco is completely self-aware. She knows the following about herself: she is cute; she will be fed like clockwork no matter how stubborn she may have acted that day; she is superior to all of the creatures she sees as she gazes out her window (pictured above), including joggers and people from Alabama.

That window is Coco's view of the world. She seems very content to spend hours sitting rather regally and watching the various happenings out that window. Whenever anything untoward enters her world-view, say a lizard, squirrel, landscaper, or member of Congress, she will sharply voice her disapproval until the offending critter moves out of her line of sight. I don't know if they have yentas in Tibet, Coco's ancestral home, but she's a Tibetan yenta if I ever saw one.

Kate rescued Coco about four years ago from an abusive puppy mill situation. Coco had been living isolated in a crate and had never been socialized. Kate was told that it would take Coco a while to warm up to her but she would eventually. With great patience and dedication, Kate was able to break through Coco's distrust of large beings and begin her entry into something close to a dog's normal life. It wasn't easy, but today Coco and Kate have achieved a nice mutual respect and love for each other.

She still hates me, though. Coco, that is.

Kate has a roomy, comfortable dog crate that Coco really enjoys. She will retreat to her "house" several times a day, especially if she feels nervous or senses that Kate is going out on an errand. Whenever she leaves the house, Kate tells Coco that she is going shopping and will be back in "twenty-two minutes." Immediately, Coco will head happily into her home and patiently await Kate's return. If she understands the meaning of the passage of time, she's never let on. Whether Kate is back in twenty-two minutes or four hours, Coco greets her return in the same way: modest gratitude and benign indifference: "I knew you'd be home eventually; I really wasn't worried about it. When do we eat?"

Coco spends most of her day lounging around the house, finding different areas in which to nap. In this way she is much like your humble blogger. The only strenuous activity Coco engages in centers around the stuffed animals Kate has bought her. The local Pet Smart store is able to stay open because of these purchases. They number in the millions. For some unknown reason, the minute Kate picks up one of these ratty-looking, squeaky toys, Coco goes completely berserk, jumping up and down and barking her sharp, loud yelp until Kate agrees to give the animal up and allow Coco to fiercely tear it apart with little razor sharp teeth while dragging the poor squirrel/hedgehog/fox/monkey around the house, activating the squeaking noise in every room of the house over and over again.

Good times...good times.

Walking Coco can be a challenge. She hates any kind of adverse weather condition including wind, rain, and excessive sun. Thunder absolutely sends her over the edge. She will begin shaking uncontrollably until Kate picks her up and calms her down. I tried doing the same, but Kate was wise to me. Anyway, when Coco is taking a walk, we have to hope for almost complete silence. Any noise out of the ordinary will break Coco's concentration and the mission is all but over. Luckily, Coco accepts her part of the bargain and will agree to "hold off" until we try again later.

She may be a neurotic, but at least she's a responsible one.

Something many of us should aspire to.

Ain't dogs grand?
J

Roberts' Rules: June 2011

I have been adopted by a wonderful group of golfers at my golf course, The Santa Rosa Golf and Beach Club. This group plays every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning at 8:00. I happened to show up one morning and was invited to fill in. The rest, as they say, is history.

I'm back playing with these guys after my recent back woes which kept me on the shelf for almost two months. It turned out that I had a herniated disc which impacted the sciatic nerves which in turn impacted the muscles around my left quad and knee.

The thigh bone really is connected to the knee bone, etc...Who knew?

Anyway, after some rest and physical therapy I'm doing quite a bit better and, much to my surprise, I was welcomed back into the group enthusiastically. Some of the guys even remembered my name.

I enjoy playing with this group because we're all pretty much of the same ability. By that I mean we can all go from brilliant to putrid in the blink of an eye. Also, the conversation, a very important consideration during a four hour round of golf, is always pleasant, never testy.

But the most appealing aspect of this gang is that they play according to "Roberts' Rules." The group was founded and is still headed by one Billy Roberts, a terrific gentleman from Birmingham, Alabama. Bill is a retired medical equipment salesman and a fine golfer. It is his feeling that the rules of golf are too punitive, so he has amended them with some of his own. He calls his approach "Cheating with Integrity."

Here are a couple of his best rules:

Rule 27A: If three or more players in a foursome have a miserable tee shot, then all of the players may re-tee. The rationale behind this rule is that if that many players screwed up their tee shots, there was obviously something very wrong with the tee box. Perfect!

Rule 34B: On hole #14, when the "white" tees are too far back to make the dogleg, players may arbitrarily place their tees at the extreme front of the tee box. The rationale for this is that placing the tees up front makes it easier to score a par, which, after all, is the idea of the damn game! Brilliant!

Rule 48D: Any putt for a double bogey is automatically good. The rationale here is that triple-bogeys are extremely annoying. So simple, yet so perfect.

There are a few other rules we invoke, but this gives you an idea of what the mood of this group is like. Needless to say, everyone in the group seems to enjoy golf quite a bit more than they used to when they played with people who took the rules more seriously.

The group, which usually consists of between 8-12 guys, will gather after each round to enjoy a beer or two. The other day, one of the guys revealed that he had brought a remote control device that made a loud farting sound when activated. We had him place the device in a golf bag and then placed said golf bag at the entrance to the pro shop. As each unsuspecting golfer approached the bag, the remote control button was pressed and a tremendous fart noise was unleashed from the bag. We laughed hysterically as each person looked around to determine the nasty origin of each farting sound. Sometimes it's fun to be 12 again.

Cheating with integrity. Good times...good times.

Ain't life grand?
J

Sarah's History Lessons: June 2011

During these rants and rambles, I have largely stayed away from politics. This was a purposeful decision. After all, why would I want to possibly antagonize or even annoy any of the wonderful people who provided me with so much love and support during and after Ada's beautiful battle? Also, to be frank, over the course of my lifetime, I have found most politicians to be smarmy at best. There have been very few from either party whom I could consider humble public servants, honestly promoting programs with their constituents' or the nation's welfare in mind. I thought the only notable recent exception to that characterization was Rep. Anthony Weiner of New York.

See what I mean?

So, for just this one time, I am going to break my "no politics" rule. I hope those of you who are annoyed by what follows will forgive me, and we can still be friends, but, you see, I just can't help myself. It's like "All You Can Eat Night" at the Rib Shack and this dude's diet is over!


Recently, there have been some interesting takes on big historical events, such as Paul Revere's famous ride. Some of these interpretations have entered the public arena because of one of the most interesting political figures ever to share a slice with The Donald. With this in mind, I have decided to promulgate some more of The Wasilla Wizard's unique takes on American history.

Not that it matters, but none of what follows is true. Come to think of it, none of...ahh, but why go there?

The Boston Massacre:

Conventional wisdom as well as eyewitness accounts maintain that seven civilians, including Crispus Attucks, were mowed down by British regulars in 1770 on State Street in Boston. Some people weren't happy about this and a few years later there was a war.

Not so fast, according to the Duchess of Denali. In fact, the Boston Massacre was simply a misspelling of Boston Mass-Care, a government-mandated health care plan put forth by none other than Mathias Romney, great-great-great grandfather of former Massachusetts governor Mitt. The seven people killed died as a result of harsh decisions by bureaucratic death panels, a key component of any governmental program, you betcha.

D-Day:

On June 6, 1944 over 160,000 allied troops landed on the treacherous beaches of Normandy. It was in all the papers.

Hold your horses there, says The Nome Gnome. The term D-Day actually refers to Donald-Day, which is any day during which an American citizen (with birth certificate in hand) performs at least THREE of the following functions: goes to a hair stylist; bullies a gardener; insults some other entire country; appears on television.

The Moon Landing:

In July of 1969, Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin became the first humans to walk on the moon. Thanks to Michael Collins, they were able to hitch a ride back.

"Horse-puckey," says the Seer from Seward. "I was looking up at the moon that night and saw no such thing. I did see Russia though, and, possibly Greenland."

I could go on and on, but you get the idea.

So what should we make of all this? Probably not much. This wonderful Republic will continue on its course through history no matter what kind of moron is at the helm.

If we survived Millard Fillmore, Martin van Buren, and Herbert Hoover, then how bad could The Fairbanks Phenom be?

Ain't life grand?
Really!
J

Discs that Bulge: May 2011

My back hasn't felt "right" since 1982. Kind of like a small pebble in my shoe, annoying but not enough to be overly concerned about. Occasionally there would be a major blowout and I'd become one of those poor folks who could only straighten up in small segments. I know many of you have this type of problem and worse, so I'm not looking for any sympathy here. The thing is, I just assumed that having a "bad back" was part of the natural order of life, in the same category as having dandruff as a teenager or acid reflux as a 50-year-old; I thought it was all part of the grand design: if you throw in enough minor annoyances over a lifetime, the idea of eternal rest won't seem so bad.

My back woes jumped from minor annoyance to major problem last week and now my heart goes out to all of you out there who have been living with serious back pain for any length of time. I'm writing this blog having ingested any number of pain killers, so if it starts to make no sense, ckjgsok600fcng[j rjyp;lkje flkhfr understand.

Last week, Kate and I were on a quick trip to Boston for a family get-together. Earlier in the year, Matt had told me that he and Audrey would be making a trip up to New England in May. I decided to head up there with Kate so that we could get everybody together for an afternoon.My brother Marvin got his family involved and Ada's brother Bob rallied his fine crew. Add Josh, Cindy and the twins and you've got yourself a party. We planned a big ol' barbecue at Bob's daughter Pam's lovely house in Sturbridge. It just so happened that there were a whole bunch of "important" birthdays happening around this time, so the planning seemed perfect.

About a week before we were scheduled to fly up, my back "went out." I had been playing too much golf and, as has happened in the past, my back decided enough was enough. I shut it down, took up some serious couch space, tried to stay out of Kate's way, and waited for my back to calm down.

Instead, it got worse. Bad enough for me to head off to the emergency room at nearby Sacred Heart Hospital. With the trip to Boston just a couple of days away, I started to wonder whether I should call the whole thing off. In the end, I just couldn't bear the thought of all those people eating hot dogs without me, so, armed with enough narcotics to satisfy the cast of "Two and a Half Men," I decided to make the trip.

Here is a partial list of other decisions that would be considered just as stupid:

1. Jerry Seinfeld stealing the Schnitzer's marble rye from that lady.
2. Osama Bin Laden paying a million dollars for that dump.
3. John Lackey

Basically, I spent last weekend in Boston trying not to scream.

I wasn't always successful.

Predictably, Kate was sympathetic and tried her best to keep me comfortable and sane. We had a nice room at the Royal Sonesta in Cambridge and Kate did her best to entertain herself while I tried to see how many prescriptions I could amass in a three-day period.

If you're wondering, it was five.

Eventually, I made my way to the walk-in clinic at Mt. Auburn Hospital where the delightful term "bulging disc" was mentioned for the first time. An MRI would have to tell the tale; there was a possibility that an injection could shrink what needs to be shrunk and everything will calm down, maybe permanently. Obviously, I am in no hurry to have back surgery. As of this writing, I have had the MRI and am awaiting the doctor's recommendations.

I am proud to say that, aided by lots of big and little pills, Kate and I made it out to Sturbridge for a really lovely family gathering. I had quite a few people feeling sorry for me which was AWESOME! It had to make Ada smile to see all her people and all that love. It's something we're going to have to try and make happen each year.

Here's a little anecdote to close on. During one of the nights at the Royal Sonesta, Kate and I decided to grab some dinner and watch the Sox-Cubs game at the hotel's cool spot dubbed "The Art Bar." I was able to rally for a couple of hours and the bar seats were comfortable. We had a few munchies, quite delicious, and were enjoying the 15-4 drubbing the Sox were inflicting on the Cubs. Eventually, the empty seat beside me was filled by a very distinguished looking man with a definite middle eastern appearance. He was dressed in a sharp suit and tie and he introduced himself to us and started to chat.

For the next half hour or so, Jamal proved to be the perfect conversationalist. He was a successful businessman who had lived and traveled all over the world. He was born in Tripoli, Libya of all places and still had family there so we peppered him with questions about the maniac who runs that unfortunate country. Kate asked his advice on some travel ideas she has had and he was incredibly well-informed and helpful. We wished his lovely family good health and he did the same. It was just a delightful encounter.

I only mention this because it was so "cambridge-y." Down here on the Panhandle, the person sitting on the bar stool next to you wanting to chat is not likely to be a successful, cosmopolitan Libyan businessman. No, more than likely he is an unemployed shrimper asking you to pass him the hot sauce.

A little bit of Cambridge ain't such a bad thing every once in a while.

Ain't life grand?
J

I'm No Eskimo: April 2011

I wouldn't have lasted five minutes as an Eskimo.

The tribal elders would have wished me the best and banished me to an ice floe right off the bat.

For one thing, I hate sinew. Never cared for it. In the fourth grade, my social studies curriculum was all about Baffin Island, somewhere up there in the Arctic. We learned all about the Eskimos diligently chewing seal and walrus sinew. The purpose for all this masticating has long since been forgotten, but I'm quite sure I wouldn't be one of the chewy volunteers.

But in this type of society, everyone has to pull his/her weight so I guess that would leave kayaking. Prior to last Saturday, I would have thought that pulling kayak duty was a pretty good deal. After all, a person could do a lot worse than skillfully skimming past the icebergs in search of the odd polar bear, porpoise, or puffin. I had had one brief, disastrous fling with the sport of kayaking about 35 years ago at Camp Androscoggin in Maine. At that time I was the tennis director of this grand old boys' camp. One of the kayak instructors was eager to trade some tennis lessons for some kayaking lessons. I enthusiastically agreed and, after a few successful tennis lessons, Nigel (he was British) had me out on the lake squeezing my more than ample bottom into an impossibly small opening in the middle of a sleek, fiberglass kayak. He informed me that the first lesson was how to escape from the kayak in the event that I was turned upside down underwater.

"Why would I want to be upside down underwater?" I asked.

"You wouldn't want to be, but that sometimes happens," Nigel replied.

"Dumb sport," I replied.

At which point Nigel told me in great detail the technique I should use to plop myself out of the impossibly tiny opening so as not to drown during my first lesson. After several panic-stricken lake-swallowing attempts, I was able to master the escape technique and we moved on to paddling. I remember going out for a few kayak paddles but quickly deciding that it was a lot of work and that I much preferred the idea of a dinner cruise on a larger vessel.

Despite that checkered history, motivated by some kind of primal urge to get closer to nature, last Saturday I asked Kate if she would like to go out for a little kayak exploration here at Sandestin. Because we have rented our place from the "official" Sandestin realty company, we are entitled to a few amenities, including the free use of kayaks that are available at the marina which is located on Choctahwatchee Bay, a beautiful body of water teeming with all kinds of bird and marine life, as well as people from Alabama. Kate thought that sounded like a good idea so on a gorgeous spring afternoon with temperatures in the mid-70's, surrounded by gentle breezes, we headed down to the marina.

We were saddened to discover that all of the kayaks were already out in the Bay.

"Just wait here, folks," said the marina guy. "Most people don't last 15 minutes."

Kate and I looked at each other a bit puzzled. After all, why wouldn't a person or a couple want to stay out on the Bay for an entire afternoon, freely paddling into all the little nooks, crannies, and marshy areas, getting up close and personal with nature and experiencing the kind of exhilaration that those wonderful Baffin Islanders must have experienced back when I was in the fourth grade?

Sure enough, after about ten minutes a couple of hardy kayakists pulled up to the shore. They didn't have to "plop" out of the kayak because these babies were more "resorty" and less authentic. One's lower body was out in the open, not cocooned inside a fiberglass enclosure, making one's escape from the kayak quite easy. The couple leaving the kayak did not look happy and I couldn't help but notice that rather than being exhilarated by their brush with nature, they looked, well, devastated.

Kate noticed it too, and she flashed me a look that said, "Sometimes that which seems like a good idea in theory becomes a complete disaster in reality."

The attendant moved our kayak into position and instructed us on how to enter and exit the kayak. Basically, all one had to do was sit one's bottom on the designated area and roll one's legs up into the leg area. Couldn't be simpler. We managed to do this seamlessly with barely any water splashing into our craft. I started to get that feeling I get whenever I take on a new activity: "Wow, I get this. I can see all the nuances and intricacies of this sport. I just may be a brilliant kayaker. Hey Kate, after we conquer Choctahwatchee Bay, let's kayak across the Pacific to the South Seas. Let's kayak to Bali, Kate, waddaya say?"

One last word of advice from the attendant and we were on our way: "Remember to sit upright. Don't lean back. Have fun. See you in about 15 minutes."

And we were off, paddling in perfect synchronicity, gliding into the Bay, off on our kayak adventure. About 45 seconds into our adventure I couldn't help but notice a searing pain shooting across my lower back, abdomen, and hips. Kate, experiencing the same agony, had abandoned her official upright kayak position and was lying back in the damn boat looking up at the sky.

"Kate," I chided, "how are you going to paddle like that?"

"Get me back to shore, Nanook, and pronto. This is worse than surgery"

Thus ended our little kayak expedition on the shores of Choctahwatchee Bay in the Sandestin Resort.

We smiled knowingly at the couple who were eagerly awaiting our return and happily waddled over to the marina bar where we would attempt to limber up.

Ain't life grand?
J

The Sawx: April 2011

In a desperate effort to exorcise the demons that have recently invaded the bodies of the fellas who play for the Boston Red Sox, I have decided to blog about baseball, Fenway Pahk, and my beloved Sawx.

Rarely if ever has a baseball season been more eagerly anticipated than this one. After all, the Sawx had boldly signed Carl Crawford and Adrian Gonzalez while shoring up a weak bullpen with the likes of Bobby Jenks and Dan Wheeler. These additions combined with a very solid everyday lineup and starting pitching foretold of a "Sweet Caroline" summer for the Nation. It was this feeling of optimism that prompted me to buy tickets for a Sox-Rays game in Tampa in mid-June. I was looking forward to showing Kate how much fun it is to watch the Sawx on the road with their traveling fans on hand to represent the Nation.

I made similar mistakes in the stock market.

You see, they actually make you play the games and the Sawx are in a...well...it's been a bad patch. I can't reveal my sources, but I was able to get hold of an American League scout's official report on the Sawx after the recent Tampa Bay series. This is how he characterized the team:

LF Crawford: sucks
2B Pedroia: good
1B Gonzalez: ok
3B Youkilis: sucks
DH Ortiz: sucks
RF Drew: sucks
C Saltalamacchia: really sucks
SS Scutaro: sucks
CF Ellsbury: sucks

SP Lackey: completely sucks
Bullpen: sucks
Outside vendors: good
Parking: sucks

Folks, that's a whole lot of sucks!

Of course, are we to assume that the suckage will continue through the summer and fall? No. Baseball has always been a game of numbers and statistics and 100 years of baseball history say that sooner or later Carl Crawford will get a hit and John Lackey will hold a lead. That has been their history and they will return to that history before too long.

Unless they just suck, in which case they will just suck.

The Sawx haven't sucked in a long time. Since 1967, with very few exceptions, they have been at least competitive if not riveting. Anybody who is 45 or younger has really never seen them suck. That's quite remarkable when you think about it. On the other hand, if you're in your 50's or older, you probably have vivid memories of complete seasons of suck. I know I do.

I guess you could say that from the Korean War to the beginning of the War in Vietnam, the Sawx really sucked. When I first got hooked on Sawx baseball, I had the dubious distinction of following the double play combination of Buddin to Gernert to Zauchin. Not an Ozzie Smith in the bunch. Malzone was pretty good at third and the outfield of Himself in left, Piersall in center, and Jensen in right was fine, but it was the starting pitching that was truly disastrous. Outside of Mel Parnell, there wasn't a single pitcher that anyone would pay money (even the 75 cents it cost to sit in the bleachers) to see. Occasionally a young flamethrower like Dave Moorhead would excite folks for a while, but they never really panned out and we were stuck with the likes of Bob Porterfield, Frank Sullivan, Willard Nixon and the immortal Ike Delock.

Going to Fenway in the late 50's and early 60's was a cozy, relaxed affair. No need to buy tickets in advance; you could always get good seats the day of the game. You could even buy a "general admission" grandstand ticket and then scout out a better seat in the boxes. If you weren't obnoxious about it, the ushers would "look the other way." Of course this begs the question: Is it better to watch an awful team close up or from afar? The next Republican National Convention will pose a similar problem.

I make a little joke.

In those days, you would take your seat and spread out. You could put your jacket on the seat beside you and your lunch on the other side. You could have a pleasant baseball conversation with the old-timer behind you without having the PA system blaring every 30 seconds with loud music or sponsor announcements: "Ladies and Gentlemen, the next time a Red Sox player hits into a double play, redeem your ticket for some refreshing Doublemint Gum; due to the large demand, only one stick per customer." That old timer would regale you with stories about young Ted Williams or old Babe Ruth or how much the Red Sox sucked in the 30's. Vendors worked much harder in those days. With fewer people in the ballpark, they had fewer potential sales and fewer people to pass the goodies to the customer. A bad deal all around. In those days a leather-lunged fan could really make himself heard and not be drowned out by the din of the throng around him. With the team going as badly as it did in those days, some of the verbal assaults were not very kind, as I'm sure Pumpsie Green or Earl Wilson could attest.

They had actual scheduled doubleheaders in those days which meant on certain Sundays you could spend about 7 hours in a row watching your team suck. Of course the idea of being there to watch Himself get 8 at-bats was more than enough to offset the other 64 or so futile attempts. No matter how lopsided the score was, people stayed to watch Ted come to bat. That definitely didn't suck, especially for a certain chubby left-handed kid from Dorchester. No, that didn't suck at all.

Come to think of it, most of us in Red Sox nation survived a long period of suckiness before and we will do it again if we have to. We're a resilient lot and, well, a little Sawx suckage now and again is ok.

As long as the Yankees suck too.

Ain't baseball grand?
J