A Movie Recommendation: December 2012

I am about to violate one of my cardinal rules: Never recommend anything to anybody in case they don't like it.

I've followed that rule most of my life with rare exceptions. Of course if I'm asked about this particular restaurant or that particular recording, I'll state my honest opinion if I have one. But I usually don't volunteer the information without a prompt.

I may have made an exception for presidential candidates recently, but I am the kind of person who feels that my opinions are my opinions and have been molded and formed by my particular set of experiences in this life; therefore, how should I expect that they would match your opinions which have been formed by an entirely different set of circumstances?

Plus I want people to like me. People who have lots of opinions are harder to like in my opinion.

I make a little joke.

With this in mind, after carefully thinking about what I am set to do, please let me recommend that everyone out there, I mean in the world, ages 13 and above, see The Life of Pi in 3D today. I mean now, people.

You will thank me later.

Unless you don't like it.

I saw it yesterday on a dreary, rainy day in NW Florida and I'm pretty sure I'm not the same person today that I was before I saw it.

For one thing, I snagged a pair of 3D glasses and didn't recycle them so that I can pay for a cheap movie and sneak into a 3D one in the future.

Hey, I'm a movie critic, not a saint! Besides, you're getting all these gems for free. I've got to make ends meet somehow.

The biggest change in me however is not quite so easy to define, especially without "giving the movie away." Let's just say that there are some BIG QUESTIONS that I and just about everybody else have which, if not answered entirely, are at least provided with some very helpful insights by this cinematic masterpiece.

I was moved to see this film for two reasons. One was that Ada and I listened to the book on one of our long road trips to Florida years ago. I remembered some of the story but not all of it, but knew that I had found it fascinating. Also, a couple of weeks ago the CBS movie critic on the wonderful "Sunday Morning" show gave it his highest recommendation. Unlike me, he actually knows what he's talking about.

Visually, this is the most stunning movie I have ever seen. The 3D only adds to the spectacular beauty of this movie. I remember being blown away by the visuals and colors in James Cameron's Avatar and all of the Lord of the Rings films, but Pi is even more impressive. I believe the reason for this is that this film takes place in our own natural world not on Middle Earth or a far flung planet. These visual wonders are OUR wonders, part of OUR experience and that makes the striking beauty of this film's images that much more powerful. Sure colors are enhanced and things are digitized but all of it COULD happen. There's the difference.

That's only half of the reason to see this movie, although that alone would be worth the price of admission. (An amazing $10.75 for a matinee! This damn well better be good, Getman). This is also a movie of ideas that can be enjoyed and mulled over on many different levels. Hey, if it got me to thinkin', imagine how a smart person will react. The film is the opposite of preachy; the ideas and propositions set forth are done in a gentle, kind manner, like a bowl of ripe fruit on a front porch table. Eat or not, it's up to you. There is no pressure at all. If you decide you don't want to go any deeper than the story on the surface, it will still be a memorable film.

It's funny, but I don't remember being this moved and inspired when Ada and I listened to the book years ago. Maybe this is because the visuals contribute so much to this story.

Or maybe it's because life and circumstances have made me a very different person than I was before.

I guess it's all a matter of opinion.

Ain't life grand?
J

Giving Thanks: November 2012

As I prepare to fly back to Boston this week for a quick Thanksgiving visit with Josh, Cindy, and the two greatest grandchildren in the world (We've been over this, people!), I am more mindful than ever about the many gifts for which I am truly thankful.

Here are most of the ones I can tell you about:

I am thankful for a wonderful grandson who pretty much loves every single thing in the world except for the odd clap of thunder.

...for a beautiful granddaughter who collects A's in school the way I collect bogies on a golf course (by the bushel!) and who can somehow march and play the alto saxophone at the same time while secretly reading the latest book in the "Twilight" series.

...for a remarkable daughter-in-law who can take many of the hardest punches life can dish out and say, "Is that all you got? Get that weak sh-t outta here!"

...for an older son who can take a diagnosis of cancer and work it into a brilliant, funny, inspirational blog that will one day serve as a template for how to deal with the worst news in the world.

...for a younger son and his beloved Audrey who have discovered that the simple joys (a long walk with their dog, a Joe Henderson solo) are worth their weight in gold.

...for a brother and sister-in-law who go out of their way to bring this goofy, interesting, wonderful, extended family together each Thanksgiving and manage to include pies from Wilson Farms too.

...for a wonderful pair of in-laws who never let a week go by without checking up on me.

...for a pair of English friends who also call each week both to check on me and to regale me with their latest "dining with royalty" adventures. I'm not kidding. They munch with monarchs!

...for a group of scientists, researchers, and doctors who have developed chemicals that will kill tumors without killing patients.

...for surgeons who took good notes in medical school.

...for Mitt Romney, Paul Ryan, Karl Rove, Ann Coulter, The Fair and Balanced Fox News Team, Rush Limbaugh, Glenn Beck, Ralph Reed, Franklin Graham, the entire State of Texas, Newt Gingrich, and Todd Akin, all of whom remind me that a Democracy needs a free press to function and the sight of a group of common people willing to wait in a voting line for six or eight hours is worth more than a billion dollars of dirty PAC money.

... for wonderful friends old and new from Dorchester, the South Shore, New Hampshire, and the Florida Panhandle who have accepted me warts and all (That was figurative, people!), laughed at my lame jokes, allowed me into their inner circles, shared their children and grandchildren, and, all too rarely, bought me a drink.

...for golf which gets me outdoors in beautiful weather, provides a delightful five mile walk most days, allows me to experience triumph and tragedy in equal measure, and serves as a backdrop for entertaining camaraderie with some of America's most unusual citizens.

...for the pleasing color turquoise which is the complexion of the Gulf of Mexico here and which lies invitingly just two blocks from my townhouse.

...and for a lifetime of photos and memories of a beautiful Dorchester girl who loved Thanksgiving as much as she loved anything.

Ain't life grand?

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours.
J

The Golden Ticket: November 2012

This week there will be a Powerball drawing worth over 400 million dollars. Let me put this another way. If you win Powerball this week, you will win one million dollars four hundred times. That's four hundred life-changing experiences. It actually only takes one life-changing experience to change your life. The other 399 life-changing experiences are just gravy!

I'm pretty sure that I will be the only Powerball winner this week. Not that I want to discourage any of you from playing. After all, if we can goose the jackpot up to 450 million, who am I to complain?

In the interest of full disclosure, I have to say that I have felt quite confident about winning huge jackpots before. Last week, for example, when the jackpot was a measly 200 million, I was just as certain I would win. I even went down to Destin's famous Legendary Marina to check out some of the huge vessels for sale. I was so confident, I came this close to putting down a deposit on a gorgeous, lavishly-equipped 40-footer. Then I remembered I hate boats, so I didn't.

And it's a good thing because my five combinations of numbers contained exactly two of the winning ones. Boy, talk about misplaced confidence. That was worse than the time I entered a cribbage tournament after having defeated five-year-old Matthew for the thousandth consecutive time. I was triple-skunked and eliminated almost immediately. I should have known better. At age five Matthew had no idea what 15 was, so he was relatively easy to beat. Mostly he liked to play with the pegs.

Be that as it may, I thought you might like to know what I intend to do with my 400 million.

First thing I'll do is hand over about 200 million to our government. I won't even ask what they're going to do with it. Call it a block grant.

Then I'll do all the obvious things that everybody else would do. You know, stuff like helping out my kids and grandkids, helping out my friends and relatives, helping out some charities and hospitals, and buying a new pair of Bass loafers. I won't even wait for a sale at the Destin Outlet mall. I'll just march right up there wearing my old pair of scuffed up Bass loafers and tell the overly friendly clerk, "Yes, by golly, you MAY help me. Get me a nice pair of brown loafers, size 9W, and damn the expense. And here's $10,000 for your trouble."

After I'd taken care of these basics, I assume there would still be quite a bit left over. This would become what I would call "The Joel Fund." I would use this money to satisfy any urge I might ever have, no matter how irrational or impractical. I would dedicate myself to the fine art of self-gratification, but not in a bad way. (I make a little joke.)

For example, I love jazz; however, not many other people do so there just aren't that many good jazz clubs around any more. There are a lot of fake jazz clubs but the real thing is hard to find. So one of the first "Joel Fund" things I would do is establish a number of jazz clubs all over the country and hire people like Joshua Redman, Christian McBride, Bill Charlap, Kenny Barron, Joe Lovano, Pat Metheny, Gary Burton, Wynton Marsalis, Wayne Shorter, and, may he live a thousand years, Sonny Rollins to play at my clubs whenever I'm in town. The clubs would all be non-smoking but I'd have fake smoke piped in for atmosphere. There would be a $20 cover charge to keep out the riffraff, and anyone in the audience who called out a tune would be poked with one of those little drink umbrellas. During the "down" times, the clubs would be used as free practice studios to encourage and assist the next Miles Davis, Kurt Elling, Diana Krall, Jobim, or Toots Thielemans.

I would buy PBS. I would change the name to JBS but every single program would stay exactly as it is, even the goofy food ones. I wouldn't change a blessed thing except hire a new Elmo. I wouldn't need any government funding so the Republicans could go pound sand. They don't have to watch if they don't want to, but JBS will be there when you want it. The only influence I would exert is telling Rick Steves where to go, if you know what I mean.

I will buy the National Hockey League and give the players exactly what they want. I won't change the name because Joel's Hockey League sounds pretentious. I'll stay out of the day to day decisions. Maybe I'll make a decision once a month or so, mostly dealing with throwback jerseys. When I win Powerball, there will be hockey. Oh, I almost forgot, a beer would cost $3.00. But if you get obnoxious, you have to put on a jersey, get out on the ice, and deal with Milan Lucic. That should keep the rowdiness to a minimum.

Finally, I would buy the following restaurants: The Beijing House in Norwell, MA, Regina's Pizzeria of Boston's North End, and Kelly's Landing of N. Weymouth, MA. I'd hire the current staffs for life, reduce the current prices by 30% and make sure they are always open.

OMG those pan-fried dumplings!

Ain't life grand?
J

The Dating Game: October 2012

Recently I've had occasion to go out on a few dates and I've come to this conclusion:

Dating at 65 sucks and was never part of God's plan!

I mean just the word "dating" is weird. It conjures up images of nervous teenagers working up the courage to face rejection,  holding sweaty hands, desperately trying to fill conversational gaps, and hoping to avoid a concussion during a clumsy good-night kiss.

...all of which perfectly describes my last date!

Of course there are significant differences between my teenage dating experiences and those of  a more recent vintage:

1. Typically, teens aren't concerned about their dates' political affiliations. As a 15-year-old, I can't  remember ever asking Ada how she felt about the minimum wage or China's monetary policy. It seems like one's political point of view gains importance during "mature" dating escapades. On one recent outing, my date proudly proclaimed, "I wouldn't mind if someone took a shot at that damn Obama."

My response: "Check, please."

Down in these parts, it's almost impossible to find a woman who happens to share my politics so I've had to develop my own sliding political scale (please forgive the inherent male chauvinism here...or not!) :

      average looking: must be a Democrat

      fetching:  Independent or totally disinterested in the whole stupid process

      drop dead gorgeous: don't ask, don't tell...Would you care for another glass of pinot noir, my dear?

2. I remember that shaving was a huge problem when I was a teenage dater. At 15, I wanted to be known as someone who had to shave but that meant that I had to shave before the date, which would inevitably result in numerous bloody cuts all over my face, which necessitated the use of little pieces of toilet paper stuck to said face to slow the blood loss. It took real dedication for Ada to look beyond those scattered pieces of bloody toilet paper to see the real me.

Nowadays I just grab the latest generation of  Gillette's Mach 6 double turbo mega razor and zip zip, my face is as clean as a whistle and hardly bloody at all.

Of course, at 65 there is the problem of nose and ear hair but I have my valet, Clive, to deal with that unpleasantness.

3. In 1963 there were very few options available in terms of where to go on the date. Basically it came down to either the Morton or Oriental movie theater (I preferred the Oriental with its Buddha statues high along the upper walls and its cloud effect across the ceiling), or the local bowladrome followed by a romantic dinner at the Almont Pizza House. What I wouldn't give now for a slice of Almont's famous pepperoni. I still have sores in my mouth from trying to eat that pizza while it was roughly the temperature of summer on Mercury. Believe me, nothing impresses a date more than melted molten cheese sliding down the side of your mouth while you're grabbing desperately for the water. That will seal the deal every time, take my word for it.

But aside from the odd dance at the YMHA-Hecht House, that was basically it: movies, bowling, pizza. It was an endless loop that somehow we never tired of.

At 65, there are many more options available to me, especially down here on the Panhandle. For example, there is The Ocean Club, which features food, live music and dancing. Or there is The Red Bar, which features live music, food, and dancing. Or there is the Solaris dinner cruise, which features live music, dancing, food, and a boat.

And all of the above accept most major credit cards.

4.  An appropriate segue to our final dating difference category: money.

At 15 it was understood that I would be paying for all expenses incurred during the date. I mean that was implicit in the very request for the date in the first place. When I asked Ada, "Would you like to go out with me?" what I was really asking was, "Would you like me to take all the money I made working slavishly at the Waverly Pharmacy last week and spend it on you for bus fare, movie tickets, three strings of candlepin bowling, a very hot pepperoni pizza,  two sodas, and an ice cream sundae at Brigham's?"

Each date depleted my life savings to zero. If I didn't garner enough hours at the Waverly Pharmacy the next week to make the date financially viable, well, it was wait 'til next week.

Nowadays, dates never cost me "everything." They are barely a blip on my credit card statement, a way to get air miles, paid off each month with a quick, unthinking key stroke.

They will never again be as important, as weighty, as they were in 1963.

Never.

Ain't life grand?
J
    

The Fall of Achilles: October 2012

There is no one on this Earth who hates the Yankees more than I do. I hated them when they had Mantle, Berra, Maris and Ford. I hated them when they had Jackson, Hunter, and Munson. And I've especially hated them since they had Jeter. Let me clarify: I hate the Yankees down to my very marrow; I hate pinstripes and interlocking letters; I hate the words Bronx and Bombers; I even hate goofballs like Rickey Henderson, Mickey Rivers, and Joe Pepitone;  however, it is completely impossible for me or anyone else to hate Derek Jeter.

If ever there were an athlete who exemplified the highest ideals of his sport it has been Derek Jeter. Calm especially in clutch situations, intelligent in his approaches on the field and at the plate, efficient in his movements, Jeter has been the model for all professional athletes. I believe in my lifetime only John Havilcek comes close. When Jeter defeated you, he did so in a respectful manner, The Jackal in pinstripes. Red Sox pitchers were forever trying to unnerve him, throwing up and in to get him to back off the plate. No matter how many times they made him eat the dirt around home plate or even hit him, he'd gather himself and, without a peep, he'd adjust his helmet, nod at the pitcher completely without irony, stand a little closer, and slash the next pitch  the opposite way into the vast expanse of Fenway's right field. I must have seen him do that a hundred times. If there were a man on second, it was almost a certainty. And if it were late innings of a tight game, it was as close to a sure thing as there has ever been in baseball.

Off the field Jeter is something of a mystery, albeit a non controversial one. I like that. I don't really want to know about his off the field activities. I admire him as a baseball player. How he spends his free time is none of my business as long as he isn't breaking the law. The only things being broken by Jeter are just about every postseason hitting record in baseball.

Jeter is a cool, updated version of Achilles, the Greek hero of The Trojan War. Both were the products of mixed marriages, combining the best qualities of their parents. Jeter's parents were both teachers who instructed him well. He respects the game and his opponents. Both were fierce and inspirational on the battlefield, Achilles' rage the counterpoint to Jeter's scary calm.

Both were eventually felled by injuries in the foot region. Achilles took an arrow to his heel, the one unprotected area of his body. Jeter broke a balky left ankle fielding a tough ground ball (saving a run in the process). The arrow ended Achilles' life. Whether Jeter's baseball life is over remains to be seen.

How the Yankees will respond with their Captain reduced to cheerleader is anybody's guess. It's hard to imagine that they will be able to overcome the loss of Jeter, especially facing  formidable opponents like Verlander, Cabrera and the Tigers. But here's the thing:

Just this one time, I'll be rooting for the Yankees.

And that is a sentence I never thought I'd write!

Ain't life grand?
J

My Presidential Debate: October 2012

Good evening ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls of all ages.We are proud to present the presidential debate they didn't want you to see. In this debate Joel Getman, the exciting candidate of the Fairways and Greens party, will be debating himself, Joel Getman, the exciting candidate of the Fairways and Greens party. Joel is known for having excellent complexion. He's been described by the Quincy Patriot Ledger as "better than he used to be" and by the Northwest Florida Daily News as "someone we'd rather didn't live here."  The moderator will be Joel Getman, a friend of both candidates. The focus of this debate will be twofold: current dental practices and states that begin with the letter M.

Moderator: Mr. Getman, in your opinion why is Maryland better than Michigan?

Getman: Crabs.

Moderator: Would you care to elaborate?

Getman: Boiled.

Moderator: I see. Do you have anything to add, Mr. Getman?

Getman: I have seen crabs. I have worked with crabs. I knew crabs. And you, sir, are no crab.

Moderator: Forgive me, but that makes no sense.

Getman: What's your point?

Getman: There you go again.

Moderator: Please, gentlemen, let's get to the next question. How do you feel about being told you need a deep cleaning for about $800 when you only came in to the dental office to get a free toothbrush.

Getman: Now THAT's Obama's fault. It's that damn liberal, big government, pro-union, godless, let's all get an abortion attitude that's ruined dental practice forever.

Moderator: Forgive me, but that makes no sense.

Getman: What's your point?

Getman: I have to agree with the moderator guy.

Moderator: OK, I have no idea what's happening here, but I'm going to ask another question. Mr. Getman, between Montana and Minnesota which one looks more like a halibut?

Getman: Halibut is a funny word. Say it. Halibut. Funny.

Getman: There you go again. I am paying for this microphone, Mr. Greene.

Moderator: Who the hell is Mr. Greene, and why would you pay for the microphone? They're included in the debate kit. Along with a set of pre-arranged answers that have little or nothing to do with my questions. Now, where were we? Oh yes, how do you feel about flossing?

Getman: Read my lips: No new dentures!

Getman: There you go again. You know, if I get the chance to lead this great country, the first thing I'm going to do is shut down three states: Massachusetts, ummmm Maryland, and uhhhh, what was the third one?

Getman: Oops.

Moderator: Alright, why don't we wrap this up with some closing statements. We'll start with you, Mr.Getman.

Getman: If I could compare my opponent to a rhesus monkey, and I believe I can...

Getman: Hey, we said we'd leave family members out of this.

Moderator: Ladies and gentlemen, I think it's safe to say that this was a bad idea all around. I urge you all to vote for one of those other guys and leave Getman in the footnote category of history, along with Stockdale ("Why am I here?") and Palin ( "You betcha.")

Good night and God help the United States of America.

Ain't democracy grand?
J

Some Long Overdue Apologies: September 2012

Lately the word "apology" has been in the news. It seems that one of the presidential candidates has been accusing the other candidate of always "apologizing for America."

He's been saying this repeatedly on the stump, even though no one can find even one instance when the aforementioned candidate actually did that.

Perhaps this is some kind of Vulcan Mind Meld trick wherein a lie is repeated so often it is reborn as an accepted fact. Or, God forbid, it is an example of the cheapest and most disgusting form of demagoguery designed to enrage and energize the far right base who seem all too eager to become enraged.

Whatever it is, it got me to thinking about apologies. There are several I should have given and never did. It's time for me to man up and apologize.

First, I'd like to apologize to all the followers of these lame thoughts for the photo above. It's a picture of the sign that hangs in front of a real joint in Dothan, Alabama. I'm apologizing for the slogan on the bottom. It's crude and makes ambiguous reference to backsides, derrieres, buttocks, and tuchuses. I'm not apologizing for the reference to sensitive body parts. I'm apologizing because it's a cheap and obvious pun. My old friend, Rick Miller, a master punster, would have rejected it out of hand!

Next I'd like to apologize to anyone who was a student of mine in 1969 or 1970. I was a brand new English teacher in Hingham, Massachusetts. I was given the job despite the fact that I had had absolutely no training as an educator. None. No education classes, no student teaching, no getting mentored or shadowing other teachers through their day. I was given a carton of chalk and an eraser and was pointed toward my room at the old South Junior High School. There wasn't even a curriculum or guide for me to follow. I was completely on my own.

I guess teachers, especially male ones, were hard to come by in those days, and the hope was that sooner or later I'd sink or swim.

What a blast! As long as my students weren't tearing the room apart (usually, they didn't), I was left alone to do pretty much what I wanted to do.

I'm apologizing because I'm pretty sure that often what I wanted to do was the last thing these kids needed to get ahead in the world. I'm apologizing because today there are about 200 55-year-olds who attended Hingham South Junior High School in 1969 and 1970 walking around this Earth with their eyes glazed over wondering why they never got that big job or that nice house.

I'm pretty sure that it was my fault and I'd like to apologize.

Staying in the same setting, I'd also like to apologize to the 12 or 15 soccer players who tried out for the inaugural South Junior High soccer team, probably around 1970 or 1971. I was honored to be named coach of the first soccer team in the school's history. I was proud to address the young athletes gathered before me at that very first soccer practice. Most importantly, I was completely ignorant of everything that had to do with soccer. This included rules, strategies, techniques, drills, uniforms, and even encouraging phrases.  My excellent assistant coach, Bill Alberti, was an actual college soccer player who could have advised me on any number of proper practice techniques. Unfortunately, I decided it would have been a sign of weakness for me to ask him, so most of Bill's expertise stayed with Bill.

Just about the only soccer activity with which I was familiar was heading the ball. I didn't know why soccer players did this, but I was quite sure that it was done. Thus, if you could be magically transported back to that inaugural South Junior High soccer practice in 1970 or 1971 you would have seen a groggy and dazed group of athletes doing nothing but heading soccer balls to each other for about two hours. Today I assume those 50-somethings experience splitting headaches and double vision.

My bad.

Finally I'd like to apologize to Ada, Kate, and any other woman with whom I have ever danced. When I was 13 or so, my mother signed me up for dance lessons at the local Jewish Community Center. I was not what you would call a willing participant. The two instructors, as I recall a very smarmy husband and wife duo, would demonstrate the step of the week and then we'd be paired up with the other students to replicate what we'd just learned. Unfortunately, there was not an even number of boys and girls in the class, so often I would find myself paired up with a nice fellow named Natie Mushnick who always insisted on being the male. I didn't want to make trouble so I would play the role of the lovely Cyd Charisse to Natie's less than sparkling Gene Kelly. As a result, I came to view dancing in much the same way that most people view tax audits or prostate exams.

Sorry, ladies. It's just not in me.

And I apologize.

Ain't life grand?
J

W W A D ? August 2012

...which of course stands for "What Would Ada Do?" Lately that question has been rolling around my largely empty head quite a bit. What would Ada do? When Ada passed on October 1, 2009 (Can it really be almost three years?), I not only lost a friend, partner, and beloved wife; I lost my most trusted advisor. Ada was my "life editor", whose counsel impacted everything from what would go well with this turkey sandwich to how I can improve this adverb lesson to am I being funny here or just nasty. I would say that during the 41 years we were married, Ada was asked to read every single thing I ever wrote, from the most serious paper to the silliest doggerel. She never refused.

Foolishly, I didn't always take Ada's advice. Male pride and all that. How desperately I wish it were available to me now. Lately I've been flying blind.

Cancer has insinuated itself upon my family once again. Never has a guest been less welcome.  I mean, hell, we gave at the office. I would sooner welcome 10 Jehovah's Witnesses, 12 insurance salesmen, Josh Beckett and Rush Limbaugh into my home than this nasty group of renegade cells. My older son, Josh, is the proud owner of a stomach tumor that is causing him and his wonderful family no end of grief, discomfort, and, especially, worry. Josh has reluctantly agreed to play the host for this arrogant intruder for the time being. But come early December, Josh and some surgeons from Boston's fine Brigham and Women's Hospital have a little surprise in store for our ravenous little friend. I shouldn't give it all away now, but I will tell you that scalpels, very sharp ones, are involved.

And this is where W W A D ? comes in. As I clumsily try to help Josh and his family cope with their new reality, I can't help but think that Ada would have added a large measure of grace to these efforts. No one, and I mean NO ONE, ever accused me of having grace, amazing or otherwise. I have spent the past two weeks trying to be helpful as Josh started the laborious and tedious business of evicting his tumor. First he had a port and feeding tube inserted into areas which had previously been missing all types of medical devices. This fairly simple procedure turned into a week's stay at the hospital as Josh couldn't shake his nausea. Both Cindy and I spent many hours sitting with him as he tried desperately to curl up into a tiny ball and disappear. When he faked feeling better just to get out of there, he then had a five hour chemo infusion followed by even more nausea. During these 10 days, he was able to eat or drink almost nothing. Never have I felt so useless. I'm quite sure Ada would have found the right words to pick up Josh's spirits during this miserable time.

All I could contribute was "Hang in there." What a dork!

Thankfully, Cindy and the nurses persisted in their search for the right combination of anti-nausea meds and Josh is past all that as he prepares for his second of four chemo infusions.

This stage is scheduled to last two months or so. After much discussion and soul searching, I have decided to head back to Florida for now, with the goal of returning during Josh's second phase of treatment which will involve daily doses of radiation and chemo. Again, how I would have liked to bounce this "plan" off Ada and get her take on the strategy. W W A D ?

For now, I'll just have to conjure up her advice as often and as well as I can.

Speaking of advice, here is some of the wisdom I have gleaned after two weeks and 3,000 miles of travel:

1. If you're going to depend on the kindness of friends, as I have done, be sure to pick friends who have great water pressure. I am so fortunate to have wonderful, hospitable friends with shower heads that rival a Brooklyn fire hydrant. You know who you are. My hard to reach nether regions thank you.

2. If you can work it out, buy gas in South Carolina.

3. Chain restaurants like Applebee's and Ruby Tuesday may be boring, but at least they're mediocre.

4. Driving 500 miles by oneself will test one's sanity.

5. I failed.

6. Despite the presence of Lehigh University, Bethlehem, PA is the most depressing city this side of Kandahar. All those abandoned steel mills.

7. Getting a little closer to my grandchildren will be the only "benefit" of this entire episode.

That, and watching my son Josh get well.

Hang in there, everyone!

Ain't life grand?
J

An Olympic Struggle: July 2012

I have always been a fan of the Olympics. In 1960, when I was in the ninth grade, I wrote a report on the Rome summer games which my nasty English teacher, Mr. Spector, called "not bad." High praise from a haughty,  pedantic, little "professor". I still vividly remember Ethiopian Abebe Bikila running the marathon barefoot through the ancient streets of Rome. From these and other Olympics I remember Wilma Rudolph, Ralph Boston, John Thomas, Bob Richards, Harold Connolly, Mary Lou Retton and Mary Decker. I can still see sprinter Michael Johnson taking the turn at unbelievable speed in the 200 meters. I remember the Russian weightlifter, Alexeyev, and the disdainful way he would throw down the bar after a successful lift. It was fashionable to hate the Russians back then. Valerei Brumel was a particular villain in my eyes. I remember the great Rafer Johnson vs. C.K. Yang.

Back then I was a big fan of the Olympic ideal, the notion of the amateur athlete, training on his own after he gets off work at the factory, and then competing against the "professionals" from the Eastern Block. What can I say? I was just a kid.

Every four years for about two weeks I find myself caring about archery or race walking or water polo. I re-learn the difference between a foil, an epee, and a sabre.  I delight in the distinction between Greco-Roman and freestyle wrestling. I think in one of those you can't stand on the ropes or bash your opponent's head into the turnbuckle.  I marvel at the new technology apparent in the bizarre looking equipment used in the air rifle competition.

With this in mind, I thought I'd let you in on a little secret: There are several Olympic events in which I could never win a medal, any medal. Here are the top ones:

1. Any event with a distance in it. Whether it's 50 meters or 26 miles, I could never win a medal in any distance-oriented event. This includes land or water, on horseback or bicycle. I tend to fade after a meter so there you have it. If there were a one meter dash, I think I could place. I used to be pretty good at "One-Two-Three Red Light." I happen to have good reflexes. Just not so much stamina. Plus I'm not a fan of horsies.

2. Skeet shooting. I just watched some American kill 46 out of 46 skeets. Even the poor slob in third place managed to kill about 42 of the little clay darlings. That's just amazing to me. I remember as a kid hiking over to Boston's Franklin Park where there was a grand old building called The Commissary. Inside were several ancient arcade machines, circa 1940 or so. One of the machines was a target shooting gizmo in which a bear with a glass belly would walk back and forth while I would try to "shoot" it with some sort of electronic rifle. If I hit the bear on his glass stomach, he would roar in disapproval and change direction. If I could hit him several times in a row, he would do several about faces and replicate the Curly shuffle from The Three Stooges. I probably spent well over $8.00 trying to make that bear my b-tch. Alas, I was always the one who faced the long walk home with the bear laughing at me all the way.

3. Badminton. There are two problems here. First, I'm, well, afraid of the shuttlecock. You know how some people are afraid of clowns? I love clowns. I'm terrified of shuttlecocks. It's irrational, I know, but what can I do about it? Another problem is the incredible speed at which the game is played. During my Temple University undergraduate days, I had to take several semesters of Phys Ed courses. I signed up for badminton thinking there would be lots of pleasant afternoon barbeques and cute co-eds. What a mistake that was! It turns out that serious badminton is vicious and many an unsuspecting player can find himself with feathers imbedded in places where feathers were never meant to go. No badminton medals for yours truly I'm afraid.

4. Kayaking. Earlier in these blogs I mentioned my recent aversion to kayaks, especially kayaks with no back support. Having just watched a number of kayakers take on a raging set of rapids as they maneuvered their non-back-supported crafts backwards and forwards through designated gates while trying desperately not to drown, I am forced to admit that a kayak medal is just not in the cards. Possibly if all the gates were lined up one after the other and all you had to do was ride that ol' current straight on through them, kind of like the tunnel of love, maybe my weight would prove to be an advantage in stabilizing the ship. Otherwise, it's "Iceberg, dead ahead!"

So there you have it. Very few Olympic dreams left for me.

But for my older son, Josh, a true Olympic struggle lies ahead. As most of you know, cancer has decided to torment this family again and Josh, with the help of his wonderful wife Cindy, and his awesome twins, Sam and Sara, will be doing battle with this formidable opponent head on. Believe me, there is no man better suited for this task.

How can I be so sure?

Hey, I knew his mother, remember?

Ain't life grand?
J

Scenes That Always Make Me Weep: July 2012

There are certain film scenes and moments that always make me weep. It doesn't matter how many times I've seen the films in question or how familiar I am with the particular scene. My response is automatic, completely out of my "control". I imagine we all have such scenes. Perhaps some of yours overlap with mine.

As a seventh grade teacher, I probably taught Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird over a hundred times. Every time one of my classes finished the book and completed whatever wrap up assignment I had devised for them, we would celebrate by watching the movie in class. And every time Scout turns to the wall in Jem's room and says so matter-of-factly, "Hey Boo," I weep. I guess it's the depiction of that beautiful innocence, exemplified by both Scout and Boo, to which I and my tear ducts react. To this day I never tire of that film and especially that scene.

As I have mentioned in an earlier post, one of my favorite movies is Tornatore's Cinema Paradiso. There are many scenes in that brilliant film that "grab" me, but most of them cause delight and laughter. When young Toto is told by his mentor, Alfredo the projectionist, to project the film onto the ancient walls of the city so that those without tickets will be able to watch, I can often feel the tears rising. But the scene that knocks me out each and every time is at the end of the film when the adult Toto, now a successful director himself, watches the bits and pieces of old, spliced film that his wonderful friend bequeathed to him. The images projected are all the love scenes that the Church had prohibited the old rogue from displaying. Toto weeps as he remembers his old friend, Alfredo, and so do I. Every time.

Although I have only seen The Artist once, and that very recently, I know that there is one scene in particular that will cause the waterworks to flow freely every time I watch this brilliantly conceived masterpiece. It occurs near the end of the film. I don't want to spoil it for those of you who have not as yet had the pleasure of watching this fine movie. I have a feeling that those who have seen it know the segment I'm referring to. John Goodman himself thought the scene was "perfect"!

 Elia Kazan's beautiful film On the Waterfront has several scenes that are tearworthy. The classic backseat conversation between Terry Malloy (Brando) and his brother Charlie the Gent (Rod Steiger) comes very close. The resignation in Brando's voice when he says (about his being a bum) "Let's face it," is heartbreaking for sure. But I bawl at another scene. When Malloy walks down to  Johnny Friendly's waterfront hangout and challenges him, all of the self respect and dignity that had eluded him in his life returns with a few quick body punches. Despite being pummeled by Lee J. Cobb and his henchmen, Malloy can finally stand on his own two feet, a natural, free man. Combine that visual with Leonard Bernstein's brilliant score and I am a piece of very wet toast.

Here are a few other quick looks at scenes that get me every time:

     when Oskar Schindler bemoans the fact that he could have done much more...

     when Randall P. McMurphy announces the World Series sight unseen...

     when the old Pvt. Ryan returns to the Normandy cemetery...

     when Forrest Gump asks Jenny if their son is smart...

     when Toy Story 3 starts, ends, and everything in between...

Finally, let me end this piece with my all-time champ. Saying I weep every time I see this scene is not quite accurate. I cry. I choke. I bawl. My nose runs. My breath spasms. My hands shake. The lump in my throat practically explodes.

  At the end of Field of Dreams, one of the sweetest movies of all time, Ray Kinsella, played wonderfully by Kevin Costner, chokes back tears as he asks his returned-from-the-dead father, "Hey, Dad, want to have a catch?" I'm actually crying as I TYPE this!

The reasons for my strong reaction to this scene range from the brilliant way the story has lead to this point, the yearning in Costner's voice, and the music that accompanies it; however, sitting above all that is my own story, in particular my own complicated relationship with my father. All that personal history conspires to make that scene remarkably powerful to me. It's a great, great cry.

Some people who are very dear to me are experiencing tears of a different sort these days, tears that are every parent's worst nightmare. Here's hoping that those tears flow beautifully and freely for as long as necessary.

Ain't life grand?
J

The Stuff I Don't Know: July 2012

The stuff I don't know could fill the province of Manitoba, and I happen to know that Manitoba is one big-ass province.

Here is a partial list:

I don't know how to fix anything. Oh, I can tell when a lightbulb has burned out (suddenly it's dark), or a battery needs replacing (the clicker stops working and I'm stuck watching Rachel Ray for the next hour), but if it's anything more complicated than that, I'm toast. I'm not proud of my ignorance in the area of manual repairs; it's just not in me. I believe those kinds of skills are usually passed down from father to son/daughter and ol' Sam was not, shall we say, particularly dextrous. Once during a New Hampshire Thanksgiving, our electric stove stopped working. Through trial and error, (I kept touching various heating elements until I found the one that didn't burn me) I was able to locate the part that needed replacing. I was then able to remove that part and replace it when the new part, ordered online, was shipped. I mention this because to this day that oven is the one and only household item that I have ever repaired. By the way, if you're wondering, that year's Thanksgiving dinner was cooked in our neighbor's vacant condo unbeknownst to them. I'm a bad fixer. I'm an excellent borrower.

I don't know how a car works. I know which buttons and pedals to push and I know what happens when you push them, but I have no idea why or how anything happens. Now, the question could be asked, "Does one need to know this information?" Obviously the answer is NO, since I've been able to get wherever I wanted to go in a car since 1964. That includes Eufala, Alabama. So why do I lament being saddled with this particular area of ignorance? There are several reasons. In any male conversation involving  horsepower, cylinders, brake pads, mufflers, universal joints, rotors, washer fluid, or octane, I must sit in a quiet corner and hope my name isn't called. When I bring my car in for repairs or maintenance, I must await the final tally and pay the bill with a smile. I can't ask "How come you did this?" because I don't know what "this" is. It's kind of like ordering dinner in Albania: Here's my credit card. Please do not ask me if I have any questions. One time Ada and I were traveling with our English friends, the Davidsons. Young Jamie, probably about 5 at the time, asked his dad to explain how an internal combustion engine worked. (By the way, young Jamie is bound for Cambridge University to, as they say, read chemical engineering. I guess the lesson took!) I was hanging on every word of Steve's patient and not at all condescending explanation. Unfortunately, he lost me at "turbine".

I don't know how to grow anything. If I tried to live on the stuff I've grown, I would have died of malnutrition sometime around 1972. I see other people, many of them barely literate, able to grow actual vegetables in their own back yards. As near as I can tell, there really isn't supposed to be that much to it. You need a seed, a shovel, dirt, and water. Frankly, I don't think I ever had the right kind of shovel. In our Hanover, MA house, I was forever trying to fill in the sketchy parts of our lawn. Each spring I would march down to the local Home Depot to purchase that year's can't miss lawn seed,  (for hard to grow areas) special fertilizer (for hard to grow areas), purified spring water, (for hard to grow areas) and sketchy-lawn-growing-shovel (for hard to grow areas). How proud I felt when the last bare spot had been dug up and gorged with wonderful new seed, dirt, and water. Every day I would come home from teaching and inspect these newly-fecund areas. When I spotted the first evidence of new growth, I would ask my family to raise a glass to honor and acknowledge my fertile, green thumbs. Alas those first spare thin strands would prove to be the only strands, a lawn rogaine experiment gone terribly wrong. All that was left for me to do was pray for winter to arrive early.

I don't know how to build anything. Let me amend that. I can build you a board. Just tell me how thick, how long, and how wide you want it and I'll take care of the rest; however, if that board needs to be attached to something larger, say a bookcase or desk or lunar transport, I'm afraid I'm going to have to farm the job out. I have good friends who have built their own homes. Let me clarify: they had a vacant piece of earth and a year later on that earth stood a complete house, with electricity, cable, and a porch. If I were given that same challenge, a year later that vacant piece of earth would be strewn with various sized boards. Nothing else, just boards. But in my defense, it wasn't always thus. Back in the fourth grade in Mr. Fairweather's wood shop class at the Sarah Greenwood School, I was considered something of a woodworking prodigy, a little pudgy Jewish Bob Vila if you will. My signature piece was a woodpecker-shaped doorknocker which I proudly presented to my Aunt Minnie and Uncle Albert at their home in Newton. That beautifully painted and varnished woodpecker adorned their back porch door for many years, forever ready to announce the arrival of unexpected guests. It wasn't Woody's fault that nobody, expected or unexpected, ever used that particular entrance when visiting Minnie and Albert's place. As a matter of fact, I believe that I am the only person to have used that knocker, which I did probably 3 or 4 hundred times every time we visited there. One sad day I went to see if Woody still had his spectacular knocking ability, and he was gone. Even the nail holes used to fasten him had been spackled over. When I asked what had happened to Woody I was given a doughnut and told to get lost. My ability to build things was gone. On the other hand, my ability to eat doughnuts blossomed from that moment onward.

In To Kill a Mockingbird Jem complains to a neighbor that lawyer Atticus can't actually DO anything. The neighbor gently scolds him and reminds him that there is plenty that Atticus can do, including making someone's will so airtight that....(I've forgotten the rest of the line, but you get the idea.)

I don't know how to read a legal or financial document. I've tried, I really have. I'd like to think that if I tried just a little harder, maybe I could get beyond the first paragraph. So far this inability has not caused me any great financial or legal hardship. Unless you count the fact that I can't enter Missouri or exit Arkansas.

So how can someone with such a dearth of common knowledge and skills survive in this crazy, wacky world?

I have a secret. It's spelled V-I-S-A!

Ain't life grand?
J

The Least Interesting Man in the World: June 2012

He is the least interesting man in the world.

He has not altered his condiment choices since 1953, the year he switched from French's to Gulden's.

When you play a round of golf with him, he will tell you the one about the 80-year-old caddy, on both the front and back nines.

After the round he will ask if you've heard the one about the 80-year-old caddy.

He has never been on a roller coaster.

His favorite amusement park ride is the merry-go-round. He prefers the stationary chariots to the wildly romping horsies.

Of the 3500 songs on his Ipod, fewer than 12 are sung or played by a living person.

His idea of a gourmet meal is when they offer pepper jack as an option for the cheeseburger.

The list of surfaces on which he has not had sex is over forty-five pages long.

He ate his first olive in 2008 and is planning on trying another next year.

Probably in the fall.

He prefers low-speed internet.

In Monopoly he always tries to buy the orange properties. Nothing else, ever. Only the orange properties. This way, he's sure he'll never finish worse than second.

His highest Scrabble word total is 18 points. He did it twice.

In Cribbage, he knows almost every way to make 15.

He's never fired a weapon, although he fancies himself quite an archer. Not with the modern carbon fiber pulley assisted bows...he's referring to the old Woolworth's variety suction cup deal. He could probably put your eye out.

He's traveled to some of the most exotic places on Earth but chose not to get out of the car.

Whenever he checks into a Comfort Inn or Sleep Inn, his preferred residences away from home, he always asks the clerk if the maitre d'hotel is in.

After a moment of awkward silence, he takes his key card and sheepishly walks away.

Whenever he visits a Gap or Old Navy, he'll walk up to the service desk and ask, "Do you folks carry anything in denim?"

Again there is usually an awkward silence as he begins his browsing.

He enjoys awkward silences.

He once hitchhiked almost 7,000 miles from Boston to San Francisco and back again without having even a single adventure.

For one of his summer jobs he was a counsellor taking elderly blind people on interesting day trips. He once took them to Boston's Museum of Fine Arts and asked the custodian to turn the lights off.

During his teaching career he would frequently tell his students, "We're having a surprise quiz next Tuesday."

Many of them didn't get it.

When any of the many Evangelicals in this part of Florida ask him his religion, he tells them he's mainly Jewish with just a touch of Incan. Then he invites them to next week's sacrifice.

More awkward silence.

He has very good friends in exactly two countries.

He is the least interesting man in the world.

Stay thirsty, my friends.

Ain't life grand?
J

Celtics Homage: June 2012

Now that the Celtics have ended their improbable quest for an 18th championship, perhaps it is fitting to use this space to honor this remarkable organization, one that happened to be a key psychic contributor during my coming of age years. My father would take me to watch the Celtics beginning in early 1957, Bill Russell's rookie year. The NBA was anything but a thriving concern in those days, especially in Boston where the Bruins dominated the winter sporting scene. I can still remember Sam taking me to NBA doubleheaders at the old Garden during which I'd see maybe a Syracuse vs. Rochester first game followed by a Celtics vs. Philadelphia second game. With eight teams in places like Ft. Wayne and no teams west of the Mississippi, the NBA was nothing like the glamor league we see today. The teams were overwhelmingly white and the style of play could best be described as lumbering.

Everything changed when Russell and Auerbach got together. Auerbach realized that the easiest shot in basketball is a layup; the easiest way to get a layup is to beat the other team down the court; the easiest way to beat the other team down the court is to get the rebound from their missed shot and put the ball quickly into the hands of a brilliant passer like Bob Cousy who could orchestrate the perfect play to yield said layup.

From the beginning of 1957 until the end of 1969, basically during my entire childhood and adolescence, this simple formula brought 11 championships to Boston. How could anybody who came of age in Boston during that time not have been affected by that?

Russell was the constant factor, even coaching the team to its memorable 1969 victory over the hated Lakers. While Cousy had been replaced by KC Jones, Sharman by Sam Jones, Ramsey by John Havilcek, and Heinsohn by Don Nelson, the Celtics still demonstrated the selfless dedication to teamwork necessary for success in basketball. Wilt Chamberlain, Oscar Robertson, Jerry West and Elgin Baylor were never fortunate enough to play under such a system.

The Celtics' success went far beyond wins, losses, and even championships. There was an important sociological aspect to this remarkable franchise. The Celtics were among the first teams to sign an African-American player, Chuck Cooper. They were THE first team to start five African-American players (Russell, Satch Sanders, Willie Naulls, Sam and KC Jones), and I believe they were the first team to have racially mixed roommate assignments on the road. A lot of this progressive attitude had to do with the owner, Walter Brown, and the coach, Red Auerbach, both of whom cared much more about winning than they did about the racial mores of the time.

To a kid who wanted very much to believe in racial equality and the American ideal of fairness of opportunity, the Celtics provided a real life example of how the races can work together toward a common goal. I have no idea what the off the court racial attitudes of the players were. I imagine they were a mixed bag, mirroring the rest of society. All I knew was that a group of white and African-American athletes seemed to enjoy playing basketball together and I thoroughly enjoyed watching them win.

The Celtics made me very proud to have come from Boston.

Much more so than cod or beans.

There have been four Celtic championship "eras" spanning the 55 years from 1957 to the present: The Russell era was of course the most impressive, both in terms of championships and in the respect due to that era's namesake. Bill Russell stands at the very top of my personal sporting Olympus. He shares that spot with Number 9 himself. Both men had their warts to be sure, but you would have to look long and hard to find someone of more intelligence, integrity, and heart than Bill Russell.  And that legendary cackle to let you know that in the end, it's all just a game.

The second era could be dubbed the Cowens era, although Havilcek, Jo Jo White, and Paul Silas were major contributors. Cowens' indomitable spirit and incredible hustle (imagine a 6'8" Dustin Pedroia) allowed him to do battle with centers like Jabbar who towered over him. Ada and I were fortunate enough to have been in attendance at the ratty old Garden for the famous 1976 triple-overtime playoff game against Phoenix, which remains my personal sporting eyewitness highlight.

Next came the original Big Three Era of Larry Bird, Robert Parish, and Kevin McHale. It was during this era that our boys, Josh and Matt, became big Celtics fans, mesmerized by the Celtics' selfless dedication to team goals just as I was 30 years earlier. By this time players like Magic Johnson and Michael Jordan had turned professional basketball from some kind of niche sport into big business, where it remains today. I'll never forget the time the Celtics were involved in yet another playoff game against their hated rivals, the 76ers. Our family was huddled downstairs in what we used to call "The Blue Room" watching the contest. The Celtics were way behind and the blue room was very blue indeed. Then, as they had done so many times in the past, the Celtics began to claw their way back into the game. They had come almost all the way back when  Matthew, who was probably about 10 at the time, got out of his seat to go upstairs to the bathroom.

"What the heck are you doing?" I asked.

"I have to go," poor Matty said.

"Hold it," I commanded.

"But, I have to..."

"You can't leave your seat during a comeback. I'm sorry but that's the way it is."

And he sat back down and held it.

And of course the Celtics won.

I'm not proud of that little true family anecdote, but, now maybe you understand what kind of hold the Celtics have had on me and my family.

Of course today we find ourselves at the end of the fourth Celtics era, also named after a latter day version of the Big Three: Paul Pierce, Kevin Garnett, and Ray Allen. Ironically it has been the fourth member of this big three, Rajon Rondo, who has been just as responsible for their success. Age, injury, and the athleticism and heart of Lebron James caught up with this group last night, bringing this era to an end. It was gratifying to watch the Celtics' fans cheer this team after a loss the other night, sensing it would be their last chance to pay their respects.

And it was especially gratifying to get a call last week from another Sam Getman, age 12, who was excited to cheer with his grandfather in Florida as the Celtics were making yet another run.

Four generations, two Sams, one very special team.

Ain't life grand?
J

Miramar Beach: May 2012

Here are a few random thoughts, impressions, and observations gathered down at Miramar Beach this morning:

To my right at the water's edge a fit-looking grandad is tossing some underhand pitches to his very eager 5-year-old grandson. The grandson has to be reminded to "stand sideways" before each and every offering. He adjusts his position dutifully each time and the grandad reassures him before each pitch. The kid's swing is an elegant uppercut, a la Dustin Pedroia, and when he connects both he and the grandad laugh delightedly.

Unnoticed, about 50 feet away so do I.

A 10-year-old boy is boogie boarding in the surf in front of me. He notices a younger girl who is standing at the water's edge longingly watching her mom and older sister who are splashing around on a float farther out. With no prompting from any adult, the boy walks over to the little girl, smiles,  and offers her his boogie board. She is too shy to respond and after a minute the boy waves goodbye and continues his surfing. A short time later a woman, the boy's grandmother, comes down to the water to call the boy out of the surf. The woman catches my eye and says good morning. I take that opportunity to tell her what a kind and generous gesture I had observed from her grandson. Naturally, the woman is very appreciative and thanks me for noticing and telling her.

All in a day's work.

When I was a kid we used to spend our summers at Nantasket Beach in Hull, MA. Like hundreds of other Jewish families from Dorchester and Mattapan, we'd line up a rental place for the summer season. My father would then commute to work in Boston while Marvin, Teddi, and I would spend July and August free to frolic in our particular version of lower middle class paradise. Now Nantasket will never make Dr. Beach's top 10 list but to kids who grew up in Dorchester in the '50's it was a combination of Maui, Kiawah, and Coronado, an absolutely perfect beach. I can still feel viscerally the disappointment we felt when it became apparent that a particular day was not going to be a "beach day"...too cold, rainy, or windy

Down here on Florida's panhandle in Miramar Beach  from May through September there's almost no such thing as a non-beach day. For the next four months the temperature will almost never dip below 90. Thunderstorms might interrupt a beach day but there will be few if any gray, rainy days until the winter. Of course the price we pay for this weather is the very real threat of hurricanes. It's been about five or six years since they had any impact here.

Most people feel we're overdue.

I pop in my earbuds and power up my Ipod as I grab the wonderful biography of Van Gogh I have been reading lately.  Now, before we get to Van Gogh, let's discuss the ear buds. What strange aural geometry was I endowed with to cause all of the ear buds I try to fail miserably in their one mission: convey music to my freaking ears in a manner which is both comfortable, accurate, and, above all, PLEASANT! Ear buds should be like umpires: they should do their job with little or no notice or fanfare. If you know they are there, then something's gone horribly wrong. I'm on my third set of these infernal gadgets and I have yet to enjoy a song, ANY SONG, uninterrupted from start to finish. One side will seem louder than the other or one side will pop out or one side will itch or one side will just cut out altogether or i'll turn my head and throw the entire assemblage into chaos. If you insist, I'll delve into the ear wax issue, although I'll understand if you'd rather move on.

Fine, we'll move on to Van Gogh, another fellow with ear problems.

I'm reading Van Gogh The Life by Naifeh and Smith. It is an incredibly detailed and ridiculously researched account of the troubled painter's life. Just to give you an idea of the level of detail, I'm on page 467 and Vincent is only now about to paint his first "real" paintings. Still it is fascinating to follow alongside this tormented soul on his singularly unlikely path to immortality. I have been surprised to discover how much there was to dislike about him. At various times in his short life he was petulant, overbearing, unreasonable, and quite selfish. To say nothing of delusional and kind of crazy.

By all accounts I'm a pretty normal, stable guy, but the only thing I could ever paint was the side of a house, and that was a pretty weak attempt. I guess there really is something to that whole "artistic temperament" deal.

Still, I wish the authors would hurry up and get to the ear part.

Ain't life grand?
J

My Beautiful Colonoscopy: May 2012

It's the day before my colonoscopy and I have just gotten off the phone with the nurse who was going over the final details with me.

"Be sure to wear loose clothing," she said.

"Didn't you read my last blog entry?"  I inquired.

"Your last what?"

"Never mind."

"Enjoy your prep drink," she smirked.

I should have realized I wasn't in a position of strength here. I know many of you have gone through this delightful procedure; some, like me, more than once. It's all about the prep drink. I'm staring at what looks like a 50-gallon tank of the vile stuff right now. Once I down that first eight ounces, assuming I don't gag, there will be no going back.

Just a lot of going.

I had heard that some people are able to prep for their colonoscopy by drinking much less of something other than this nasty stuff, but evidently my gastroenterologist feels strongly about the super-sized stuff. I like a doctor with strong convictions. I'm taking small sips and thinking of unicorns but it's still really nasty stuff.

I'll spare you all the details of the rest of this free flowing evening except to tell you that it's hard to enjoy  a playoff hockey game on tv when one's attention is so,ummm, divided. I'll also reveal that I wish I had purchased one of those soft, cushy toilet seats prior to this ordeal.

And that's all you're going to get out of me on this particular subject.

The actual colonoscopy was completely and, thankfully, uneventful. I was given a deep sedative and have no memory of the procedure; just as well, since I assume I spent the better part of a half hour mooning the entire operating theater. I can only hope that this wasn't "Come and Watch a Colonoscopy Day" at the surgical center. If it was, I doubt I'll be invited to any Destin cocktail parties any time soon. Of course, there was a time back in my youthful Dorchester days that I would spend the better part of a summer's evening sticking my prodigious, uncovered derriere out of Razin's Buick window hoping for a reaction from the unsuspecting pedestrians nearby. I realize now that one is best served in public if one's buttocks remain in some kind of container.

Life's lessons learned.

In a week I'll be moving about 20 miles west of here to a furnished townhouse about two blocks from the Gulf.  This will be my fourth address since moving down here two years ago. That's more than all the moves I made during my 41 years with Ada. I wish I knew the significance of this fun fact. I'll leave it up to the brightest of you to figure it out. And that includes the esteemed driver of the aforementioned Buick.

These new digs should prove interesting. They are located in the heart of the summer vacation rental section of Destin. For the next three months, most of my neighbors will be young families from places like Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana who have flocked to the beach for a week or two. I imagine there will be lots of barbequeing, y'alling, and guzzling tremendous quantities of cold beer.

Looks like I had my colonoscopy just in the nick of time.

Ain't life grand?
J

Garments: April 2012

I had a rather jarring thought today as I was preparing for my next move from this lovely three-bedroom house on the Bay to a more reasonable two-bedroom town home on the Gulf:

 I probably don't have to buy clothes anymore.

According to the latest actuarial tables, I am pretty sure I have enough clothes to last me the rest of my life.

Gee, I'm not sure how I feel about this revelation.

I mean I've never been any kind of a fashion plate. I've been wearing the same style of clothing most of my life. I think we used to call it "collegiate" or "preppy." Chinos and a button-down shirt with un-socked loafers have been my default wardrobe selection for as long as I've been buying my own clothes. I have rarely deviated from this "look" (Does this style even qualify as a look?)

Maybe I am so locked into a single style because going clothes shopping has never been a pleasant experience for me. I've never been much of a browser. Teddi used to drag me to Kennedy's Department Store where she would shop for my clothes in the euphemistically named "Husky" section.

Let's face it. These were clothes for fat kids.

I can still remember the pain I felt every time I had to move up a waist size. I would cling to the previous waist size like a lifeline, stuffing myself into chinos or slacks with little regard for the muffin top look I had affected. "At least I'm still a 32 or 34 waist," I would gamely tell myself as I tried to find the thinnest shirt possible to tuck into the remaining millimeter of space between my stomach and the waistband of my seriously over-taxed pants. I became an expert "seam inspector" trying to determine if the seams on a particular pair of pants could stand up to the enormous pressures they were about to experience.

The concept of LOOSE was completely foreign to me.

I would try on several pairs of the same size item in hopes of finding the one pair which was a bigger 36 than the other 36's. I imagined some garment worker in Bangladesh, Taiwan or Rangoon thinking, "I'd better add just a little fabric here in case Joel chooses this one. After all, he's our best customer and he's a little bit large-boned."

If given the choice between a clothes shopping excursion and un-anesthetized eye surgery, I would have gladly chosen the latter every time. "Sure, Doc, just go ahead and drill into that ol' cornea. You won't hear a peep from me. After all, it's better than going to Kennedy's."

So in that sense, I guess I'm relieved to know that if I don't want to, I don't have to go clothes shopping for the next 20 or so years. I'd like to say 30 or so years but I wouldn't bet on it. More importantly, the folks at SBLI wouldn't bet on it either. The four pairs of jeans, four pairs of chinos, four pairs of dress slacks, and 10 or so dress shirts currently awaiting their move to the Woodland Shores apartment complex in Miramar Beach, Destin FL should suffice. Admittedly, the eight pairs of golf shorts and eight golf shirts will need occasional upgrading, as will the Boston sports team tee-shirts, socks, and briefs. These boys work very hard and, after a year or two of faithful service, they deserve a few kind parting words and a dignified burial, preferably not in an area where the water table can be compromised.

I do own one suit and about a dozen tasteful ties. I have worn that suit to some very happy and at least one extremely sad occasion. It has served me well and, as long as there aren't a whole bunch of bar-mitzvahs, weddings, or funerals coming up in quick succession, this one suit should do the trick.

Since moving down here two years ago, I did purchase four "tropical" shirts, including one cool maroon job from Tommy Bahama's. I guess I wanted to look like a local and I thought my classic blue oxford button down would give me away. Of course the Obama sticker on my Malibu gives me away before anybody has a chance to see me in my Tommy Bahama shirt so there goes that theory.

The removal of new clothing from my budget is a win-win for me. It makes the move on May 15 that much simpler and makes paying the rent on the town home that much easier.

The only people who get hurt are the salespeople at Kennedy's, God rest their souls.

Ain't life grand?
J

The Sawx Redux: April 2012

As I have done in the past, I recently invested $99.95 with MLB.TV. This was done to enable me to watch every Red Sox game on my computer. Nobody ever invested any amout of money with a more optimistic outlook. There was no way that the Red Sox could possibly duplicate the vomitatious feeling that accompanied last season's remarkable demise, forever to be called the "Fried chicken munchin'-Budweiser swillin'-teammate screwin' cluster--ck."

In hindsight, I would have been better served if I had invested $100 with any of the following:

1. Funsurgicalprocedures.TV This website allows you to look in on a number of fascinating surgeries in real time. Cool colonoscopies and spectacular Caesareans are only some of the procedures you'll enjoy with this (you should pardon the expression) LIVE website.

2. America'sirrelevantcities.com Enjoy live updates and exciting traffic-cam shots from places like Dothan, Alabama, Kenosha, Wisconsin, Killeen, Texas, and Woonsocket, Rhode Island. Watch from the comfort of your own home as actual residents buy a local newspaper or eat a sandwich.

3. Wastemanagement.TV Have you ever wondered how the crusher thingie works on a garbage truck or which refuse container the pros recommend? So have I. I've also wondered how much a termite weighs and which foods a pig won't eat but there were no websites for those.

As of this writing (about two hours after one of the worst Red Sox losses I've ever witnessed and I've witnessed quite a few) there are only four things in the world that are more abhorrent than the current Red Sox bullpen.

These are (in descending order) my toenails, my fake English accent, my putting, and Rush Limbaugh.

So, if you're following the thread here, this means that the Taliban and fracking are both better than the Red Sox bullpen.

Sad.

Obviously, I'll need to come up with another activity to replace watching this pathetic ball team every evening. It will have to be an activity in which there is no winning or losing, no walk-offs, no men on third with no outs who somehow don't score. As a matter of fact, there should be no scoring at all, which means this new activity should resemble my undergraduate years at Temple University. (I make a little joke!)

This new activity will need to cost very little since I'm already out a hundred bucks. It can not have anything to do with memorabilia, collectibles, uniforms, or hats. It must have no history, either glorious or infamous. It must be incapable of stirring emotions. Above all, it must have no rival in New York.

I believe I will become a doodler. I will spend my evenings filling endless reams of paper with nonsensical shapes and designs.

I will become Joel the Doodler.

It's one step above Joel the Blogger.

Ain't life grand?
J

(editor's note: The above was written in a desperate attempt to break the hex that currently holds sway over the Boston Red Sox. If it doesn't work, at least I tried!)

Thank you, Kate: March 2012

Kate and I have decided to go our separate ways, at least as far as domiciles go.

Before you go and get all sad about this very recent development, let me assure you that this was a decision reached amicably and soberly by two mature adults (or at least one mature adult and me), and we are both quite comfortable with it.

We will remain good friends who care about one another, especially when it comes to sharing a dozen grilled Apalachicola oysters from The Acme Restaurant. (Always a great deal for me because I can eat seven before Kate gets to five!)

The reasons for this new arrangement are complex and, frankly, none of your damn business; however, since you've been kind enough to read this blog for the past two years (!!), I'll give you the very truncated explanation:

For everything, there is a season...

Kate is very fond of this little piece of Biblical wisdom, and so am I. When we met two years ago, we were both in need of someone with whom we could share a life. I was trying to create a little distance between myself and the previous very difficult three years while Kate, for reasons of her own, was looking for an overweight Jewish guy who could explain to her why Seinfeld was funny. It was a match made at the intersection of Dorchester and South Boston. Believe me, this was a trade that helped both teams. Josh Beckett for Hanley Ramirez. (an apt comparison since, evidently, one of the two enjoys fried chicken quite a bit)

Now, there is a new season at hand. It's really as simple as that.

I will be forever grateful for these past two years. Kate brought quite a bit of sunshine into my life which had been partly cloudy with a chance of thunderstorms at best. We were able to travel to places like Banff, Canada, New England, Asheville, NC, and New Orleans. We were able to enjoy everything this part of the Panhandle has to offer. We made very few demands of each other. I was able to play golf as much as my cranky back would permit and Kate was able to watch Judge Judy as much as she could stomach. ("Kate, I think I've seen this one...Is this the one where Judge Judy loses her patience with the stupidity shown by one or both of the complainants?" "Very funny, Joel!") I was the lucky recipient of many a delightful meal prepared by a wonderful and inventive chef. I had the privilege of meeting Kate's four exceptional sons, their wives and children, and her very sharp Dad. She was able to meet and charm my wonderful crew, as well as about 75 good friends in New Hampshire and Massachusetts. All of these experiences served to brighten both of our outlooks considerably.

There has been quite a bit of laughter that passed between us these past two years. It started on the very first night we met. We were at an Italian restaurant called Tuscany. The food was good but the lounge piano player was so loud, especially when he broke out into a full-voiced version of The Phantom of the Opera, that we could barely hear each other. Given my conversational skills, this was the best possible outcome. What else was there to do but laugh?

Kate shared with me the joys of Florida geography, barroom trivia (She is unbeatable on music from the 50's, 60's or 70's; I'm pretty good on Presidents that end with "..ington."), local live music of all genres, dancing to the incredible strains of the Florida Fish House Band, and the unconditional love of a neurotic Shi Tzu.

I taught three of Kate's granddaughters how to play the Famous Getman Three Game, and I taught Kate how people who grew up in Boston are in fact different from everyone else on this or any other planet.

Two very good years indeed.

Ain't life grand?
J

Why? February 2012

...does it cost just about the same to fly from Los Angeles to Hawaii as it does to fly from Pensacola to Hawaii?

...do I bawl my eyes out every time a horse runs fast in a movie?

...does Newt Gingrich feel the need to label every person with whom he disagrees? (the elite media...the Massachusetts moderate...the socialist Kenyan President...the money-grubbing creditors at Tiffany's...the elite Kenyan socialist money-grubbing Saul Alinsky hairstylist who "did" Calista)

...am I never able to guess the actual perp on Law and Order, including, sadly, the repeats?

...hasn't someone been able to make an alternative energy source viable and profitable enough to end our dependence on oil, both foreign and domestic?

...does the time between the Super Bowl and the first Red Sox spring training game seem like an eternity?

...do I almost never eat peanuts in the shell unless I'm at a baseball game in which case I absolutely have to devour them?

...did the Supreme Court decide that money is akin to speech?

...can I live with the same furniture for 40 years without a second thought while other people need to change their surroundings periodically?

...does the word "Vermont" placed in front of any product (syrup, coffee, paper shredder, socket wrench) seem to add value to said product?

...do the words "Rhode Island" have the opposite effect?

...can't I get both the volume and channel selector to operate from one remote instead of two?

...did Juliet ever think that Friar Laurence's cockeyed scheme could actually work?

...did I never learn to fix anything?

...do I get excited any time Boston is the setting for a movie?

...don't I like beer as much as I once did?

...haven't I settled on the ONE BEST WAY to eat an Oreo?

...are we even mentioning contraception and birth control?

...do I think something really bad involving Iran is right around the corner?

...did the actor who played the bizarre Mr. Kruger on Seinfeld recently try to shoot himself in the head, unsuccessfully?

...can a professional golfer hit a golf ball 140 yards using a pitching wedge?

...are the "land's end" kinds of places (Key West, Provincetown, Penzance) havens for many offbeat and/or desperate people?

...why is the same true of Seekonk, Massachusetts? (just kidding)

...is Italian food always my go-to choice when eating out?

...do movies directed by Michael Mann always look so cool?

...don't I attend more plays, both amateur and professional?

...does anyone even begin to care what another person does in the privacy of his/her bedroom?

...is almost every dress shirt I own a button-down type?

...would I rather watch a Rick Steve's travel show on Italy than actually go there?

...didn't I learn to dribble with my right hand?

...don't I "get" kites?

...is there always lint in the lint filter after a drying? shouldn't clothes that have been washed and dried many times be free of lint after a while?

and, finally (did I just hear you whisper, "Thank God"?)...

...is the actual movie never, ever, ever as good as the previews?

Ain't life grand?
J