Movie Stars: December 2013

Before there were just "actors" there were actors and actresses. Before there were actors and actresses there were movie stars.

Peter O'Toole, one of those movie stars, died recently.

I was particularly saddened to hear about O'Toole's death. His remarkable portrayal of the enigmatic T.E. Lawrence remains one of my all time favorite performances.Even though it was 50 years ago, I remember vividly how I felt the first time I saw David Lean's masterpiece on the big screen in Boston.

"Man, am I thirsty!" I said to Ada.

Granted, this was not any kind of profound film criticism, but what do you expect after spending four hours in the desert?

I also remember being completely mesmerized by O'Toole's physical appearance. Those incredible pale blue eyes, made that much more striking because we viewed them against that white hot desert. And that hair! That full head of perfectly blond hair. I couldn't get enough of that hair.

I've seen the film at least a dozen times. On four of those occasions, I only watched O'Toole's hair. I watched his hair act. In my opinion, O'Toole's hair gave a better performance in that film than English actor Jack Hawkins, who played Lawrence's commanding officer. As a matter of fact, I would rate O'Toole's hair as the third best performance in the film, just behind those of O'Toole and Omar Sharif.

One man's opinion.

From all I've read, Peter O'Toole was an unapologetic scoundrel, a hard drinker, a womanizer, a gambler, in other words, a movie star. I don't know about you, but I give permission to my movie stars to be different kinds of people. I don't want my movie stars sitting around the kitchen table looking at health plan brochures. I want them driving recklessly, spending lavishly, and, if need be, dying young.

While I am happy O'Toole lived a long life, it wasn't for lack of trying.

It seems to me that in general our bright young modern actors are a bit too "corporate" to be called movie stars the way we called Marlon Brando, Anthony Quinn, or Robert Mitchum movie stars. Possibly Ryan Gosling has it in him to be a little James Dean-ish, and certainly poor Heath Ledger did, but I don't think of Matt Damon, Ben Affleck or Tom Cruise in that same way.

Of course not all of the old time movie stars were as wild and crazy as O'Toole. Jimmy Stewart was as All-American normal as you could get and Paul Newman spent most of his non-movie time in Westport, Connecticut doing what suburban people do (with the possible exception of racing cars).

It occurs to me I haven't mentioned any actresses in this piece. That might be because the only real bad female behavior that I know about these days comes from the Kardashian family and I just can't force myself to refer to any of that sad crew as actresses. I assume in the golden days of Hollywood there was more than enough bad behavior to go around (Judy Garland comes to mind), but the studios were more protective of their "property" in those days.

Among modern actresses I just don't see Jennifer Lawrence, Anne Hathaway, Keira Knightley, or Amy Adams going all O'Toole-Burton at a Hollywood bar, as lovely as that is to contemplate.

So requiescant in pace Peter O'Toole, you magnificent scoundrel. You are frozen in my memory bank standing atop that ruined Turkish train, with your blond hair and white robes flowing, your blue eyes blazing, waiting for David Lean to yell, "Cut," so you can begin another night's round of mayhem.

I hope they let you run a tab up there.

Ain't life grand?
J

Sarah's New Show: December 2013

 

I was excited to learn recently that Sarah Palin, sweet darling of the TeaPublicans, The Wasilla Wizard, The Fairbanks Fraud, will be hosting yet another riveting television show. This one will be called "An Hour You'll Never Get Back"  or some such and will focus on Sarah's love of the great American outdoors. Sarah, pictured above responding to the question, "Sarah, how much sense do you have?" will bring her own peculiar vision to the great environmental issues of the day.

I for one can't wait. Golly, it's appointment viewing for sure, you betcha.

Sarah's first few shows will focus on her favorite public works project, The Keystone Pipeline. In a bold stroke, Sarah, equipped with a helmet-cam, is going to have herself inserted into the pipeline at its hub in Hardisty, Alberta. In these early episodes, we'll follow sludgy Sarah through the pipeline as she looks for leaks (quite a few) and extols the virtues of this mammoth environmental disaster-in-waiting (What could possibly go wrong?) Eventually, Sarah will plop out of the pipeline somewhere near Port Arthur on the Texas Gulf Coast just in time for a greasy lunch with her benefactors, The Koch brothers. 

This thing is going to be bigger and better than Duck Dynasty.

In another series of episodes we'll follow Sarah and First Dude Todd as they raft, Huck and Jim-style, down the Mississippi River in search of "the real America." While Sarah and Todd won't be able to find this real America, they will be able to put their keen eyes on the Fox News version of America as they weave an entertaining yarn about socialism, death panels, and godlessness while trying to avoid barge traffic on the river. It's going to be Lewis and Clark meet Hannity and Beck and I for one can't wait.

The last group of episodes will bring Sarah back, kicking and screaming, to her native Alaska. Viewers will watch with rapt attention as Sarah spends a few harrowing nights in a grizzly bear den (she breaks her glasses), shoots salmon with a semi-automatic weapon, and, in a brilliant season ending extravaganza, gets harnessed to a bald eagle and soars over a number of exploding Exxon-Mobil oil rigs in the Bering Sea.

Every time we think we've seen and heard the last of The Seer of Seward's Folly, she pops up again like a half-crushed cockroach. (I worked on that simile for quite a while, thank you.)

Personally, I think she's had her 15 minutes and then some.

And that's 15 minutes we'll never get back.

Ain't life weird?

J

Charlotte and Sons: November 2013

A year ago...heck, four months ago...I wouldn't have bet on the successful completion of this mission.

But it's the Year of the Joel, so all bets are off!

Four months ago, older son Josh was trying desperately to finish off his chemo regimen, the final phase of his brave battle against stomach cancer. The surgical part of the treatment, which consisted of the removal of his stomach, spleen, a small portion of his pancreas, two old Red Sox tee shirts, and an ancient pair of Converse All Stars, was completed last February. The oncologist had prescribed eight sessions of chemotherapy as a final measure of protection against the cancer's return.

By the middle of last summer Josh looked and felt weaker and more sick than at any time during his year-long battle. He was this close to "giving up." He couldn't walk from the living room to the kitchen without getting terribly light-headed, fainting on more than one occasion. His wife and kids were frightened. He felt lousy all the time, so lousy that he couldn't even imagine feeling "normal" again. He was at his absolute lowest point.

The chemo, which probably went a long way toward saving his life, shrinking the tumor down to a manageable size for his brilliant surgeon, Dr. Clancy, was now pretty much killing him.

The oncologist could see the trouble Josh was in and decided to forgo the eighth and final chemo infusion. This would have been around the end of July.

Cut to yesterday. Charlotte-Douglas International Airport. A chubby, balding 66-year-old man paces the baggage claim area, anxiously awaiting the arrival of his older son. The son has had a serious illness and the father has arranged for him to fly to Charlotte to join him and the son's brother for a Patriots-Panthers football game. The father is hoping that his son feels well enough to make the trip and enjoy the weekend, but he is trepidatious. It's been a long, harrowing year for the father as well. Difficult memories of another family member's brave battle against pancreatic cancer haunt him in his darker, quiet moments. He sees his son coming down the steps toward the baggage claim. His first impression is how strong and fit he appears, much different from the last time he had seen him during the final chemo infusions. He's got a spring in his step. As he has done repeatedly during the past 18 or so months, with great apprehension, he asks his son how he's feeling.

"This is the best I've ever felt either before or after the cancer," Josh happily tells me, so convincingly that I have no choice but to believe him. In other words, my brave son feels better now than at any other point in his life, including all those years when he actually had a stomach. If his oncologist and surgeon had been at the airport yesterday, I would have kissed each of them...passionately! If his wonderful wife Cindy, who spent last year in her own version of hell, had been at the airport yesterday, I would have kissed her...appropriately! If his twins, Sam 'n Sara, who had to try and be "normal" last year when life at home was anything but, had been at the airport, I would have lifted them up and hugged them so fervently that there would have been contusions.

Alas, it was just me, Josh, and this most welcome piece of news and that was more than enough.

We drove the short distance from the airport to the hotel catching up with each other. I was delighted to learn that my twin grandkids were still the undefeated and untied champions of the grandchild world. Sara has yet to get a grade below A in her middle school career. She's giving the tuba a try in her marching band despite the fact that she is shorter than most tubas. (Is it tubae?) She receives glowing texts from one very smitten young boy. While that last piece of news shocked and saddened me a bit, I know that this is the natural order of things, like it or not.

I don't like it.

Speaking of smitten, Sam, no slouch in school either, is smitten by the Boston Bruins, especially "The Little Ball of Hate," Brad Marchand. He'll sit and watch a Bruins game with his dad, identifying all the players with ease. He'll figure out a way to wear his Marchand jersey and his Patrice Bergeron jersey at the same time.

Even better, he has no one texting him.

We settled in at the luxurious accommodations I had so generously provided, (Fine! It was a La Quinta if you must know. I have a tendency to embellish.) and awaited the arrival of Matthew who was driving over from his home in beautiful Asheville, NC. It's been quite a year for Matt as well. He has settled into his life as a waiter/musician very nicely. His restaurant gig is both lucrative and enjoyable. The music portion of his life will ebb and flow as gigs become available; however, it is obvious that music is no longer his biggest passion. That would be Audrey, the lovely woman he met after his first year in Asheville. They have been together a couple of years now and come this June will be marrying. Throw in Farley, the couple's wonderful, loving pooch, and Matthew is living the kind of life he couldn't even have imagined back in his Vermont days.

Two sons. Two very different routes to happy lives.

And me watching it all unfold before my very eyes.

I swear someone up there likes me, and I know her name.

We started this reunion/football weekend off with, wait for it, barbeque. Josh had done a bit of research into Charlotte's barbeque traditions, and recommended we try a place called Bobby O's barbeque. We plugged the address into the ol' GPS and we were off. Something didn't seem quite right when we pulled up to the restaurant. Was it the sight of chairs piled atop tables instead of resting on the floor? Was it the dim lights that seemed to warn customers away rather than welcome them in? Was the freakin' place closed at 6:30 on a Sunday night?

It was. Luckily, the owner saw us peering through the glass and knew of our plight. He apologized for being closed and recommended another nearby barbeque joint called...wait for it...Bubba's. We thanked him and headed for Bubba's which was only a mile or so down the road.

There were scant few cars in Bubba's lot, but we were too hungry to worry about it. Once you get the idea of barbeque in your head, you have no choice but to satisfy it. This also happens to me with Twix bars but I digress.

I am happy to report that the ribs at Bubba's are very tasty and plentiful. I am also happy to report that the bathrooms at the luxurious La Quinta are soundproof.

A good night was had (not heard) by all.

The next day we gathered after breakfast for a closer look at the city of Charlotte, NC. First we scoped out the Bank of America Stadium, home of the resurgent Carolina Panthers and their mercurial quarterback, Cam Newton. Unlike Gillette, this stadium is right in the heart of the city. Good for getting to, but bad for parking. Well, these things only happen once a year or so, so a few headaches are to be expected.

Besides, my good friend Nancy always says that if you expect a great parking spot, you'll get one.

We'll see.

As for our walk around Charlotte, let's just say that it is a clean city, with a downtown filled with beautiful, gleaming office towers.

That's about it for Charlotte. But hey, we're here to watch a football game, not offer up some pseudo-sociological urban study. And it is clean. And there are offices.

At one point in my early years I entertained the notion of becoming a sportswriter. What follows is why I didn't:

The game was won in heroic fashion by the Carolina Panthers 24-20. There was some last second drama as Brady led the Patriots down the field with only seconds remaining. A last ditch pass into the end zone was intercepted and the game was over. But wait. There's a penalty flag in the end zone. A game can't end on a defensive penalty. The Patriots may get one more chance to win. Oops, the flag is picked up with no explanation and the game is final. I wish, loyal readers, I could explain what happened, but when you're at the stadium, paying hundreds of dollars to be an eyewitness to history, you really have very little idea about what's going on down there. The people at home, watching for free on tv, get a much clearer picture about the events that transpire on the field.

Of course, the three Getmans, dissapointed as we were with the outcome, knew that this trip did not require a Patriots victory to be worthwhile. It became worthwhile the minute Josh entered the baggage claim area. It was successful the minute Matt drove into the La Quinta parking lot.

Everything else was just gravy.

Speaking of which, Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours.

Repeat after me: Ain't life grand?
J

Mallorca and Cambridge: November 2013

We interrupt this travelogue to pay tribute to the toughest, clutchest (not a word but this is no time to nitpick), hairiest baseball team ever, my beloved Boston Red Sox.

I know I've been going on and on about "The Year of the Joel," but never did I think for a minute that the Sox would win it all. I mean even the most ardent fan would not bet on this hirsute group of lads defeating the likes of Scherzer, Verlander, Wainwright, and Wacha in about a week. That's just crazy talk right there. And to have it happen in the year of the bombing...well, truth is indeed stranger than fiction sometimes.

What does a maniacal follower of this crimson-stockinged troupe do if he happens to be traveling in Europe during all these proceedings? He stays up late, that's what! Yes, he turns on the ol' computer at midnight or one am and tries to not wake the nearby sleeping non-baseball fan as he silently cheers a spectacular play by l'il Dustin or becomes catatonic over a crazy interference call on Middlebrooks. He loses sleep by the bushel and tries to rally the next day for a walk to a beautiful Mallorcan lighthouse or an afternoon at a village open market. He puts up a good front, but a dearth of sleep will eventually catch up with him. He craves an afternoon nap so he can freshen up in time for Ellsbury's first at bat. Lack of sleep eventually renders him disoriented, even more than usual. He starts calling everyone he meets "Koji" leaving a slew of confused Mallorcans in his wake. Eventually day becomes night and vice versa. Time has no meaning. All is illusory.

Actually, that last bit may have been a little overdone. I was a little tired was all.

And very happy.

I shed tears of joy when the remarkable Uehara managed that last masterful strikeout. I was sitting in the beautiful living room of Steve and Carol Davidson in West Yorkshire, by the banks of the River Wharfe. It was 3:30 am. I was thinking about two people, a man and a woman, one an old Dorchester friend, the other Sam 'n Sara's beloved Nana, who, depending on your belief system, either missed this event or had the best seats in the house, and the tears just streamed down my face. In the quiet of this ungodly hour it was easy to hear the stairs creaking. Like a pair of kids on Christmas morning, Steve and Carol, two of Britain's most fanatical Red Sox fans, were coming down to see the final outs and the ensuing celebration. The three of us watched in complete joy as our Boys of Summer started jumping all over old Joe Mooney's hallowed ground, hugging, dancing, grabbing each other's beards to the mellow strains of "Dirty Water."

I learned a valuable lesson on this wonderful trip. As long as Dustin Pedroia is a member of the Boston Red Sox, don't plan any October trips.

Before I close this segment, let me pay proper respect to the city of Cambridge, England and its venerable university. As I mentioned in the previous entry, Jamie Davidson was beginning his studies at Cambridge and, upon arriving back in England from Mallorca, Nancy and I were going to be able to join Jamie's proud parents for a visit to this remarkable institution for a couple of days before heading up to West Yorkshire.

As you may know, Cambridge is actually a collection of colleges, the most famous of which are King's, Queens', and Trinity. Jamie was accepted to Queens' to study chemical engineering. Personally, I have no understanding of either of the two words in Jamie's major. I'm more of a baseball fan.

A walk around Cambridge is like a walk around Harvard only more so. The courtyards and buildings, some of which are more than 500 years old, have produced numerous illustrious graduates, including many Nobel Prize winners. John Milton, Charles Darwin, Erasmus, Coleridge and Wordsworth are just a few notable alumni.

Oh, in case you're wondering, Pedroia went to Arizona State.

The River Cam surrounds the University. One of the most popular activities is "punting" or floating on a gondola-like boat under the guidance of an experienced punter who uses a long staff to propel and steer the boat. The low fall temperatures combined with howling winds kept Nancy and me off the river, but there were still plenty of hardier souls floating along.

None of them looked sleep-deprived.

We spent the day wandering the ancient streets, soaking up the atmosphere, enjoying an afternoon wine in a cozy bar, and buying t-shirts for our Cambridge-bound grandkids.

All pretty routine stuff in The Year of the Joel.

Stay Boston Strong!

Ain't life grand?
J

England and Mallorxxcxxa: October 2013

What follows is a daily log detailing the high and low lites of our trip to England and Mallorxxchccka. (It's actually Majorca, off the coast of Spain, but I've seen it spelled so many different ways I decided to combine them all. Don't try to pronounce it; you'll injure your jaw!)

This is Nancy's first trip to England. Needless to say she's very excited. On the other hand I've been to England more times than William the Conqueror, although it's been several years since my last triumphant invasion. We're spending the first two days in London before we fly to Malljxxorccja to join up with old friends Carol and Steve Davidson at their island getaway (as one does).

Thursday, October 17

Nancy and I were very relieved to learn that the government shutdown and debt ceiling crises were over. For one thing, it looked like the air traffic controllers in Atlanta would be on the job when we took off. For another, Ted Cruz would likely be invisible for a few days. I don't know what it is but when that guy smiles his snarky smile, I just want to scream. 

In honor of the bi-partisan agreement, I called my Visa provider and tried to increase my debt limit. My request was denied. The world's economy didn't blink an eye.

We're flying Delta nonstop (we hope!) from Atlanta to Heathrow. It's an all night flight that gets us into London about 11 am. I've taken a similar flight from Boston a number of times. The feeling you get when you step off the plane in England the next morning can only be described as...wretched...no, let's try putrid...no, that's not it...ahhh, got it: FLU-LIKE!

Your body craves sleep, but you can't give in to its demands. If you do, you will wake up around midnight raring to go except you'll have nowhere to go, so you'll sit watching BBC news for five hours until you fall asleep the next morning and begin the process all over again. Eventually you'll leave England for home and realize that you actually saw and did nothing other than watch the telly. No Big Ben. No Buckingham Palace. No warm beer at a rowdy pub. Just that perfect BBC accent ringing in your head and bloodshot eyes staring back at you from the mirror in your tiny bathroom. Not at all what the brochures or Rick Steves promised.

However, if you can manage to stay awake until, say, nine or ten pm, you'll beat back the jet lag demons and make it to Harrod's in time for tea.

I mentioned a tiny bathroom. Let me give full credit to the ingenious photographers who handled the "studios2let" website photo array. From looking at the pictures, one would have thought that for about $100 a night, lucky Joel was renting an entire wing of Buckingham Palace. Such a deal! In reality, with the clever use of digital tricks (Remember how they made Frodo look so short and Gandalf so tall?), someone turned the world's smallest studio apartment into an estate. When I say small, let me just say that the Mayor of Munchkin City and the aforementioned hobbit would have had a hard time staying out of each other's way in this room.Of course this begs the question why were the mayor and Frodo renting a room together? Hey, it's none of my business and it sure isn't any of yours!

As a result of the claustrophobic theme to the room, Nancy and I spent every waking minute out of it.We came up with an ingenious plan. Whenever we were stuck for something to do, instead of heading back to the room, we'd find a pub and drink. You may be surprised to learn that there is no shortage of pubs in London.  We managed to visit almost all of them. I believe the only ones we missed were "The Turnip and Broccoli," a vegetarian pub on Baker Street, and "Ye Old Obstructionist," once owned by the Priebus family. All of which proves if you drink enough Stella Artois, even a tiny room will seem like Versailles.

Saturday, October 19
This was our day to explore the famous London sites. Armed with tickets to the Original Bus Tour, and following a breakfast of strong coffee and a weird bacony sandwich, we made our way to the bus stop. This is one of those deals where you get on and off the bus as often as you like; there's a taped narration to guide you through the various sites as well as a Thames river cruise thrown in for good measure. The double-decker bus features an open air top, perfect for the weather and temperatures we experienced on this mild fall day. Many of you have been to London so I won't bore you with all the details. A highlight for us was of course Harrod's where we wandered through the Harry Winston jewelry collection and headed straight for the cheeses. Such cheddars have not been seen this side of Cabot Farms in Vermont. And the room dedicated to fine chocolates from around the world was not to be believed. What a remarkable store.

The Thames river cruise was also quite spectacular as we made our way from Westminster to Tower Bridge. The narrator was delightfully cynical as he pointed out various interesting buildings. A man after my own heart. The brief period of rain was replaced by a beautiful sunny afternoon and the boat's removable roof slid back to reveal London on Thames in all its glory. What a delight!

After a fine Italian meal in the Bloomsbury section (as one does), we headed back to Mabel's Tavern for a nightcap. What a lovely day touring London. The Red Sox were scheduled to play Detroit in the sixth game of their memorable series; however, the game wouldn't begin until 1:00 am London time. I went to bed thinking that I would wake up at some point in the am and check the computer for an update. As luck would have it, I woke up at exactly the point that Detroit had loaded the bases with no one out. I immediately turned off the computer with the absolute certainty that the ONLY way the Red Sox could win is if I DON'T watch.

When I checked the computer the next morning, the screams of delight coming from our little Hobbit-hole could be heard from Mayfair to Chelsea to Southhampton.

Next: Mallorxxchcca

Ain't life grand?
J

A New Career: September 2013

Lately, I've been thinking about starting a new career.

While it's true I was a member of the workforce, in some manner or other, from 1961 through 2009, I haven't worked a minute since the beginning of 2010. Maybe it's time I got back in the saddle and started earning my medicare.

The problem is which career path to choose. I mean at this stage of my life the options are rather limited. For example there are quite a few gardening jobs available around these parts; however, I've never been known as having any kind of green thumb except for the time I snagged some of the frosting off a Celtics victory cake.

Although I was pretty good as a teacher, I don't believe I want to go down that road again. To be perfectly honest, I'd rather have live electrodes attached to my nether regions than correct even one more student essay. I know that's irrational but please don't press me on this, people. I still bear scars.

There are many restaurants down here, but I can only cook one thing (a nice grilled ribeye) so the job would have to be ultra-specialized. I did have a brief career as a waiter but the current version of my memory wouldn't allow me to revisit that occupation. I mean I can just imagine the scene:

Customer:  Excuse me, but I've been waiting here for 45 minutes and you haven't even taken my order.
Me: Stop complaining lady. If we can go another 20 minutes, we'll break a record.

Actually, I was almost out of ideas when, luckily, that wacky and adorable junior senator from Texas, Ted Cruz, burst on the national stage and provided me with my next career.

That's right, people. I'm going to be a filibusterer.  I can deliver a filibuster with the best of 'em. You need 10 hours? No problem. For 24 hours, I do require a porta potty and a fruit salad. Actually, first the fruit salad, then the porta potty. Rates are negotiable.

I can travel anywhere at any time to filibuster. My empty date book is waiting to be filled.

There's only one caveat as I see it. I have a limited number of filibusterable topics.

I can't filibuster any serious policy issues like health care, voting rights, or climate change. While having nothing to say about a serious topic didn't stop Sen. Cruz from bloviating for 21 hours, I'm afraid my conscience wouldn't permit me to do the same.

Actually, there are exactly three topics on which I would feel comfortable filibustering:

     1. Robert DeNiro movies
     2. Obscure jazz groups from the 1960's
     3. Fun and unusual uses for kettle corn


I realize that's a very specific list and may not serve anyone's purposes. In my own behalf I would like to point out that unlike Senator Cruz, I feel bound by logic, common sense, good intentions, relevance, effectiveness, intellectual honesty, altruism, and accuracy. I promise not to throw in any gratuitous Nazi comparisons. There would be a surcharge for Dr. Seuss references.

So that's it. Hire me and you'll get a man willing to filibuster the crap out of any of the above topics. I think you'll be pleased with the results and I'm nowhere near as pricey as Ted.

Are you listening, Koch Brothers?

Ain't life grand?
J "Lungs" Getman

My Hole in One: September 2013

2013, AKA "The Year of the Joel" rolls on its merry way.

On the very same day that my brave, inspiring son, Josh, returned to work after more than a year's absence due to stomach cancer, I, outstanding golfer Joel A. Getman, nailed my first hole-in-one.

While the latter achievement pales in comparison to the former, I'd like to rhapsodize a bit more about it, if you don't mind.

Anyway, Josh has his own blog.

I know that some of you reading this have scored several holes-in-one during your golfing careers and will be less than impressed by my remarkable achievement.

To you I say, "Don't be a hater."

I also know that many of you could care less about golf and even less about anything I might accomplish on a golf course.

To you I say, "Thanks for not clogging up the golf courses and leaving open tee times for me!"

Now let me set the stage. The date was Friday, September 20, a day like any other day except that I got a hole-in-one. There was just a hint of fall in the air at the beautiful Santa Rosa Golf Club. Bright sunny skies and a slight wind made it a perfect day to play golf, especially if you were going to get a hole-in-one.

On Fridays, the Roberts group, of which I am a proud member, plays for money. There is very little cheating allowed and many of the rules of golf are strictly enforced. We all put $5.00 on the line. Four dollars goes toward a skins game and one dollar goes toward a closest-to-the-pin competition on the 16th hole, normally a 125-yard par three over water, but today playing a treacherous 138 yards over water, alligators, and a wedding party from Alabama. Whoever was going to win closest to the pin on #16 today was going to have to earn it.

I approached the 16th hole with great anticipation. If I could win the closest-to-the-pin competition, I'd win a whopping $9.00! That would be enough to put a down payment on the pitcher of beer that the winner of the competition is expected to buy for the group. In other words, it costs you $5 to get in the event; you win $9 minus the $5 which means you win $4; then you have to buy a $10 pitcher of beer which means a net loss of $6.00, which is one dollar more than the poor losers who get free beer and only lose $5.00! This is what passes for logic in the Roberts group.

But I digress. As I was saying, I eagerly anticipated my tee shot on #16; however, my heart sank as I watched playing partner Allen masterfully knock one up toward the back pin location. From the tee it looked as if Allen might only be about four feet away. That's a distance that would win on almost any Friday. Do I possibly have the skill and nerve to pull off a shot that would get inside of Allen's?

The answer to both questions is NO, but it's the Year of the Joel, so all bets are off.

I stepped up to the tee with my trusty Callaway 8-iron. This is a club with which I feel quite comfortable. I use this club often during a round, whether I'm on the fairway with target distance of about 130 yards or i'm nestled in the rough and someone is watching so I can't kick my stupid ball back out onto the fairway. I've also used this particular club when I'm foraging for lost balls in the bush and need to ward off many of the poisonous snakes that adorn the margins of our course. I'll definitely risk instant death for a chance to reclaim a Titleist ProV. This club has earned my trust and I believe the feeling is mutual.

I'm not sure what that sentence meant, but allow me to continue.

As I took my position on the tee box, I noticed the wind freshening a bit. I'm not sure why we golfers refer to the wind freshening. In every other aspect of our lives, we refer to the wind blowing harder, but in golf the wind freshens. Who am I to argue?

At any rate, with the wind freshening from left to right, I knew that a high left-handed draw would have a chance to get close to the hole. Luckily, I happen to be left-handed. I lined up left of the hole and silently prayed for three things: please let me hit this ball crisply with a draw spin; please let there be a special on pitchers of Bud Light today; please let the little hot dog place on my way home be open today.

I watch my ball fly gracefully toward the green, a beautiful high arch, and yes, it has a nice controlled draw spin, and yes, it is going to break Allen's heart, and yes, it's going to be really close to the hole, and...yes...it...rolls...gently...and...perfectly...into...the...freakin'...cup!

While Allen and Steve, my playing partners, were shouting at the thought of free beer, I immediately started thinking of my dear Ada, who had a hole-in-one during her second year of golfing and was so justifiably proud of that for the remainder of her days. Now I will finally have a plaque on the wall next to hers (Mine will be bigger of course).

Luckily, I am a member of the hole-in-one pool at my club, so I should receive a few dollars back when all the accounting is settled. Although my second prayer wasn't answered,  nobody in the Roberts group went home thirsty today, that's for sure.

When I think about 2013, the Year of the Joel, I get positively giddy. This year I met a lovely, wonderful woman who is currently delusional enough to want to share my life, I lost a nice chunk of weight and got healthier in the progress, I watched one son and his family lock arms and tell cancer where it can go, I watched another son become engaged to his wonderful Audrey, I played innumerable rounds of golf on a beautiful golf course in the company of lively, interesting companions, I experienced northern Michigan in all its beauty, I watched my beloved Boston Red Sox resurrect themselves to the point where they may well compete for the World Series, and I tied Miss Ada Getman's lowest ever score on one hole with a freakin' ONE!

Ain't life grand?
J

The Day We Blew Up Al's Ukulele: September 2013

I don't remember everything about the day we blew up Al's ukulele.

For example, I'm not sure if there were two or three co-conspirators. I know Andy and I were there. Of course Al was there. After all, this act of mini-terrorism took place in his house on Gallivan Boulevard, in Dorchester. I'm not sure about anyone else. Morris? Bick? Joey? Somehow, I keep coming back to the notion that it was just Andy and myself.

I was 15 years old, one of the younger members of the Aardvarks, a club of like-minded Jewish kids from Boston who would congregate at the YMHA Hecht House in Dorchester. There were a number of boys' clubs at the Y. They all had more traditional, expected teenage boys club names like The Knights, The Sultans, or The Imperials. The fact that we called ourselves The Aardvarks tells you most of what you need to know about us. We were...ahhh...different. Almost all of us attended Boston Latin School. We were more likely to be preppy or "collegiate" than "greasy" or dangerous. What we lacked in black leather or studded boots we made up for with wit. We dug Lenny Bruce or Pete Seeger much more than Elvis. Was there a nerdy, slide rule aspect to the Aardvarks? Of course, to some degree. But we could field a very respectable basketball team and we somehow had no shortage of dates. Several of us even married those dates, who were themselves members of girls' clubs at the same Y. Their clubs had girl-group names like The Emanuelles or The Crescendos. As it turned out, I met the woman who would be my wife at an Aardvark-Crescendo social.

Becoming an Aardvark was mostly a matter of knowing one of the established members and being "sponsored" for membership. In this respect, it was not that far removed from the mafia. If one of us stood before the assembled Aardvarks and introduced someone as "a friend," there was a very good chance that he would be approved for membership.

It was in just such a manner that I began my years as an Aardvark, having been sponsored by Andy and Bick, two of the club's original members. To say that the three years I spent as an Aardvark helped mold me into whatever I am today would be an absolute truth. The Aardvarks influenced me much more than my parents, my teachers, my non-Aardvark friends, or my younger brother ever could. My primary identity, the way I saw myself was not as a Jew or a Bostonian or an American. I was an Aardvark. Period.

Al was an established Aardvark by the time I came along. I immediately took a liking to him. Somehow he seemed older than his years, more mature and responsible. Others must have felt the same way because I remember at some point Al was elected President of the Aardvarks. He ran the meetings with a parliamentary flair that was not lost on this young acolyte. It wasn't that Al was above some of the  sophomoric high jinks that helped all of us bond as Aardvarks. I seem to remember Al being involved in the great laundromat rock wash caper on Blue Hill Avenue and I am quite sure that Al served as the "reaction man" in our mooning escapades on summer evenings in Dorchester. (In case you're wondering, the reaction man watched carefully for the shocked reactions of those being mooned while the rest of us performed other duties in this Navy Seal-worthy operation. Also, in case you're wondering, it was I who very willingly provided the buttocks portion of this activity.) Al was a perfect reaction man. His descriptions were accurate and thorough. He was our Walter Cronkite, and we trusted him implicitly.

As I mentioned earlier, I very much looked up to and respected Al, even though we were only one year apart in school. So how did it come to pass that on the day in question in, say, 1962, Andy and I decided that we would blow up Al's ukulele?

I've been asking myself that lately.

Was it because Al was one of the only Aardvarks who lived in a single family home instead of an apartment? That hardly seems like a reason to blow up someone's beloved stringed instrument.

Was it simply a case of ukulele-envy that prompted Andy and myself to stuff a bunch of firecrackers into the sound chamber of the poor thing and laugh hysterically as the cheap wood was ripped apart by the force of the ensuing explosion? I hardly think so. I'm sure if there had been no ukulele handy, we would have blown something else up.

Did we not like Al at that moment in time for some reason? To the contrary, all of us loved Al. He was a young man you could count on. He was bright. He was funny. He was honest. He had ideas. He was a leader. He was even kind. Can you imagine? Here was a teenager who was not afraid or ashamed to show kindness to his peers?

No, the only reason I can think of 50+ years after the deed is that Andy and I instinctively knew that Al would appreciate the irony and randomness of the act. We knew that after an initial angry and shocked reaction, Al would see his two good friends rolling around the floor laughing uncontrollably among the shards of Hawaiian wood and smokey firecracker residue and he would shake his head, smack us on our shoulders, and join in the laughter.

And that's exactly what he did.

My wonderful friend Al (pictured on the right above) passed away suddenly last week while taking a walk with his beautiful wife, Gerri. Soon others will speak of him glowingly with regards to his professional life as a professor, a therapist, an author, and a counselor. His heartbroken wife and children will praise him lovingly as a husband, father and grandfather. Al was a remarkable person and deserves all these and more accolades.

But I will always remember Al laughing along with Andy and me on the day we blew up his ukulele.

He was the best of all of us.
J

Impeach Obama: August 2013

No more time for humor, I'm afraid. This one hits hard.

It is time to impeach President Obama.

I write this with great sadness. After all, I voted for this man twice for president. In 2008 I was thrilled with the election of our first Hawaiian president. If I'm not mistaken this leaves Alaska, Guam, and the new fun state of Northern Colorado as the only non- president-producing territories.

My euphoria however has lately been replaced by complete disgust over some of this man's recent actions and policies. Luckily, several of our fine Republican Senators and Representatives are on the case and it shouldn't be very long before we can get down to the serious business of impeaching this goofy Hawaiian.

I mean the jobs, the economy, the immigrants, the schools, the budget, the seniors, and the drones are all going to have to wait because we're going full impeachment mode. Not a moment too soon, if you ask me.

Fire up Fox News. Tune in Rush, Glenn, and Sarah. It's going to be a wild ride.

You may ask what evil has this poor man perpetrated to make him worthy of impeachment.

Don't.

Evidently some of our worthy Republicans have found an arcane loophole to the time-honored constitutional impeachment threshold of "HIGH CRIMES AND MISDEMEANORS."

It's either the "Governing while black" offense or the "If I say the word Impeachment, many of my constituents will start drooling" strategy.

Either way, count me in. I'm really looking forward to the actual trial. The parade of witnesses should be impressive: Monica Lewinsky, Saul Alinsky, Haldeman and Ehrlichman, The Prime Minister of Kenya, several gay married food stamp recipients, the Cincinnati IRS office, a bunch of "takers" to be named later, and Senator Ted Cruz. I realize that some of these people are dead, but I doubt that will stop the hard charging GOP.

Of course for any impeachment to proceed, a vote must be taken in the House of Representatives. With only a majority of votes needed, that one will pass. I mean with Representatives like Michele Bachmann, Louis Gohmert, Steve Stockman, and Daniel Issa, how could it not?

Once it passes the House, the actual trial will be brought to the Senate. The presiding judge will be Chief Justice Roberts.

People, I just don't think this is going to be a problem...wink, wink.

Of course this little fantasy was inspired by recent comments made by some Republicans at constituent meetings. I assume most elected Republicans repudiate such nonsense, but if I acknowledged that earlier, I wouldn't have much of a piece, would I?

I guess the real point here is that the Tea Party fanatics provide no end of material to brilliant political satirists like John Stewart and Lewis Black, or leftish commentators like Rachel Maddow or Chris Matthews.

Hell, there's even enough right wing crappola left over for a hack like me.

It sure is a good time to have cable.

Ain't life grand?
J

Tidbits: August 2013

...As you can plainly see, I am still unable to take a proper sunset photo. If some sunset photos are breathtaking, I would say in all honesty that my sunset photos are yawnworthy. They make the viewer feel that it was ok to have missed last night's sunset because it obviously wasn't all that special.

...The other day I happened to read about the impending reappearance of the Perseid Meteor Shower. I had seen this magnificent celestial display one other time on a clear cool night in New Hampshire. Ada and I set the alarm for two am, sat out on the deck of our Eastman condo and marveled at dozens of shooting stars. I'd show you a photo of it all but, well, you know. Anyway, I thought it would be fun for Nancy and me to experience this natural wonder, but an interesting change has happened to me since that last experience. I LOVE TO SLEEP! When I went to set the alarm, I couldn't get my fingers to agree. I rationalized that it might be a cloudy night. The Earth might suddenly turn on its axis. I might go  momentarily blind. In the end, I decided to watch the meteor shower on my big ass HD tv. To make up for not getting up in the middle of the night, I turned off the lights and pulled the shades. I'm not proud of any of this.

...If you can make your way over to Marie's Bistro on charming Rt. 30A in Blue Mountain Beach on a Friday or Saturday night, you'll get to hear the music of Ike Bartley and Tim Jackson. You won't be disappointed. Ike plays tenor and alto sax and sings. Tim sings and plays guitar. Assisted by some computer generated background music, these two pros fill the room with familiar tunes like "Drift Away", "Georgia on my Mind", or "Lean on Me." It's impossible not to thoroughly enjoy them. When you combine their music with some wine and maybe a pasta dish or salad, you feel very lucky to be alive. Next to my golf club and the Gulf of Mexico, I think this group is the best thing the Panhandle has to offer.

...The new voting restrictions enacted by the ever-vigilant Republican Governor and Legislature of North Carolina should go a long way toward curbing the epidemic of voter fraud which has recently plagued that proud state. While it may be true that there have only been about three cases of voter fraud in North Carolina in the past 275 years, you can't be too careful. Next on North Carolina's Republican legislative docket: lengthier prison terms for pirates and the removal of the phrases "global warming," "Darwin's theory," and "gravity" from public school textbooks. Rush must be proud.

...Nancy and I will be in England and Mallorca during the last two weeks of October. I mention this because there is a better than average chance that during this same time period, my beloved Boston Red Stockings will be vying for the World Series title against the Atlanta Braves, or Los Angeles Dodgers or, hopefully, Pittsburgh Pirates. Of course before they can get to that point, the Stockings will have to make the playoffs and defeat the other American League opponents, including the mighty Tigers from Detroit. Not an easy task but certainly possible. What will I do if I am unable to watch the Crimson Hose in one of their World Series appearances? Luckily, I'll be in the company of Steve,  Carol, and Jamie Davidson, three of England's most rabid and devoted fans of the Rouge Buskins. Jamie is a bit of a computer whiz, so I'm hoping he can steal a signal or commit whatever minor electronic felony would apply.

...It has been a very rainy summer down here on the Panhandle. As I'm typing this, it's coming down in buckets, sheets and sheets of rain. The delightful forecast for the upcoming week includes six to eight more inches of the stuff. When it rains this much around here, people have a hard time figuring out what they want to do. The elimination of golf, beach, fishing, and swimming pools from the list of available options creates a dearth of possibilities. Basically it's shopping, movies, or an afternoon of "Love It or List It." Speaking of movies, Nancy and I saw "The Way Way Back" the other day and we were both blown away by the performance of Sam Rockwell. I have enjoyed Rockwell's acting since I first saw him in "Galaxy Quest" and "The Green Mile." He's one of those actors you remember, even if you weren't crazy about the film. Anyway, I can now tell you everything you ever needed to know about either listing or redecorating your property. The key is to get on one of these redecorating reality shows! Everything gets taken care of in a half hour and you'll always like the results.

...Years ago I saw the play "Angels in America" in Boston. It was a challenging work. At some point I noticed that author and critic John Updike was sitting next to me. When the play was over,  I was sorely tempted to ask this brilliant man of letters, "Mr. Updike, excuse me but did I like that?" I mention this imaginary anecdote because I can't make up my mind about the Showtime series "Ray Donovan." On the one hand I have been mesmerized by Jon Voigt's brilliant portrayal of Mickey Donovan, a repugnant Boston hood; however, the plot twists have left me dizzier than one of those Michigan people who roll down the Sleeping Bear Dunes. I record the episodes and actually have to wait to watch them until I know I have sufficient energy. During a typical episode Liev Schreiber's character will have to deal with 12 crises. Even Kiefer Sutherland never had to put out that many fires. And he had 24 hours. I wish John Updike were still around.

...I've decided that I was meant to be a low-tech reader and have abandoned the use of my Nook in favor of actual books with pages. I'm not sure why I prefer actual books to the electronic version. Maybe it has something to do with wanting onlookers to know what I'm reading. Maybe I enjoy the act of manually turning a page. Maybe it's the beautiful leather Sam 'n Sara bookmarks I can use.

...Or maybe it's because I don't know how this damn thing works.

Ain't life grand?

J

You Can Go Home Again: July 2013

With Michigan in the rear view mirror, Nancy, the Malibu, and I set our course for ol' New England. I was so taken by the beauty of the Charlevoix-Petoskey-Harbor Springs area, I vowed to return next summer, hopefully for a month's rental in July. We'll need another couple to join us to make it affordable. Any takers?

Now I was eager to show Nancy the simple pleasures of a rocky coastline, a rocky meadow, and Ben and Jerry's Rocky Road.

As a matter of fact, I think I've got the perfect slogan for New England:

"Need rocks? We got 'em!"

We started our exploration of New England in Vermont, as we cut across the state on our way to Grantham, NH. We had a fine barbeque lunch at a funky market in Bromley and made our way along venerable Rt. 11 to I 91 and Claremont whose once proud mills now tell a story of decay and despair. Newport sang a similar sad song as we headed into Grantham, NH and Eastman. This was home for 10 years. I will never forget the many kindnesses extended to Ada and me during our time there. More of the same were offered to Nancy and me by our wonderful hosts, Brad and Carol. I managed to get nine holes of golf in with Brad while Nancy and Carol had a nice walk. It's almost impossible to have anything but a nice walk in Eastman. I developed my golf game, such as it is, at the Eastman Golf Links. I believe that anyone who learns how to play golf at Eastman has a leg up on golfers who learn elsewhere . There isn't a flat lie on the whole course and the woods are lovely, dark, deep, and right next to every fairway. If I'm a decent golfer today (depends on whom you ask),  Eastman deserves the credit.

From Eastman we made the two-hour drive to Boston. Prior to checking into our swanky digs at the Westin Copley Place, we stopped in Lexington to help my brother Marvin and his wife Sharon celebrate niece Emily's engagement to Jon. It was a lovely family gathering made all the more special by the presence of Josh, Cindy, and the twins. Josh is finishing up his final round of chemo and has many days when he feels lousy. This was one of them, but he bravely stuck it out and added another measure of inspiration to an already impressive catalogue. Cindy has been a rock throughout and Sam 'n Sara are still the undefeated and untied grandkid champions of the world. Come to grips with this, and all you envious grandparents out there will feel better.

Speaking of feeling better, Josh is hoping to start feeling better after his final chemo infusion this week. It has been exactly a year from his initial diagnosis of serious stomach cancer to his final infusion. In the course of that year he has had innumerable rounds of debilitating chemo, radiation, and surgery to remove his stomach and spleen. He has endured countless sleepless nights, nausea and stomach distress, lack of strength and energy, to say nothing of the stress of being unable to work. The bravery and grace that Josh, Cindy, Sam 'n Sara have shown during this trying year are enough to bring this lame blogger to his knees. Now Josh is at a point where he may actually start the process of feeling like himself, little by little, day by day, meal by meal. I gave Josh a watch when his ordeal began. It was just a cheap watch, nothing special, but I liked the symbolic value of that particular gift. He wears that watch proudly. It's keeping perfect time.

The next day, Nancy was "presented" to a number of friends and family at The Cheesecake Factory Restaurant in Braintree. To no one's surprise, she handled that pressure-packed situation gracefully and with aplomb. (Actually, I'm not positive about the aplomb; I just always wanted to use that word in a sentence and this seemed like a good time.) It was wonderful reconnecting. Even more wonderful was the cheesecake.

Then it was a couple of days exploring the beautiful city of Boston. When you see Boston through a newcomer's eyes, it is a dazzling city. From our base in Copley Square, we could walk to the Charles and view the sailboats, saunter down Newbury Street and pretend to buy stuff, head down Boylston to the Public Garden with its swan boats, ducklings, and tulips, cross over to the Common where a free music festival was in full force, proceed to City Hall and Quincy Market to see bricks and eat food, and finally cross over to the harbor to understand Boston's unique place in the universe. What a walk! What a city!

We arranged for a Duck Tour the next day. The driver-tour guide was excellent. The information he imparted was just detailed enough. These guys really have it down to a science. The "cruise" in the Charles basin on a perfect summer day was wonderful. It's a tour worth taking even if you're familiar with Boston's glorious and colorful history.

We ate enough to feed all of Nebraska and half of Iowa. And those folks know how to eat. After we had cleaned out most of the restaurants and convenience stores, we bid Boston adieu and headed for Old Cape Cod.

I've always felt that visiting Cape Cod in the summer is one of the crueler jokes one can play on oneself. You head down Rt. 3, thinking your experience is going to be all quaint and Patti Page-ish, and the next thing you know you're in bumper to bumper traffic trying to snag a parking space at a beach that's so crowded you can't unfold your beach chair for fear of putting someone's eye out, so you head off to an overpriced, understaffed restaurant where your Lobster Newburg has nary a trace of either lobster or newburg, so you visit a gift shoppe and can't decide which unique gift to buy so you visit the gift shoppe next door which has the same selection of unique gifts so you buy a candle that smells like cranberries and try to get back over the bridge before the nuclear plant goes all Homer Simpson on your ass.

Unless of course you're visiting the Razins or the Millers. I would subject myself to any of the Cape's particular tortures for a chance to hang with these two families. We have been good friends since before they built the Cape Cod Canal. The Razins visit the Cape each year. They wanted to find a vacation spot that reminded them of their beloved New Jersey. The Millers live on the Cape which definitely isn't the same as visiting there. It was wonderful to see these folks, catch up on all of their grandchildren's escapades, introduce them to Nancy, and laugh at all of our Aardvark misadventures from so many years ago. The trip to the Cape also gave Nancy a chance to visit with old friends from Michigan. A grand reunion tour.

With traffic.

And candles.

When you leave The Cape, there is only one place where you can duplicate that kind of traffic neurosis. That's right, people. Nancy and I were going to push the envelope on this 4,000 mile relationship buster: we were headed for The Big Apple.

The reason for this detour to Manhattan was to visit old friend Vin and his wife Pam. Vin and I went to Boston Latin together; however our friendship was formed when we were both working at the Quincy Patriot Ledger newspaper. Vin was an award-winning photographer and I was a reporter who wouldn't know a lead if it walked up and bought me a drink. The four of us had a great visit in Vin and Pam's Lower Eastside apartment. Wine was consumed and, somehow, my stories got funnier.

Funnier than Vin's at least!

The trip to Manhattan also gave me a chance to test one of my pet theories. I have always thought that the shortest time measurement known to man is the amount of time it takes a New Yorker to blow his or her horn after a light turns green. I call this amount of time a "nano-beep". The quaint, bucolic streets of the little town we call New York City echo with the welcoming sounds of millions of nano-beeps.

How charming!

From Manhattan we fired up the GPS and let Roada direct us to the Squirrel Hill neighborhood of Pittsburgh, the home of Nancy's brother Danny and his wife Rosanne.What a fabulous city neighborhood. The homes in this largely Jewish part of town are stately, old, and proud. What they may lack in modern amenities, they more than make up for with a sense of history, These homes have seen it all. Meeting Danny and Rosanne was a real pleasure. They love Pittsburgh and are eager to share their city and especially their neighborhood with visitors, even arrogant Bostonians. Hopefully Nancy and I will be able to reciprocate. This visit completed the "Nancy Sibling" portion of the journey. It's been a pleasure meeting them all.

I couldn't believe how charming I was.

Danny and Rosanne provided us with a magnificent, ecumenical breakfast of bagels, lox, cream cheese and wonderful, strong coffee which was more than enough to fuel our next segment: Asheville and son Matt. Matt was flying solo for a few days; his wonderful fiancee Audrey was away visiting family. He invited us to his home in West Asheville where he had prepared his signature dish: Chicken Francaise. This great meal was punctuated by fabulous displays of affection from Farley von Fartzelheimer, Matt and Audrey's spectacular pooch, part Chocolate Lab part Bunsen Burner part Ibis.

The visit only got better as Nancy and I made our way to the French Broad Chocolate Lounge to hear Matt and his Dizzy Chicken Trio perform. It doesn't get much better than listening to a bass-guitar-tenor sax trio playing jazz standards like Jobim's Desafinado while eating world class artisan chocolate desserts.

It's even better when your son is making the music.

We left Asheville for the final leg of this journey, a visit with Nancy's daughter and son-in-law, Dana and Ted, and grandchildren Gavin and Marae.  Before we arrived at their suburban Atlanta home, we stopped off in Landrum, South Carolina to spend a lovely day with Peggy and Dave, old friends of Nancy. A harrowing four-hour drive through torrential thunderstorms later and we pulled into Ted and Dana's driveway.

Thank you, Malibu.

Ain't life grand?
J







 

    

Rt. 66 (continued): July 2013

After leaving the East Lansing area, our road trip continued with a three night stay in Petoskey, on the shores of Lake Michigan. Petoskey is normally a three hour drive from Lansing; I managed to make it in five, thanks to Nancy's jealous and petty GPS unit, Roada, who is obviously trying to sabotage our relationship.

On the way to Petoskey, we stopped at world famous Sleeping Bear Dunes National Park.
Sleeping Bear Dunes is Michigan's answer to Disney World. Thousands and thousands of Michiganders flock to Empire, Michigan every summer to visit the park. Instead of high tech rides and cute cartoon characters, Sleeping Bear Dunes offers the visitors dirt. Lots and lots of dirt.

The following picture barely scratches the surface with regards to how much dirt there is at Sleeping Bear Dunes National Park:

And what do the visitors do surrounded by all this dirt? They like to roll in it and walk up and down it. That's basically what they do.

Evidently it doesn't take much to capture the imagination of a Michigander.

Now Petoskey is another matter altogether. What Petoskey lacks in dirt it makes up for in beautiful lakeside property. It is one of those fairy tale kinds of towns where everyone's front lawn is perfect, the summer season is naturally air conditioned by cool breezes off Lake Michigan, and the stately Victorian homes transport you back in time to an earlier, gentler version of America.

Pre-Glenn Beck.

Of course the major attraction in this area of Michigan is the quaint, fudge-filled Mackinac (pronounced Mackinaw) Island. Mackinac lies within the confines of angry ol' Lake Huron, very close to where Huron and Michigan intersect. There are two ways to get to the island. You can take a 16-minute ferry from Mackinac City or you can cross the majestic Mackinac Bridge over to Michigan's Upper Peninsula and take a shorter ferry ride. We opted for the longer ride. Angry skies, wild winds, and a whole lot of spray prevented anyone from sitting on the outside upper deck on our voyage out to the island. Cars are not permitted on the island. Pedestrians, bicycles, and horse-drawn carriages dominate the streets. Mackinac is evidently the draught horse capital of the world. Watching those majestic equines pull wagonloads of fudge-filled tourists up Mackinac's considerable hills made me feel glad I wasn't born a horse.

On the island one of America's legendary hotels, The Grand Hotel, sits high atop a bluff overlooking the lake. The Grand Hotel is so grand, they charge $10 if you just want to have a look inside the lobby. People, you won't find any Comfort Inns pulling that kind of crapola.

The weather had improved considerably by lunchtime, so Nancy, Margie, and I dined al fresco. Then we put our clothes on and had lunch outside. If we had closed our eyes, it wouldn't have been hard to imagine that we were three wealthy 19th century vacationers from Grosse Pointe, friends of the Fords, who had taken the train and steamship to the island and were enjoying a lovely repast as our bags were being off loaded from the boat and brought up to the Grand by horse and carriage.

Unfortunately, we ate with our eyes open. It was one guy from Dorchester, two Stead girls, and an overworked credit card.

Still a nice lunch though.

You may have noticed I mentioned fudge several times. This is because Mackinac is famous for its fudge. Several companies have been churning the stuff out since the 1880's. Margie was nice enough to spring for a pound and a half of the velvety smooth treat and we certainly ate our fill. I personally smashed my own fudge eating record by consuming what can only be called a frightening amount of fudge in a very short time. It's ok though. I managed to find a diet that includes fudge, so we're good.

The boat ride back to Mackinac City was thrilling. The sea (lake) was angry that day, my friends. I suggested that we brave the winds and waves and sit outside on the top deck. What was I thinking? As I have told Nancy many times, I am something of an idiot, and she should never listen to anything I ever say. She's slowly coming around to that reality. Everyone sitting on the right side of the boat was drenched and freezing by the time we got to our destination. Luckily, we sat on the left, so we were just freezing.

I think I now understand why they wrote a song about the Edmund Fitzgerald.

On our last day in Petoskey, Nancy and Margie headed off to shop. I took advantage of the opportunity and booked a round of golf at the Belvedere Golf Club in nearby Charlevoix. What an absolute gem! Belvedere has been the host course for the past 37 Michigan Men's Amateur Championships. Tom Watson has been a member there since he was a kid. Sam Snead and Walter Hagen played there. Luckily I was paired up with Bob and his wife Marissa, course veterans. It's not the kind of place you would want to play "blind." What was great about this 1925 masterpiece, aside from its pristine condition, was its traditional feel and look. I felt as if I should be using my niblick and mashie. There were no housing developments surrounding the course; the cart paths were only present at the beginnings and ends of holes. Each tee box was right next to the preceding green. Giant trees seemed to be located in exactly the right locations to cause difficulty approaching the perfect, undulating greens. If Mackinac Island is floating in a time warp, so is Belvedere Golf Club. I hope I can return to this part of the state again, to have another go at this beautiful, devilish gem.

With that the sun set over our memorable adventure in Pure Michigan. Now it's on to impure New England.

 

Ain't life grand?

J

Route 66: July 2013

Well, Route 66 this ain't! I mean first of all those guys (George Maharis and Martin Millner) drove a Corvette. Nancy and I are driving a Corvette's sleepy, overweight, palsied grandfather, a Malibu.

Second, they actually traveled the USA along the now forgotten, highly romanticized Rt. 66, one of America's original east-west highways.You'll see Amarillo...Gallup, New Mexico, as the great Nat King Cole/Bobby Troupe song goes. We're doing most of our journey on Interstate 65, which heads north-south from Alabama to Chicago. The only vaguely romantic thing about I 65 is that it goes through Louisville, Kentucky.

Given enough bourbon, I suppose romance is possible.

Finally, every Friday night from about 1960 until 1964, those two guys found some kind of adventure or intrigue right there on good ol' Route 66. Never a dull moment for Maharis, Millner, or the Corvette.

At the first sign of adventure or intrigue along I 65, Nancy and I are turning back.

What follows are the high and low lites of the first portion of our 4,000 mile journey from Miramar Beach Florida to Michigan, New England, Asheville, and back again. Not that it matters but some of what you are about to read is true.

Day One-Ten Hours in the Confederacy

This will have been the longest driving day of the trip. We headed north from Miramar Beach at 5 am and called it a day at 3 pm in a Best Western in Elizabethtown, Kentucky. Along the way we drove through a Civil Rights era all-star roster of famous and infamous locales: Montgomery, Selma, and Birmingham, Alabama. The recent decision on voting rights by our sad Supreme Court will probably put these places on the map again, and not in a good way. We drove past Nashville and stopped just short of Louisville. Elizabethtown is of course famous for being named after a woman named Town. Our motel was nicely situated just off the highway, surrounded by a smorgasbord of American corporate eateries: Ruby Tuesday, Texas Roadhouse, Cracker Barrel, Waffle House, etc. etc. etc.We made a bad restaurant choice ethically, financially, and especially calorically. I'll leave it at that.

Just a brief word about our room at the Best Western. There was a deep dish whirlpool tub in the bathroom. Nice touch, and my back was in need of such amenities after a day of driving. The real noteworthy aspect of all this is that there was no wall separating the bedroom from the bathroom. There was half a wall with a huge open window with only a flimsy curtain as a separation.

Awkward, right? And I am left with the following impression: There is a lot more going on in Elizabethtown, Kentucky than meets the eye!

Days Two through Six-Pure Michigan

An uneventful day's drive brought us from Kentucky to Michigan via Indiana. During the course of this pleasant journey, Nancy and I decided we would knock off one of our bucket list items by attempting to scale Indiana's highest mountain. We rented gear from a local mountaineering establishment just outside of Ft. Wayne, carefully checked our oxygen tanks, and sought out the services of a local Sherpa. This grizzled veteran of many a successful expedition was incredibly knowledgeable. He cleverly pointed out the proper trail system we should use to assail the 32 foot peak just outside a rest stop along Interstate 69 and 38 seconds later Nancy and I triumphantly stood atop Mt. Hoosier. The glorious view we enjoyed atop that majestic peak will stay with both of us for a long time. The photo below does not do it justice.

The next six days were spent in the company of Nancy's sister, Margie, and brother-in-law, Terry. They have lived in E. Lansing for many years in a beautiful craftsman-style home whose walls are decorated with many loving family memories. A beautiful American home. One of the finer features of this visit was the screened-in front porch. There was magic on that porch. Anyone who sits on that porch on a lovely summer's evening, plied with Terry's special popcorn and an adult beverage or two, will instantly become some kind of modern version of Mark Twain, spinning yarns, telling tales, watching the fireflies do their dance, reminiscing about youthful transgressions...such a special porch. Margie and Terry should charge admission.

I attended a lovely 4th of July barbeque where I met Sue and Bob, two more of Nancy's 72 siblings. We filled the following days with short trips to destinations in that region of Michigan such as Ann Arbor and Saugatuck.  Our day trip to Saugatuck was lovely. Saugatuck is one of those scenic, old, artsy, Kilwins-filled towns, similar to Ogunquit in Maine or Woodstock in Vermont. On the day we visited a local craft fair was in progress. You might not believe this, but I swear every legal citizen of Michigan, including the Upper Peninsula, was in Saugatuck on that day. The narrow, quaint, Norman Rockwell streets were lined with parked cars on both sides. Parking was at such a premium, we were forced to leave the Malibu in Wisconsin and take two ferries and a wagon train to get back to the gift shops and, most importantly, the Kilwins.

The next day was spent about an hour away in Ann Arbor, where Nancy's nephew Philip Stead and his wife Erin reside. Some of you may know this pair since they are award winning children's book authors and illustrators. I'm talking Caldecott Medal people, which Erin won for her incredible illustrations in Philip's wonderful story A Sick Day for Amos McGee. Check them out on Amazon and you will be delighted with their work. What a thrill it was to meet these two young geniuses and share a lunch with them at Zingerman's, Ann Arbor's answer to New York's Stage Deli. One memorable corned beef on rye with coleslaw and Russian dressing and a pickle to die for, and I was transported back to Blue Hill Avenue or Coolidge Corner or Beacon Street. Most of the great delicatessens are gone now sad to say, but Zingerman's of Ann Arbor, Michigan, lives on.

Oh, there was a pretty big university in town also.

As memorable and wonderful as anything I did during this part of the trip was a long-awaited reunion with an old Temple University chum, Joel Weiss. Joel has lived in Lansing for many years. We hadn't seen each other since 1974, life getting in the way and all that. We re-connected a few years ago on Facebook and have been trying to figure out a way to get together since then. Breakfast at FlapJacks provided the perfect setting for our reunion. I won't go into much of what we talked about. A lot of it was deeply personal, each of us having lost a spouse to a devastating illness, so we had that going for us. To see someone who was such an important part of my life when I was figuring out who I was, someone who made me laugh every day, someone who (very predictably) devoted his life and career to helping other people as Joel did, was as refreshing and uplifting as...sorry, but this is exactly where I wish I were an actual writer because all I can think of is a tall glass of cold lemonade and I just instinctively know that doesn't work at all! I hope you can fill in the simile with an appropriate image. I'll leave it at this: seeing Joel again after all these years was something I will treasure. We will see each other again soon. There are many more memories to plumb.

More on this journey to follow in the coming days.

Ain't life grand?
J

On Being Sponsored: June 2013

I am proud to announce that my golf game has improved to the point where I am being considered for sponsorships by several exciting companies. It's a dream come true. After all, it's not every day that a 66-year-old, formerly husky, 10-handicapper would be on any company's sponsorship radar (the only possible exception being Big Bubba's Funeral Home of Defuniak Springs, Florida), but with several recent rounds in the 70's, including a first-ever below par back nine, I guess it was only a matter of time before some companies saw the commercial possibilities in having ME festooned with their logos.

Oh, and in case you're wondering, I'm not the least bit upset about possibly losing my amateur status.

I play golf at least three mornings a week. Like clockwork. I assume it was that kind of predictability and stability that attracted some of these companies in the first place. After all, I'm sure they rarely find anyone with such dedication, with such a love of the game, with so little of what most normal people would call a LIFE!

Any company with the good sense to sponsor some or all of me will get plenty of exposure. I mean in a good way. I always start my round with a session at the driving range. There are usually throngs of people gathered at the range awaiting my 7:00 am arrival, hoping to get a glimpse of what one fan has dubbed "a textbook swing." (In the interest of full disclosure, he has never indicated which textbook.)

When I mentioned throngs of fans, I may have overstated it a bit. Usually there are two other living creatures on the driving range when I arrive; one is Jay the guy who picks up the balls, and the other is a lively rabbit who doubles as my swing coach. Still, a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. I'm not sure how that applies, but I always enjoyed that saying.

After about a half hour, during which I progress from my wedges to my mid-irons to my woods, I feel loose and ready to tackle the very formidable Santa Rosa Golf Club. Here is where the sponsorships will really pay off.

The massive galleries are legendary at Santa Rosa, which of course increases the value of my sponsorships. For example, our Monday-Wednesday-Friday group usually consists of three foursomes. That's 12 guys people. That's practically a demographic right there. When you add the people who line the fairways hoping to get a glimpse of me as I waddle past, you still get a grand total of 12.

Hey, at least nobody usually drops out by this point.

It's nothing to sneeze at, and the following companies have seen the obvious financial benefits inherent in placing their corporate logos on various parts of me:

Dairy Queen
     I was an obvious candidate for a Dairy Queen sponsorship. Their corporate logo will be placed on my golf shirt, directly over my navel. It's a perfect match. My entire oeuvre screams Dairy Queen. A medium vanilla cone with butterscotch dip would be my calling card, I believe. In fact, I have made provisions to spend my eternal rest in a vat of the aforementioned butterscotch concoction. Each of the mourners will be given a vanilla cone and they can "dip" me to their hearts' content. Hey, it's as natural a sponsorship as OJ's deal with Avis.

I Tunes
     I will be having my ears sponsored by I Tunes. There will be tiny I Tunes logos tattooed on both of my ears. Admittedly, these won't be visible to the majority of fans so my caddie, in the event I ever have one, will hold up a sign that reads, "When you get a minute, have a close look at Joel's ears."

That's called marketing, people.

Fiat
     Now that Fiat has entered the American market again after a long absence, I was an obvious choice for sponsorship. After all, I was the last person to own an actual Fiat before this huge company was banned from America's highway system. My Fiat was a lime green abomination that would start but wouldn't stop. I'll be proudly wearing their logo on the soles of my golf shoes because that was the only way I could retard the damn thing's progress.

Twix
     For most of my life, I have spent every waking minute plotting and scheming a way to ingest yet another Twix bar. Evidently word about this magnificent obsession reached corporate headquarters and the Twix marketing team saw the obvious advantages of having me serve as their model and spokesperson. Instead of a standard golf bag, I will be using a mock up of a Twix candy wrapper, all gold and red. When I pull out say a five iron, it will be as if I'm pulling out another delicious Twix bar. My agent worked out a terrific compensation package for me. I get two Twix Bars a month mailed to me. It's a better deal in the winter. Less melting.

Rogaine
    Finally, my golf hat will be sponsored by Rogaine. It's a good deal, but I had to promise never to take it off.

You probably saw that coming.

Ain't life grand?
J