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