Standing My Ground: February 2014

Yes sir. From now on I'm "standing my ground."

Consider yourselves warned! As long as I shall be a resident of The Weird State of Florida, I shall be standing my ground.

I've been looking for a law like this for quite a long time.

Thanks to the legislative action team at ALEC, the silly, goofy Koch Brothers, and other strange creatures on the paranoid fringes of the right, Florida has truly embraced this statute.

In case you need a Florida jurisprudence review, last year heartthrob George Zimmerman was acquitted of killing Trayvon Martin. Martin was eating Skittles aggressively so Zimmerman stood his ground and killed him. The brilliant jury found his murder of the hoodied teenager justified. It didn't matter to these 12 genius-citizens that Martin was unarmed or that Zimmerman initiated the confrontation. Martin was walking home while black, which, evidently was reason enough for Zimmerman to stand his ground and kill the teenager a few blocks from his house.

Plus, he was eating Skittles.

That's the first time I realized there is something special going on in this state.

Now we have the case of Michael Dunn, another poster boy for Florida's bizarre law. This dude had pulled into a convenience store parking lot to get some more wine. He and his fiancee had already had a few belts that evening but the night was young. A car full of black teenagers had pulled up near him, playing music loudly. Check that...they were playing music very loudly! Dunn asked them to lower the music. Jordan Davis, 17, told him to mind his business. Dunn went back to his car, retrieved his gun, (as much a part of any self-respecting Floridian's car equipment as a cup holder or Altoids), and proceeded to fire 10 shots into the teens' car indiscriminately, killing Davis.

After standing his ground, Dunn left his ground in a hurry and was found by state police about 125 miles away where he was ordering take out pizza for him and his fiancee.

As one does.

Dunn claims that the shooting was justified because he feared for his life. He claims he saw a shotgun in the car. He is completely without remorse and, from what I can tell, would do the exact same thing tomorrow if the situation presented itself.

A potential problem for Dunn is that no gun, shot or otherwise, has been found. No witness saw any weapon. I'm unaware if there were any Skittles. Dunn, who appears to be about 45 or 50, didn't even tell his fiancee about the alleged weapon until the police showed up.

Now, this sounded like a problem to me, but that was before I heard his defense lawyer explain some of the nuances of "Stand Your Ground" to the jury. It seems that one does not have to be actually threatened to start shooting. All that has to happen is that one "perceives a threat" and then it's BLAM, there will be blood!

If you can convince the police that you thought there mighta been a kinda possible threat, you probably won't even have to go to trial. Heck, if your victim is poor and black, you might be out of that police station while your take out pizza is still hot.

As of this writing, Dunn's jury has been "deliberating" for three days. That's three days this murderer did not have to spend in jail because of this ridiculous law.

A number of Republican-governed states have eagerly adopted this law over the past few years. I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say that had this incident happened in a non "Stand Your Ground" state, Dunn would already be well on his way toward becoming an institutional man and Jordan Davis's heartbroken parents would feel at least some semblance of justice.

So what does this all mean as far as your humble blogger is concerned? I shall keep close tabs on which states allow us red-blooded Americans to stand our ground, and, when I find myself in one of those states, you all better watch out. Don't be munchin' Skittles near me. Don't be wearin' a hoodie. And definitely don't be playin' your music loud. I won't be (held) responsible for what happens if you do!

Second Amendment Solutions, baby!

Ain't life grand (and precious) ?
J

PS: After this was written, the jury did find this man guilty of four of the five charges. He will be going to prison for a very long time. Ain't justice grand?

Learning Again: January 2014

I'm excited to report that I have decided to go back to school. This enthusiasm is not shared by any of the teachers or administrators with whom I will soon come in contact.

One of the local colleges offers a bunch of courses for adults, and I have decided to take one on digital photography. Before I tell you about this course, please allow me to tell you about some of the ones I decided not to take:

Yoga for Fat People:  While I am sure that the stretching one does in yoga would benefit my nagging sciatica, the thought of all that overtaxed spandex was more than I could bear. Also, I remember quite well  that Ada, who took several yoga classes in New Hampshire, was aghast at the number of times the yoga enthusiasts would unashamedly break wind when they had a really great pose going. Sorry, but if I were in the class, there would certainly be some spandex-poppin', wind-breakin' episodes and I just don't want that on my conscience.

The Quilt and How to Make It: My dear Nancy is a remarkable quilter. Here is one of her recent creations:

She gets very excited just looking at patterns and figuring out which fabrics and colors will work. Nancy's finished quilts are really remarkable examples of this fine old folk tradition. If I tried to make a quilt, I'd put my eye out. I'd stitch my fingers together into some bizarre kind of hand-quilt. I'd attempt to juxtapose colors that would cause instant blindness to anyone who gazed upon them.

No, quilting's not for me. Much too dangerous.

Watching Meaningless Sporting Events on TV: I gave this one some serious thought. It sounded like something I might find absorbing. Unfortunately, the class was offered during the telecast of the Winter X Games on ESPN. That proved to be too much of a conflict to overcome.

So why a course in digital photography, you ask. (Forgive me; I know you didn't really ask that but I had to make up that fake question so I could change the subject. We call that "a device.") Well, back in the day I used to own a pre-digital single lens reflex camera. I loved that camera and the cool click sound it made when I pushed the button. The camera was completely manual. I had to decide on the appropriate film speed, shutter speed, f-stop, focus point etc. before taking a successful picture. If I miscalculated any of the above, the resulting picture would reflect the error. I have boxes and boxes of errors. I used to send the pictures out to be developed and wait a week or ten days to view my errors. I had more errors than Don Buddin. (You're welcome, Red Sox fans from the late 50's!) Eventually, like many other people who were swept up in the digital movement, I went to the dark side, bought a point-and-shoot, and, for several years, made almost no errors. No errors, but every point and click picture was awash in mediocrity. I had files upon files of mediocrity to replace the boxes and boxes of errors.

Not conducive to hours and hours of fun family viewing.

So I bought myself a cool new Canon EOS Rebel T3i with a couple of spiffy lenses and enrolled in the digital photography course at Northwest Florida State College. I am told by someone who has taken the course that we will be prohibited from using the camera's "automatic" setting; instead the course will focus on all those other buttons and gizmos I don't understand yet.

Can you spell e-r-r-o-r-s?

We'll see.  It will be fun to learn some stuff again.

One last thing. The course is being offered on Friday mornings. Followers of these lame ramblings know that on Friday mornings my golf group plays for money. The way I see it, all the money I would have lost playing golf on Fridays will more than pay for the photography course.

And a camera bag.

And extra lenses.

And maybe even trips to picturesque places with the lovely quilting lady.

Ain't life grand?
J

A Book Recommendation: January 2014

 

Having been laid up recently with my old sciatic nerve complaint, I've had occasion to read a bunch of books. I read the latest Michael Connolly, which, like all his others, is terrific. Connolly is the Jerry Seinfeld of legal thriller authors. Not that he's funny. On the contrary, there are very few laughs in any of Connolly's books, whether they are part of the Harry Bosch or Mickey Haller series. No, what I mean is that Connolly, like Seinfeld, can take nothing and make it entertaining. Much of Connolly's interest is with PROCEDURE, i.e. the "crime book" that Bosch painstakingly develops with each new case or the courtroom maneuvers that Haller either follows or short circuits in his cases. Connolly spends a lot of time delving into procedures and therein lies his art. I believe I read that Harry Bosch will become a TV character in an upcoming series. I can only hope that Larry David is the producer!

As enjoyable as The Gods of Guilt was, the book that has really captivated me and made me almost glad to be painfully bedridden (note: the preceding phrase was a gross exaggeration and a cheap attempt to gain sympathy on the part of the author; pay it no heed!) is pictured above.

I have enjoyed Bill Bryson's writing for many years. Starting with his signature work, A Walk in the Woods, in which he describes his failed attempt to walk the Appalachian Trail, continuing with his mostly humorous examination of Australia, In a Sunburned Country, and his remarkably thorough A Short History of Nearly Everything, Bryson combines the doggedness of a master researcher with the wit of Mark Twain and the storytelling ability and dedication to truth of Doris Kearns Goodwin. The result is always an appetizing melange of hard facts blended with hilarious or mind-boggling anecdotes. Reading Bryson is like attending the class of the best teacher you ever had. Despite your best efforts, you learn stuff and have a good time doing it.

In One Summer, America 1927, Bryson covers in depth some of the most memorable and newsworthy events in modern American history, all of which happened in the summer of 1927. Each of his key events took on a life much larger than its own and several foretold of the modern America we would come to know in our lifetimes. Most of the events (the Lindbergh flight for example) you know about, at least in passing. The beauty of this book is in the interesting details Bryson provides and the connections he draws between these events. Playing key roles in this book are Babe Ruth, Henry and Edsel Ford, "Silent Cal" Coolidge, Jack Dempsey, Al Capone, and a host of other famous and obscure players who were prominent for one reason or another that remarkable summer. South Shore residents will be thoroughly captivated by Bryson's revelations on the infamous Sacco-Vanzetti case, including his research on the Bridgewater Police Chief who first had them arrested. Great stuff and timely given the national debate over what to do with the remaining Guantanamo detainees.

I had the pleasure of meeting Bryson once. He was teaching at Dartmouth for a time and Ada and I attended a talk he gave one night. He was exactly as he seems to be on the pages of his books: funny, professional, and interesting.

I highly recommend this book.

That's it for now. Although if this sciatic condition persists, I'll be able to review Ben Bradlee's new  800+ page biography of Ted Williams.

More drugs, Nancy, please!

Ain't life grand?

J

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