Discs that Bulge: May 2011

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wasn't always successful.

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

If you're wondering, it was five.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ain't life grand?
J

I'm No Eskimo: April 2011

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Dumb sport," I replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ain't life grand?
J

The Sawx: April 2011

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

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

I made similar mistakes in the stock market.

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

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

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

Folks, that's a whole lot of sucks!

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

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

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

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

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

I make a little joke.

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

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

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

As long as the Yankees suck too.

Ain't baseball grand?
J

Stuff I Used to Do: March 2011

Lately I've been thinking about the stuff I used to do.

Like many kids, I used to collect stamps. I remember having this catalogue where I would carefully place the stamps I had collected. I remember going to the store (which store? a stamp store? a hobby shop? Where was it? How did I get there?) and buying a bunch of stamps in some kind of wax paper packet and then trying to match up each stamp with its image in my catalogue. There was all kinds of information provided about the stamp, but I wasn't particularly interested in any of it. Having a stamp match its picture in the catalogue was more than enough gratification for me. I also remember the excitement I felt when the stamp was from an exotic place like Fiji or Missouri. I believe my earliest feelings of wanderlust were fed by this activity. What a glorious day it was when I actually set foot in...Missouri.

I used to oil paint by numbers. I preferred the "male themed" templates: mountain ranges, jungle animal scenes, cowboys around the ol' campfire, or gangsters holding up a bank. Occasionally, when the stock at Woolworth's or Kresge's was low, my mother would buy me a lovely ballet scene or one of those hummingbird/flower ones. She'd apologize but I'd paint the sucker anyway. Hey, a true artist should be able to tackle any subject matter. I remember never being able to wait until one color dried before moving on to the next color. That quirk, combined with a set of hands and fingers that could only be described as PUDGY, caused me to run two or three colors together wherever they intersected causing a little Jackson Pollock effect in most of my paintings. As a matter of fact, you had to stand about 50 feet back from any of my completed paintings to glean even the faintest idea of what they were meant to portray. Teddi feigned pride in my artistic achievements, but I'm pretty sure she was as disgusted as everybody else.

I used to play basketball at the local YMHA. Every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon we were given free reign to play pickup games. I don't mean to brag, but I was hardly ever the last one picked. There were two or three regulars even more spastic than I. My specialty was in-bounding the ball. I rarely threw it to the wrong team. On offense I was positioned at the top of the key, where I assumed the role of an interested observer. On those rare occasions when the ball came my way, I was immediately greeted by the sound of frantic teammates urging me to pass it back to them. Dribbling was not even on the radar screen. On defense, I played zone, even if the rest of the team played man-to-man. I carved out a small area of the court and patrolled it faithfully, like an old watch dog. If any of the opposition happened to enter this small area, I would make sure they felt my presence and left quickly. In this way I was able to rest in preparation for the inevitable long trek to the other side of the court. I am proud to say that during the four or five years I engaged in this rigorous activity, I never got a rebound. I also remember the disappointment I felt when it turned out that my team was "skins" not "shirts." It may come as a shock to those of you who know me now, but as a youth I was...chubby, with breasts that would have been the envy of any 13-year-old girl. I was the opposite of "cut." I guess you could say I was "rolled." Needless to say, I much preferred being a "shirt." But hey, you have to play the hand you're dealt, right?

But of all the stuff I used to do, model building was certainly my favorite activity. For one thing, I could snack while I was doing it, something I found very hard to do during basketball. I remember three model kit makers from those days: Revell, Aurora, and Ideal. I was a Revell man all the way. In my expert opinion, no other kit maker offered the level of detail and authenticity that Revell did. I considered all the other companies "second division" and faithfully returned to the Revell kit catalogue each time. I might have been a geek, but I was a discriminating one at least. Of all the types of models available at that time, I preferred warships and tanks. Remember, WWII was still fresh in everyone's mind then and there was a certain childish pride in building a model of a tank that defeated Rommel or a battleship that helped us win the Battle of Midway. I certainly was a big fan of the US of A! I took great care during my model building sessions. I would set up a card table and carefully lay out all of the necessary equipment, like a surgeon prepping for an operation. A tube of model glue here near my left hand, the decals off to the side, hopefully far away from the glue tube, a scissors to help snip off the smaller pieces, and, always accessible, the directions. Yes, friends, in those days I followed the directions to the letter. It's funny to realize that following directions is a trait that somehow left me at some point in my life, probably around the time I had to assemble the first Big Wheel for Matt or Josh. Now, when I purchase something that needs assembly, I make a phone call. But back in the day I was a dedicated follower of Dr. Revell's directions. I can distinctly remember looking at step number 5 and thinking, "That can't be right," but faithfully following orders anyway only to discover that step number 7 required step number 5 to have been completed exactly as written. As I've said before, I was and still am a big fan of symmetry.

The more expensive the model was, the more likely it was to have moving parts: guns that could raise or lower, wheels that turned, ailerons and rudders that operated. One had to be very careful in one's use of glue to make sure these movable parts actually moved. Alas, the pudgy fingers I alluded to earlier were again a problem. The glue, rather than gently coming out in manageable droplets would splurt out with the force of Old Faithful, causing all the parts, the directions, and my snack to be sadly fused together into some kind of bizarre multi-media modern sculpture. (Max Ernst meets George Patton.) After tearing away the directions and rubbing off my snack, the tank or battleship would again take its natural shape; however, things that were supposed to raise, lower, or rotate would be stubbornly immobile. It used to sadden me to think that I had rendered this magnificent fighting machine completely defenseless. The only way it could fire upon the Nazi or Japanese horde effectively would be if it happened to be facing the exact right way! That's no way to run a war, friends. Anyway, the final step was always the application of the decals. Again, my impatience would get the better of me and, instead of waiting for the warm water to detach the decal from its paper, I would tug at the decal prematurely causing it to rip in the middle. This necessitated a very careful grafting of the two halves of the decal so that the rupture in the middle would not be noticeable to the naked eye. No problem. Teddi loved all of my sad models and so did I.

So that's some of the stuff I used to do. Most of these activities came to an end in March of 1962 when Ada Ernest foolishly agreed to dance with me at a YMHA-Hecht House social.

There were no directions for what followed.

Ain't life grand?
J

The Oreo Caper: March 2011

Kate and I have had our first major disagreement. Our relationship is currently teetering in the balance.

First some deep background. If left to my own devices, I could eat over 17,000 Oreo cookies in one sitting. Some people have a "beer belly"; I have an Oreo Orifice! I have taken this craving so far that I once developed a stealth technique for eating more Oreos than anyone ever intended. This method, which I dubbed "The Getman Milk Mismeasurement Maneuver" works like this: Fill a glass with cold milk (I use 1% milk; you can't be too careful). Next take some lovely Oreo cookies from the package. The trick here is to take two more Oreos for the amount of milk you poured. In other words, if eight ounces of milk generally requires four Oreos, you take six. This will leave you with an empty glass of milk and two Oreos. What a conundrum. Luckily, there is a solution. Simply pour some more milk to help you consume the Oreos. Aah, but here's the genius part: pour two EXTRA ounces of milk which will leave you with no Oreos but some unnecessary milk. Whatever shall we do? Aha! Just get enough Oreos (It's always good to have an extra package around during this segment.) to assist you in drinking the extra milk. Of course, it's entirely possible to take two extra Oreos for the amount of milk you had left, thus starting the process over again.

It's foolproof and hardly noticeable until one day you look down and can't see your feet. You know you have feet because something is allowing you to stand up, but you can't see them.

My dear Ada caught on to this little caper early in our marriage and implemented a ban on Oreos that lasted about 35 years. That was a difficult time for me. God knows Hydrox were no substitute. Don't even talk to me about Vanilla Wafers!

All of which brings us to last Tuesday. Kate usually does the food shopping for us. She generally does her father's marketing and finds it just as easy to do our shopping at the same time. Also, she knows that whenever I try to go shopping in a super market, I never make it out of the snack aisle. Kate has a fairly healthy outlook on this topic and is able to resist the many temptations present in any market. Why just last week she even bought kale. It was a good try, but, unfortunately I have a rare condition that prevents me from ever eating vegetables with four letters. (bye bye beet!)

For some reason as yet unexplained, tucked in amongst the kale, beets, squash, sweet potatoes, and arugula was a lovely package of Oreo cookies. Probably, Kate wanted to reward me for being an upstanding citizen. She probably thought that this one package of Oreo cookies would last until the next presidential election and we could watch the election night coverage while dining on the last of the Oreos. Or maybe she assumed that with the London Olympics just a year away, it would be fun to watch the men's 100 meter finals while eating the last two Oreos, a fitting celebration of international sportsmanship.

So try just for a moment to imagine her surprise when she said last Wednesday evening, "I think I'll have some milk and Oreos. Would you like some?"

"Oh sh#t!" I thought.

I mumbled something from the kitchen that sounded like, "Mmmmbmmmblmmmbl only one left. Ya want it?"

Kate smiled and said, "I must be going deaf. I thought I heard you say there was only one left. How silly of me."

As I sheepishly approached Kate with a single Oreo cookie in one hand and a thimbleful of milk in the other, I hoped that my sweet, kindly smile would disarm her.

It didn't.

Panicking, I quickly thought up a story about crazy Oreo-eating spring breakers from Georgia who, in a desperate attempt to satisfy their filthy habit, had staged a number of Sandestin home invasions recently. I never had a chance to use it. Kate's clever use of a direct question thwarted me.

"Joel, did you eat all those Oreos?"

"All but one. I saved it for YOU."

Kate, in her own sweet way, could do nothing but laugh. What else can you do when it dawns on you that you've signed a year's lease which will force you to live with a chronic Oreo maniac, an Oreonic if you will. Yes, folks, she laughed while I promised never to exhibit such gluttony again. She laughed when I asked if perhaps she would want some kale instead. She laughed when I said, "If it will help any, I'll buy another package of the little chocolate demons and we'll see how long we can make it last."

Cold turkey, people. That's the only way.

Ain't life grand?
J

A Night at the Opera: March 2011

I was able to fulfill one of my bucket list items last week when Kate and I attended a first-class production of Puccini's spectacular opera, Turandot.

What I know about opera and art could be written on the head of a pin; however, I know what I like and I have liked Turandot for a very long time. I first became aware of the opera indirectly when I saw the remarkable movie, "The Killing Fields." In that powerful film there is a scene in which Sam Waterston's character is watching the news in his New York City apartment. The news broadcast is filled with disturbing images of the bombing of Cambodia, referring to that chapter of the Vietnam War as "the Nixon doctrine in its purest form." In the background you hear the remarkable aria "Nessun Dorma" from Turandot. The juxtaposition of this incredible music and some very brutal images was unforgettable, and it wasn't long before I was on a mission to discover all I could about the song and its origins.

This was long before the personal computer age, so I had to depend on person to person questioning for an answer. Luckily, I had made the acquaintance of one Mr. David Dames, a British friend who was quite well-versed in all genres of classical music. Sadly, David is no longer with us and, if nothing else, this blog has brought his pleasant smile and kind gentility back to me for an evening, a nice little unexpected benefit of the blogosphere.

Anyway, I tried to hum what I remembered of the little bit of Nessun Dorma I had heard in the movie. David answered immediately. "That's from 'Annie Get Your Gun' he said assuredly. Just kidding. He knew exactly what the source of the music was. From that moment on, I was determined to listen to and soak up all the music in Puccini's Turandot just like I used to do when I was a kid and had bought a new jazz album. I would sit and listen to those jazz records until the grooves wore out. I would memorize every note, every solo, every drum beat, everything. I bought a recording of Turandot featuring Pavarotti and Joan Sutherland and immediately began the process of familiarizing myself with every note. I purposely didn't want to learn the story, preferring instead to fill in my own version of events based on what the music "said" to me. The following is my version of the "story" of Turandot based on my interpretation of the music I memorized:

Turandot is a princess who wants to leave her country and her throne and open the first Home Depot east of the Yangtze River. Her beautiful aria "Where are the Plumbing Supplies?" speaks to this yearning. Naturally, to fulfill this dream she needs financing but money is tight. In an effort to raise capital, she teams up with Calaf, a Persian hummus salesman. Together, they travel throughout the near and far east selling hummus under the most trying of conditions. These are the circumstances which lead to the singing of Calaf's beautiful soliloquoy, "I'm so thirsty; please, no more hummus."

OK, enough of this goofiness. The actual story is quite convoluted as befits most grand operas. It's one of those "Ice Princess won't bed any suitor unless he is willing to risk his life and answer three riddles whereupon the suitor answers the riddles correctly but, out of pity and to prove his honorable intentions, offers up his own life anyway if the Ice Princess can discover his name before morning," stories. Nessun Dorma ("Let them sleep") is sung by the lead tenor (Calaf) and is heard in the third act. In an effort to discover her suitor's name, Princess Turandot has decreed that no one in her city may sleep until the name has been revealed to her. Puccini died before he was able to finish the opera and the ending, written by colleagues, is a little weak and not really worthy of what went before; however, by the time you get to that point, you're so filled with spectacular music, sets, costumes, wine, and love that you'd just as soon let all that go and stand and applaud loudly which Kate and I and the other people in attendance at Pensacola's wonderful Saenger Theater did enthusiastically.

Next year the Pensacola Opera Company is producing Madame Butterfly and Rigolleto. Looks like I'll be doing more memorizing in the coming months.

Ain't life grandiose?
j

Parking: March 2011

Our move into Sandestin Resort was quite seamless and ALMOST without incident. What follows is The Incident:

The cul de sac in which our cottage is located is named Robin Court. It should be called Vulture Alley! This installment is about parking, territoriality, small-mindedness, and power. Fasten your seat belts, kids. It's going to be a wild ride!

In Robin Court in the peaceful resort of Sandestin in Miramar Beach, Florida there are four cute stand-alone cottages. They are the type of cottages the seven dwarfs would live in if they had good retirement plans and played golf; of course these wouldn't be Disney's seven dwarfs. These dwarfs would have names like Bossy, Nosy, Crabby, and the adorable Screwy.

Before I relate the details surrounding The Incident, let me take you down memory lane. Those of you who grew up in a northeast city might remember the problem of the winter parking space. The plow would come by, cover all the cars with a couple of feet of snow, and you and your brother would be sentenced to an hour of hard labor shoveling out the car. Once the car was freed from its frozen nest, a chair or milk crate or perhaps the aforementioned brother was placed in the spot to hold it until early May or whenever the snow was deemed to have melted.

People have died defending their parking spots. I'm not saying, I'm just saying. Parking has always been an aspect of daily life that makes people crazy.

Back to The Incident. In Robin Court there are six usable parking spaces for the four cottages, an ample number if the inhabitants of each cottage have only one vehicle. Currently, two of the four cottages are two-vehicle domiciles. When you do the math you come up with six vehicles for six spaces.

You are probably thinking that having the exact number of spaces for the number of vehicles is not going to be a problem for anybody. After all, it's a small parking lot and all of the spaces are within easy walking distance to any of the cottages. So I thought the other night when I pulled into the space directly in front of #598 Robin Court. Was I ever wrong, Kemo-sabe!

I was tucked comfortably in bed watching my beloved Celtics on television when I heard a loud knock on our door followed by the annoying clang of our doorbell. After fumbling around for the light switch and stumbling around for my bathrobe, I opened the door. Standing outside in the cool evening air was the dwarf who lives in #598. We'll call him "the dwarf who lives in #598."

"Do you own the tan Malibu currently parked next to #598?" he asked.

"You mean that tan Malibu about 20 feet from us?"

"Yes."

"Well, technically GMAC owns most of it. Actually, they seem to have sold their business to Ally Bank recently, so, to tell you the truth, I don't know who owns it right now. I'm the one who drives it, though."

"You're parked in my spot."

"Excuse me?"

"That's my spot in front of #598 and you've parked in it."

"First of all, it was my understanding that there is no such thing as a reserved or assigned spot, especially this far from Dorchester. Second of all, there is an empty spot right next to where I parked. Couldn't you park there? It's about 18 inches farther from your cottage than your usual spot. If that's too far, I'll be happy to call you a cab."

The dwarf who lives in #598 was not amused.

The next morning, after discussing the matter with Kate, I decided to relocate the car and investigate the parking protocols here at Sandestin. I moved my car completely out of our circle and into a nearly vacant neighboring area called Magnolia Court. I had been told by our realtor, Jason "Don't Ask Me About Parking" Green, that if there were a need to park outside our circle, I could always pick an unnumbered space in Magnolia Court. Certainly, anybody who would choose to live in Magnolia Court would be a neighborly, pleasant individual chock full of southern hospitality and generosity.

"You're going to get a call about parking there," said Kate.

She hadn't even finished the sentence when a member of Sandestin's crack security force called to tell me to move my car.

"But I parked in an unnumbered spot and there were only two cars in the numbered spaces," I stammered incredulously.

"Someone complained," she said.

"Just out of curiosity, did they formerly live in #598 Robin Court?" I asked.

Click.

Obviously, we had encountered the wrath of yet another dwarf, this one southern. We'll call him Billy Bob Bossy.

Kate decided to investigate the parking protocols. Kate's father, Jack, was the head of the Cleveland newspaper guild for many years. She's accustomed to fighting for her rights and was determined to get to the bottom of the parking issue: What was legal and what wasn't in Robin Court. After a few phone calls she was gratified to learn that there were in fact no assigned spaces in our little dwarfdom. It's first come-first served all the way. Park wherever you can find a space and let the chips fall where they may.

A perfect solution for an area that abhors government interference: A Libertarian parking lot.

Today is Day One of the newly-clarified parking order for Robin Court. The policy is posted on the little notice board that stands right next to our parking lot.

We have a stepladder handy in case any of the dwarfs need to climb up to read it.

Ain't life grand?
J