Garments: April 2012

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

 I probably don't have to buy clothes anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The concept of LOOSE was completely foreign to me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ain't life grand?
J

The Sawx Redux: April 2012

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sad.

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

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

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

I will become Joel the Doodler.

It's one step above Joel the Blogger.

Ain't life grand?
J

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

Thank you, Kate: March 2012

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

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

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

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

For everything, there is a season...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two very good years indeed.

Ain't life grand?
J

Why? February 2012

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...did I never learn to fix anything?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ain't life grand?
J

NOLA: February 2012

...also known as The Big Easy, The Crescent City, or Nawlins. Kate and I just returned from a two-day New Orleans getaway, and I'm here to report that we can't wait for a chance to go back.

We chose a wonderful time to visit. The first Mardi Gras parades were scheduled to begin on the day we were leaving; as a result we were able to experience much of the excitement and anticipation of Mardi Gras with very little of the accompanying vomit and random puddles of urine.

Seriously, the town fathers of this unique city have had to find a way to clean the streets of any number of objectionable liquids during this month-long hedonistic celebration. Each morning specially equipped street cleaning trucks make their way through the French Quarter spraying a lemony substance that washes away the previous night's deposits and leaves the Quarter fresh, clean, and ready for another evening assault by thousands of people who enjoy the good ol' American value of three-for-one drink specials offered by many of the bars during Happy Hour.

Last year I was one of them and came perilously close to mistaking the hotel coat closet for the bathroom. Thankfully, the tiny area of rationality left in my brain was, at the last possible moment, able to determine the difference between the two (one of them is used to hang coats) and tragedy was narrowly averted.

Let's call it a rookie mistake.

This year I swore an oath to moderation and had none of those close calls.

NOLA is an easy 4-5 hour drive from our place in Florida along amazing Interstate 10. I say amazing because this highway runs from the Atlantic to the Pacific and there are NO CURVES. It's kind of the Twiggy of Interstates. It's 75 MPH all the way through places like Mobile and Biloxi and the next thing you know you're crossing the Pontchartrain causeway to New Orleans.

We stayed right in the middle of the Quarter, one block off Bourbon on Conti Street at the Prince Conti hotel. We had stayed there last year and felt it was a nice, clean place that offered good value. Unfortunately, our first night's room faced the street which was filled with revelers right through the night. Here's a little clue to all people who drink too much: LOUD ISN'T FUNNY! We were able to switch to an interior room for the second night and weren't bothered by the madness outside.

The main New Orleans attraction for Kate and me was the opportunity to hear all kinds of live music. Over the space of two nights we heard the following: the fabulous house band at Preservation Hall playing traditional New Orleans jazz, a trio of operatic singers performing in the lounge of the Ramada, an absolutely kick-ass R and B ensemble, complete with a three-piece horn section and a spectacular lead singer, ripping it up at Fat Catz on Bourbon, a smooth, late night piano player/vocalist coolly performing Cole Porter and other standards at the Bombay Lounge, right beside our hotel, a fiddle-guitar-washboard trio dedicated to "ol' timey" music from the twenties and thirties playing at the Three Muses on Frenchman Street, a phenomenal house pianist who could and would play absolutely anything at the same location, and, finally, to our amazement, the youngest Marsalis sibling, Jason, playing first rate vibes with a brilliant guitarist and piano player back at the Bombay Lounge. This last act was an absolute wonder. It was the type of jazz that I've loved since I was 15 years old. Songs like Stardust, Willow Weep for Me, Whisper Not, Peace and others played lovingly and intelligently by masters of their instruments. What conversations there were were subdued in deference to the music. It was magnificent ensemble playing with the whole being very much greater than the sum of its parts. Pure magic.

And it was free.

Food is another NOLA specialty, and we were not disappointed. One of the gentlemen who works at my golf club comes from New Orleans and had a few restaurant recommendations for us, not the least of which was the Central Grocery, the home of the original muffaletta sandwich. Don't worry, I didn't know what it was either; however, I am here to tell y'all that it is a real treat. Other than salami, I don't know what's in it but, man, was it delicious. One of the best sandwiches this chubby traveler has ever et, and that includes the hard salami from the G&G and the Italian sub from Go Go's in Hanover! High praise indeed.

We took the delightful St Charles streetcar through the garden district to the Audubon Zoo, directly across the street from Loyola and Tulane. What a treat it was to stroll around this excellent park, watch the two Asian elephants get their exercise, see the nastiest, hugest Anaconda ever, stare down a menacing Silverback gorilla and assert my dominance over him,(Actually it was Kate who stared him down; I was hiding.) witness two beautiful, massive white tigers lounging in the sun, and laugh at the derring-do of a baby orangutan joyfully climbing and leaping at impossible heights.

Great music, great food, and a delightful zoo.

Now I know what it means to miss New Orleans.

Ain't life grand?
J

On Turning 65: February 2012

Recently, I celebrated my 65th birthday.

I'm not blogging about this in some cheesy, pathetic attempt to get all of you to send birthday greetings (jagetman@yahoo.com) or golf-related presents (102 Fern Way, Santa Rosa Beach, FL, 32459).

No, I only mention this because on the morning of my 65th birthday I played a round of golf and would have shot my age if I had been born in 1933!

I make a little joke.

So what does this birthday really mean to me? Clearly, the most important aspect of being 65 is that I am now enrolled in Medicare. As a matter of fact, because my birthday falls on the first of the month, my eligibility began a month before my actual birthday. Having proudly flashed my medicare card, I've already had a physical, blood tests, and prescription fill-ups.

I'm happy to report that all of this, the enrollment, the office visit, the prescriptions, went off without a hitch. No six-month wait, no death panels, no nuthin'. Three-month quantities of six different prescriptions came to a total of $28. Thanks to all of you out there who are still working and paying taxes in an effort to keep me alive.

You know who you are. Don't think I don't appreciate it.

So here, in no particular order, are some of my personal baby-booming highlights, reflections, and recollections, both grand and tiny, accrued during the 65 years I have spent on this planet. I apologize in advance to those of you who didn't have the good fortune to grow up in Boston, since many of these are Hub-centric.

...watching Big Brother Bob Emery toast President Eisenhower every day at noon on channel 4

...Boom-Boom-Boomtown

...Jackie Jensen refusing to fly

...Red Sox goofballs Gene Conley and Pumpsie Green trying to fly to Israel during a three-day bender

...at 14 or 15, purchasing Miles Davis' "Porgy and Bess" and listening to it almost non-stop for a week, definitely one of the "fork in the road" moments in my life

...seeing and, especially, hearing a child who was encased in an "iron lung" during the polio scare

...acting on the recommendation of friend and fellow Aardvark Martin Bickman and reading a Robert Heinlein novel; the rest as they say is history

...sitting nervously as a seventh grader in the Boston Latin School auditorium for the first time and being told that it was only a matter of time before my true ignorant nature would be discovered whereupon I would be exiled in shame to Boston English High School

...fooling those bastards for six years

...finding out I was funny

...passing my driving test on the first try despite being forced to make a three-point turn on a hill in a standard shift car, undoubtedly my finest driving moment

...hitchhiking to Montreal with fellow Aardvark Andrew Razin in search of that famous mythical creature, the "loose" Quebec Catholic girl; despite our determined efforts, we never were able to locate this fabulous but elusive being

...accompanied by Marvin "Knuck" Lehrer, attending a weekday matinee Celtics game in February, 1959 against the Minneapolis Lakers; final score: Celtics 173 Minneapolis 139; you could look it up

...witnessing both of my sons deliver beautiful, inspiring speeches and/or performances during Ada's wonderful memorial gathering

...learning geometry as a 10th grader under the tutelage of Mr. Salvucci, an excellent teacher and a nice man; I believe it was about this time that I decided I might not be a complete idiot

...seeing an undiscovered John Pizzarelli perform in a small club at the Montreal Jazz Festival and knowing that he would soon become something quite special

...similarly, seeing Stephane Grappelli, well over 80, barely able to walk on stage, magically become 60 years younger the second he started to play his jazz violin for an adoring jazz festival audience; it would be one of his last performances

...after several awkward phone calls, taking Ada Ernest on our first date, a double feature at the Morton Theater on Blue Hill Avenue; again, the rest is history

On the morning of my 65th birthday I was presented with a magnificent ice cream cake.I'm going to eat it even if it means I don't make it to my 70th.

Ain't life grand?
J

My Nickname: January 2012

I've decided to seek out a nickname. I think of a nickname in the same way that women think of scarves or handbags.

It's the perfect accessory and, at 65, I'm finally ready to accessorize.

Like most of you, I've had nicknames in the past. When I was in high school, most of my friends called me "Get". Of course that's just a diminuation of my actual name. Not much imagination there. It lacks the essential quality of any worthwhile, bona fide nickname: panache.

During my teaching career many students referred to me as "Mr. G." I'm quite sure there were scores of kids who had other nicknames for me, many of which ended in "---hole." While Mr. G. connotes a warm informality, which was, I hope, an accurate portrayal of my attitude in class, it also lacks imagination and duende.

I need me some duende.

During my long and almost distinguished tennis career, I was often referred to as "lefty," which was strange because I'm not left-handed. Of course I'm just kidding, but again this nickname is simply a literal description of my handedness and not the kind of imaginative sobriquet I'm seeking.

There are lots of "lefties" out there, but only one...what?

One of my sons has long referred to me as "Bub" or "Bubster". I'm not sure of the derivation here but, while I am more than happy to answer to it, this nickname contains no flowery or heroic imagery. If he could possibly place "The Great" or "Number One" in front of Bubster, we might have something. Alas, I fear that after reading this, he may choose to go with something in the "---hole" category.

As they say, "The devil you know..."

For a brief period, within the confines of 33 Foxtail Road in Hanover, Massachusetts, I was known as "Chief Five Tails." This colorful Native American nickname was bestowed upon me as a result of a particular act of tremendous bravery on my part. With all appropriate modesty, I would like to relate the events that led to my being called Chief Five Tails:

Our home in Hanover had become infested by field mice. Not a day went by without one of us becoming terrorized by these huge, disgusting beasts. No one was safe. It fell upon me, the alleged man of the house, to solve the problem. I tried many different approaches including "have-a-heart" traps and yelling, but nothing seemed to work. Finally, I decided to go old school and bought a number of traditional Tom and Jerry type mousetraps.

Each evening I would strategically place a couple of the wonderfully inventive mousetraps, baited with a chunk of delightful Jarlsberg cheese, and sleep fitfully, listening with one ear for the telltale snap or click that all Native Americans know so well.

In the mornings no one would approach the kitchen until I had made my rounds and given the all-clear signal. Lo and behold for five mornings in a row, a rather stiff example of the American fieldus mousus species would be peacefully at rest in the trap. It fell upon me, brave warrior Chief Five Tails to gingerly remove the newly departed from the trap and deposit him/her somewhere in the back yard.

I was proud of this noble nickname and would have been happy to carry it forward the rest of my life, but word must have spread among the savage beasts and we were not tormented by their kind any more. Thus did The name "Chief Five Tails" become a quickly forgotten footnote in the annals of our little family.

From time to time I have looked to the world of sport to find a suitable nickname. Unfortunately, my two greatest sporting heroes, Bill Russell and Ted Williams, could not assist me in my quest. Williams was known as "The Kid" or "The Splendid Splinter". I'm certainly no Kid and never in my life, not for one second, has anyone looked at me and been reminded of something as slender as a splinter. As for Russell, he was simply known as "Big" as in Big Bill Russell. While I sadly qualify as Big, I'd prefer not to be reminded of it too often.

Also, I'm hoping to stay away from the ironic nickname. Over the years, unbeknownst to them, I have bestowed ironic nicknames upon various acquaintances and co-workers. Thanks to me, one member of the hotel staff in New Hampshire was known by one and all as "The Genius". Needless to say, he wasn't one. I see now that maybe it wasn't my finest hour and I'm hoping to avoid karmic retribution at this time in my life.

So that eliminates the following: Slim, Muscles, and Mr. No Ear Wax.

Recently I bought a new Odyssey putter and noticed that the putter cover had the name "White Ice" stitched on it. I immediately began lobbying my golf group to make this my nickname. After all, it contains my race and my favorite additive to a gin and tonic. A perfect nickname I thought.

My bubble was burst when one of the group questioned, "Does this mean that we'll have to stop using our old nickname for you, ---hole?"

I hate it when there is someone more clever than me in the room.

So I leave it up to you, faithful followers of these meanderings. I eagerly await your suggestions. Please stay away from vulgarity and irony.

Thanking you in advance,

Joel "The Moyle" Getman
(I'm Jewish and I have a tendency to slice...)

Ain't life grand?
J