The Dating Game: October 2012

Recently I've had occasion to go out on a few dates and I've come to this conclusion:

Dating at 65 sucks and was never part of God's plan!

I mean just the word "dating" is weird. It conjures up images of nervous teenagers working up the courage to face rejection,  holding sweaty hands, desperately trying to fill conversational gaps, and hoping to avoid a concussion during a clumsy good-night kiss.

...all of which perfectly describes my last date!

Of course there are significant differences between my teenage dating experiences and those of  a more recent vintage:

1. Typically, teens aren't concerned about their dates' political affiliations. As a 15-year-old, I can't  remember ever asking Ada how she felt about the minimum wage or China's monetary policy. It seems like one's political point of view gains importance during "mature" dating escapades. On one recent outing, my date proudly proclaimed, "I wouldn't mind if someone took a shot at that damn Obama."

My response: "Check, please."

Down in these parts, it's almost impossible to find a woman who happens to share my politics so I've had to develop my own sliding political scale (please forgive the inherent male chauvinism here...or not!) :

      average looking: must be a Democrat

      fetching:  Independent or totally disinterested in the whole stupid process

      drop dead gorgeous: don't ask, don't tell...Would you care for another glass of pinot noir, my dear?

2. I remember that shaving was a huge problem when I was a teenage dater. At 15, I wanted to be known as someone who had to shave but that meant that I had to shave before the date, which would inevitably result in numerous bloody cuts all over my face, which necessitated the use of little pieces of toilet paper stuck to said face to slow the blood loss. It took real dedication for Ada to look beyond those scattered pieces of bloody toilet paper to see the real me.

Nowadays I just grab the latest generation of  Gillette's Mach 6 double turbo mega razor and zip zip, my face is as clean as a whistle and hardly bloody at all.

Of course, at 65 there is the problem of nose and ear hair but I have my valet, Clive, to deal with that unpleasantness.

3. In 1963 there were very few options available in terms of where to go on the date. Basically it came down to either the Morton or Oriental movie theater (I preferred the Oriental with its Buddha statues high along the upper walls and its cloud effect across the ceiling), or the local bowladrome followed by a romantic dinner at the Almont Pizza House. What I wouldn't give now for a slice of Almont's famous pepperoni. I still have sores in my mouth from trying to eat that pizza while it was roughly the temperature of summer on Mercury. Believe me, nothing impresses a date more than melted molten cheese sliding down the side of your mouth while you're grabbing desperately for the water. That will seal the deal every time, take my word for it.

But aside from the odd dance at the YMHA-Hecht House, that was basically it: movies, bowling, pizza. It was an endless loop that somehow we never tired of.

At 65, there are many more options available to me, especially down here on the Panhandle. For example, there is The Ocean Club, which features food, live music and dancing. Or there is The Red Bar, which features live music, food, and dancing. Or there is the Solaris dinner cruise, which features live music, dancing, food, and a boat.

And all of the above accept most major credit cards.

4.  An appropriate segue to our final dating difference category: money.

At 15 it was understood that I would be paying for all expenses incurred during the date. I mean that was implicit in the very request for the date in the first place. When I asked Ada, "Would you like to go out with me?" what I was really asking was, "Would you like me to take all the money I made working slavishly at the Waverly Pharmacy last week and spend it on you for bus fare, movie tickets, three strings of candlepin bowling, a very hot pepperoni pizza,  two sodas, and an ice cream sundae at Brigham's?"

Each date depleted my life savings to zero. If I didn't garner enough hours at the Waverly Pharmacy the next week to make the date financially viable, well, it was wait 'til next week.

Nowadays, dates never cost me "everything." They are barely a blip on my credit card statement, a way to get air miles, paid off each month with a quick, unthinking key stroke.

They will never again be as important, as weighty, as they were in 1963.

Never.

Ain't life grand?
J
    

The Fall of Achilles: October 2012

There is no one on this Earth who hates the Yankees more than I do. I hated them when they had Mantle, Berra, Maris and Ford. I hated them when they had Jackson, Hunter, and Munson. And I've especially hated them since they had Jeter. Let me clarify: I hate the Yankees down to my very marrow; I hate pinstripes and interlocking letters; I hate the words Bronx and Bombers; I even hate goofballs like Rickey Henderson, Mickey Rivers, and Joe Pepitone;  however, it is completely impossible for me or anyone else to hate Derek Jeter.

If ever there were an athlete who exemplified the highest ideals of his sport it has been Derek Jeter. Calm especially in clutch situations, intelligent in his approaches on the field and at the plate, efficient in his movements, Jeter has been the model for all professional athletes. I believe in my lifetime only John Havilcek comes close. When Jeter defeated you, he did so in a respectful manner, The Jackal in pinstripes. Red Sox pitchers were forever trying to unnerve him, throwing up and in to get him to back off the plate. No matter how many times they made him eat the dirt around home plate or even hit him, he'd gather himself and, without a peep, he'd adjust his helmet, nod at the pitcher completely without irony, stand a little closer, and slash the next pitch  the opposite way into the vast expanse of Fenway's right field. I must have seen him do that a hundred times. If there were a man on second, it was almost a certainty. And if it were late innings of a tight game, it was as close to a sure thing as there has ever been in baseball.

Off the field Jeter is something of a mystery, albeit a non controversial one. I like that. I don't really want to know about his off the field activities. I admire him as a baseball player. How he spends his free time is none of my business as long as he isn't breaking the law. The only things being broken by Jeter are just about every postseason hitting record in baseball.

Jeter is a cool, updated version of Achilles, the Greek hero of The Trojan War. Both were the products of mixed marriages, combining the best qualities of their parents. Jeter's parents were both teachers who instructed him well. He respects the game and his opponents. Both were fierce and inspirational on the battlefield, Achilles' rage the counterpoint to Jeter's scary calm.

Both were eventually felled by injuries in the foot region. Achilles took an arrow to his heel, the one unprotected area of his body. Jeter broke a balky left ankle fielding a tough ground ball (saving a run in the process). The arrow ended Achilles' life. Whether Jeter's baseball life is over remains to be seen.

How the Yankees will respond with their Captain reduced to cheerleader is anybody's guess. It's hard to imagine that they will be able to overcome the loss of Jeter, especially facing  formidable opponents like Verlander, Cabrera and the Tigers. But here's the thing:

Just this one time, I'll be rooting for the Yankees.

And that is a sentence I never thought I'd write!

Ain't life grand?
J

My Presidential Debate: October 2012

Good evening ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls of all ages.We are proud to present the presidential debate they didn't want you to see. In this debate Joel Getman, the exciting candidate of the Fairways and Greens party, will be debating himself, Joel Getman, the exciting candidate of the Fairways and Greens party. Joel is known for having excellent complexion. He's been described by the Quincy Patriot Ledger as "better than he used to be" and by the Northwest Florida Daily News as "someone we'd rather didn't live here."  The moderator will be Joel Getman, a friend of both candidates. The focus of this debate will be twofold: current dental practices and states that begin with the letter M.

Moderator: Mr. Getman, in your opinion why is Maryland better than Michigan?

Getman: Crabs.

Moderator: Would you care to elaborate?

Getman: Boiled.

Moderator: I see. Do you have anything to add, Mr. Getman?

Getman: I have seen crabs. I have worked with crabs. I knew crabs. And you, sir, are no crab.

Moderator: Forgive me, but that makes no sense.

Getman: What's your point?

Getman: There you go again.

Moderator: Please, gentlemen, let's get to the next question. How do you feel about being told you need a deep cleaning for about $800 when you only came in to the dental office to get a free toothbrush.

Getman: Now THAT's Obama's fault. It's that damn liberal, big government, pro-union, godless, let's all get an abortion attitude that's ruined dental practice forever.

Moderator: Forgive me, but that makes no sense.

Getman: What's your point?

Getman: I have to agree with the moderator guy.

Moderator: OK, I have no idea what's happening here, but I'm going to ask another question. Mr. Getman, between Montana and Minnesota which one looks more like a halibut?

Getman: Halibut is a funny word. Say it. Halibut. Funny.

Getman: There you go again. I am paying for this microphone, Mr. Greene.

Moderator: Who the hell is Mr. Greene, and why would you pay for the microphone? They're included in the debate kit. Along with a set of pre-arranged answers that have little or nothing to do with my questions. Now, where were we? Oh yes, how do you feel about flossing?

Getman: Read my lips: No new dentures!

Getman: There you go again. You know, if I get the chance to lead this great country, the first thing I'm going to do is shut down three states: Massachusetts, ummmm Maryland, and uhhhh, what was the third one?

Getman: Oops.

Moderator: Alright, why don't we wrap this up with some closing statements. We'll start with you, Mr.Getman.

Getman: If I could compare my opponent to a rhesus monkey, and I believe I can...

Getman: Hey, we said we'd leave family members out of this.

Moderator: Ladies and gentlemen, I think it's safe to say that this was a bad idea all around. I urge you all to vote for one of those other guys and leave Getman in the footnote category of history, along with Stockdale ("Why am I here?") and Palin ( "You betcha.")

Good night and God help the United States of America.

Ain't democracy grand?
J

Some Long Overdue Apologies: September 2012

Lately the word "apology" has been in the news. It seems that one of the presidential candidates has been accusing the other candidate of always "apologizing for America."

He's been saying this repeatedly on the stump, even though no one can find even one instance when the aforementioned candidate actually did that.

Perhaps this is some kind of Vulcan Mind Meld trick wherein a lie is repeated so often it is reborn as an accepted fact. Or, God forbid, it is an example of the cheapest and most disgusting form of demagoguery designed to enrage and energize the far right base who seem all too eager to become enraged.

Whatever it is, it got me to thinking about apologies. There are several I should have given and never did. It's time for me to man up and apologize.

First, I'd like to apologize to all the followers of these lame thoughts for the photo above. It's a picture of the sign that hangs in front of a real joint in Dothan, Alabama. I'm apologizing for the slogan on the bottom. It's crude and makes ambiguous reference to backsides, derrieres, buttocks, and tuchuses. I'm not apologizing for the reference to sensitive body parts. I'm apologizing because it's a cheap and obvious pun. My old friend, Rick Miller, a master punster, would have rejected it out of hand!

Next I'd like to apologize to anyone who was a student of mine in 1969 or 1970. I was a brand new English teacher in Hingham, Massachusetts. I was given the job despite the fact that I had had absolutely no training as an educator. None. No education classes, no student teaching, no getting mentored or shadowing other teachers through their day. I was given a carton of chalk and an eraser and was pointed toward my room at the old South Junior High School. There wasn't even a curriculum or guide for me to follow. I was completely on my own.

I guess teachers, especially male ones, were hard to come by in those days, and the hope was that sooner or later I'd sink or swim.

What a blast! As long as my students weren't tearing the room apart (usually, they didn't), I was left alone to do pretty much what I wanted to do.

I'm apologizing because I'm pretty sure that often what I wanted to do was the last thing these kids needed to get ahead in the world. I'm apologizing because today there are about 200 55-year-olds who attended Hingham South Junior High School in 1969 and 1970 walking around this Earth with their eyes glazed over wondering why they never got that big job or that nice house.

I'm pretty sure that it was my fault and I'd like to apologize.

Staying in the same setting, I'd also like to apologize to the 12 or 15 soccer players who tried out for the inaugural South Junior High soccer team, probably around 1970 or 1971. I was honored to be named coach of the first soccer team in the school's history. I was proud to address the young athletes gathered before me at that very first soccer practice. Most importantly, I was completely ignorant of everything that had to do with soccer. This included rules, strategies, techniques, drills, uniforms, and even encouraging phrases.  My excellent assistant coach, Bill Alberti, was an actual college soccer player who could have advised me on any number of proper practice techniques. Unfortunately, I decided it would have been a sign of weakness for me to ask him, so most of Bill's expertise stayed with Bill.

Just about the only soccer activity with which I was familiar was heading the ball. I didn't know why soccer players did this, but I was quite sure that it was done. Thus, if you could be magically transported back to that inaugural South Junior High soccer practice in 1970 or 1971 you would have seen a groggy and dazed group of athletes doing nothing but heading soccer balls to each other for about two hours. Today I assume those 50-somethings experience splitting headaches and double vision.

My bad.

Finally I'd like to apologize to Ada, Kate, and any other woman with whom I have ever danced. When I was 13 or so, my mother signed me up for dance lessons at the local Jewish Community Center. I was not what you would call a willing participant. The two instructors, as I recall a very smarmy husband and wife duo, would demonstrate the step of the week and then we'd be paired up with the other students to replicate what we'd just learned. Unfortunately, there was not an even number of boys and girls in the class, so often I would find myself paired up with a nice fellow named Natie Mushnick who always insisted on being the male. I didn't want to make trouble so I would play the role of the lovely Cyd Charisse to Natie's less than sparkling Gene Kelly. As a result, I came to view dancing in much the same way that most people view tax audits or prostate exams.

Sorry, ladies. It's just not in me.

And I apologize.

Ain't life grand?
J

W W A D ? August 2012

...which of course stands for "What Would Ada Do?" Lately that question has been rolling around my largely empty head quite a bit. What would Ada do? When Ada passed on October 1, 2009 (Can it really be almost three years?), I not only lost a friend, partner, and beloved wife; I lost my most trusted advisor. Ada was my "life editor", whose counsel impacted everything from what would go well with this turkey sandwich to how I can improve this adverb lesson to am I being funny here or just nasty. I would say that during the 41 years we were married, Ada was asked to read every single thing I ever wrote, from the most serious paper to the silliest doggerel. She never refused.

Foolishly, I didn't always take Ada's advice. Male pride and all that. How desperately I wish it were available to me now. Lately I've been flying blind.

Cancer has insinuated itself upon my family once again. Never has a guest been less welcome.  I mean, hell, we gave at the office. I would sooner welcome 10 Jehovah's Witnesses, 12 insurance salesmen, Josh Beckett and Rush Limbaugh into my home than this nasty group of renegade cells. My older son, Josh, is the proud owner of a stomach tumor that is causing him and his wonderful family no end of grief, discomfort, and, especially, worry. Josh has reluctantly agreed to play the host for this arrogant intruder for the time being. But come early December, Josh and some surgeons from Boston's fine Brigham and Women's Hospital have a little surprise in store for our ravenous little friend. I shouldn't give it all away now, but I will tell you that scalpels, very sharp ones, are involved.

And this is where W W A D ? comes in. As I clumsily try to help Josh and his family cope with their new reality, I can't help but think that Ada would have added a large measure of grace to these efforts. No one, and I mean NO ONE, ever accused me of having grace, amazing or otherwise. I have spent the past two weeks trying to be helpful as Josh started the laborious and tedious business of evicting his tumor. First he had a port and feeding tube inserted into areas which had previously been missing all types of medical devices. This fairly simple procedure turned into a week's stay at the hospital as Josh couldn't shake his nausea. Both Cindy and I spent many hours sitting with him as he tried desperately to curl up into a tiny ball and disappear. When he faked feeling better just to get out of there, he then had a five hour chemo infusion followed by even more nausea. During these 10 days, he was able to eat or drink almost nothing. Never have I felt so useless. I'm quite sure Ada would have found the right words to pick up Josh's spirits during this miserable time.

All I could contribute was "Hang in there." What a dork!

Thankfully, Cindy and the nurses persisted in their search for the right combination of anti-nausea meds and Josh is past all that as he prepares for his second of four chemo infusions.

This stage is scheduled to last two months or so. After much discussion and soul searching, I have decided to head back to Florida for now, with the goal of returning during Josh's second phase of treatment which will involve daily doses of radiation and chemo. Again, how I would have liked to bounce this "plan" off Ada and get her take on the strategy. W W A D ?

For now, I'll just have to conjure up her advice as often and as well as I can.

Speaking of advice, here is some of the wisdom I have gleaned after two weeks and 3,000 miles of travel:

1. If you're going to depend on the kindness of friends, as I have done, be sure to pick friends who have great water pressure. I am so fortunate to have wonderful, hospitable friends with shower heads that rival a Brooklyn fire hydrant. You know who you are. My hard to reach nether regions thank you.

2. If you can work it out, buy gas in South Carolina.

3. Chain restaurants like Applebee's and Ruby Tuesday may be boring, but at least they're mediocre.

4. Driving 500 miles by oneself will test one's sanity.

5. I failed.

6. Despite the presence of Lehigh University, Bethlehem, PA is the most depressing city this side of Kandahar. All those abandoned steel mills.

7. Getting a little closer to my grandchildren will be the only "benefit" of this entire episode.

That, and watching my son Josh get well.

Hang in there, everyone!

Ain't life grand?
J

An Olympic Struggle: July 2012

I have always been a fan of the Olympics. In 1960, when I was in the ninth grade, I wrote a report on the Rome summer games which my nasty English teacher, Mr. Spector, called "not bad." High praise from a haughty,  pedantic, little "professor". I still vividly remember Ethiopian Abebe Bikila running the marathon barefoot through the ancient streets of Rome. From these and other Olympics I remember Wilma Rudolph, Ralph Boston, John Thomas, Bob Richards, Harold Connolly, Mary Lou Retton and Mary Decker. I can still see sprinter Michael Johnson taking the turn at unbelievable speed in the 200 meters. I remember the Russian weightlifter, Alexeyev, and the disdainful way he would throw down the bar after a successful lift. It was fashionable to hate the Russians back then. Valerei Brumel was a particular villain in my eyes. I remember the great Rafer Johnson vs. C.K. Yang.

Back then I was a big fan of the Olympic ideal, the notion of the amateur athlete, training on his own after he gets off work at the factory, and then competing against the "professionals" from the Eastern Block. What can I say? I was just a kid.

Every four years for about two weeks I find myself caring about archery or race walking or water polo. I re-learn the difference between a foil, an epee, and a sabre.  I delight in the distinction between Greco-Roman and freestyle wrestling. I think in one of those you can't stand on the ropes or bash your opponent's head into the turnbuckle.  I marvel at the new technology apparent in the bizarre looking equipment used in the air rifle competition.

With this in mind, I thought I'd let you in on a little secret: There are several Olympic events in which I could never win a medal, any medal. Here are the top ones:

1. Any event with a distance in it. Whether it's 50 meters or 26 miles, I could never win a medal in any distance-oriented event. This includes land or water, on horseback or bicycle. I tend to fade after a meter so there you have it. If there were a one meter dash, I think I could place. I used to be pretty good at "One-Two-Three Red Light." I happen to have good reflexes. Just not so much stamina. Plus I'm not a fan of horsies.

2. Skeet shooting. I just watched some American kill 46 out of 46 skeets. Even the poor slob in third place managed to kill about 42 of the little clay darlings. That's just amazing to me. I remember as a kid hiking over to Boston's Franklin Park where there was a grand old building called The Commissary. Inside were several ancient arcade machines, circa 1940 or so. One of the machines was a target shooting gizmo in which a bear with a glass belly would walk back and forth while I would try to "shoot" it with some sort of electronic rifle. If I hit the bear on his glass stomach, he would roar in disapproval and change direction. If I could hit him several times in a row, he would do several about faces and replicate the Curly shuffle from The Three Stooges. I probably spent well over $8.00 trying to make that bear my b-tch. Alas, I was always the one who faced the long walk home with the bear laughing at me all the way.

3. Badminton. There are two problems here. First, I'm, well, afraid of the shuttlecock. You know how some people are afraid of clowns? I love clowns. I'm terrified of shuttlecocks. It's irrational, I know, but what can I do about it? Another problem is the incredible speed at which the game is played. During my Temple University undergraduate days, I had to take several semesters of Phys Ed courses. I signed up for badminton thinking there would be lots of pleasant afternoon barbeques and cute co-eds. What a mistake that was! It turns out that serious badminton is vicious and many an unsuspecting player can find himself with feathers imbedded in places where feathers were never meant to go. No badminton medals for yours truly I'm afraid.

4. Kayaking. Earlier in these blogs I mentioned my recent aversion to kayaks, especially kayaks with no back support. Having just watched a number of kayakers take on a raging set of rapids as they maneuvered their non-back-supported crafts backwards and forwards through designated gates while trying desperately not to drown, I am forced to admit that a kayak medal is just not in the cards. Possibly if all the gates were lined up one after the other and all you had to do was ride that ol' current straight on through them, kind of like the tunnel of love, maybe my weight would prove to be an advantage in stabilizing the ship. Otherwise, it's "Iceberg, dead ahead!"

So there you have it. Very few Olympic dreams left for me.

But for my older son, Josh, a true Olympic struggle lies ahead. As most of you know, cancer has decided to torment this family again and Josh, with the help of his wonderful wife Cindy, and his awesome twins, Sam and Sara, will be doing battle with this formidable opponent head on. Believe me, there is no man better suited for this task.

How can I be so sure?

Hey, I knew his mother, remember?

Ain't life grand?
J

Scenes That Always Make Me Weep: July 2012

There are certain film scenes and moments that always make me weep. It doesn't matter how many times I've seen the films in question or how familiar I am with the particular scene. My response is automatic, completely out of my "control". I imagine we all have such scenes. Perhaps some of yours overlap with mine.

As a seventh grade teacher, I probably taught Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird over a hundred times. Every time one of my classes finished the book and completed whatever wrap up assignment I had devised for them, we would celebrate by watching the movie in class. And every time Scout turns to the wall in Jem's room and says so matter-of-factly, "Hey Boo," I weep. I guess it's the depiction of that beautiful innocence, exemplified by both Scout and Boo, to which I and my tear ducts react. To this day I never tire of that film and especially that scene.

As I have mentioned in an earlier post, one of my favorite movies is Tornatore's Cinema Paradiso. There are many scenes in that brilliant film that "grab" me, but most of them cause delight and laughter. When young Toto is told by his mentor, Alfredo the projectionist, to project the film onto the ancient walls of the city so that those without tickets will be able to watch, I can often feel the tears rising. But the scene that knocks me out each and every time is at the end of the film when the adult Toto, now a successful director himself, watches the bits and pieces of old, spliced film that his wonderful friend bequeathed to him. The images projected are all the love scenes that the Church had prohibited the old rogue from displaying. Toto weeps as he remembers his old friend, Alfredo, and so do I. Every time.

Although I have only seen The Artist once, and that very recently, I know that there is one scene in particular that will cause the waterworks to flow freely every time I watch this brilliantly conceived masterpiece. It occurs near the end of the film. I don't want to spoil it for those of you who have not as yet had the pleasure of watching this fine movie. I have a feeling that those who have seen it know the segment I'm referring to. John Goodman himself thought the scene was "perfect"!

 Elia Kazan's beautiful film On the Waterfront has several scenes that are tearworthy. The classic backseat conversation between Terry Malloy (Brando) and his brother Charlie the Gent (Rod Steiger) comes very close. The resignation in Brando's voice when he says (about his being a bum) "Let's face it," is heartbreaking for sure. But I bawl at another scene. When Malloy walks down to  Johnny Friendly's waterfront hangout and challenges him, all of the self respect and dignity that had eluded him in his life returns with a few quick body punches. Despite being pummeled by Lee J. Cobb and his henchmen, Malloy can finally stand on his own two feet, a natural, free man. Combine that visual with Leonard Bernstein's brilliant score and I am a piece of very wet toast.

Here are a few other quick looks at scenes that get me every time:

     when Oskar Schindler bemoans the fact that he could have done much more...

     when Randall P. McMurphy announces the World Series sight unseen...

     when the old Pvt. Ryan returns to the Normandy cemetery...

     when Forrest Gump asks Jenny if their son is smart...

     when Toy Story 3 starts, ends, and everything in between...

Finally, let me end this piece with my all-time champ. Saying I weep every time I see this scene is not quite accurate. I cry. I choke. I bawl. My nose runs. My breath spasms. My hands shake. The lump in my throat practically explodes.

  At the end of Field of Dreams, one of the sweetest movies of all time, Ray Kinsella, played wonderfully by Kevin Costner, chokes back tears as he asks his returned-from-the-dead father, "Hey, Dad, want to have a catch?" I'm actually crying as I TYPE this!

The reasons for my strong reaction to this scene range from the brilliant way the story has lead to this point, the yearning in Costner's voice, and the music that accompanies it; however, sitting above all that is my own story, in particular my own complicated relationship with my father. All that personal history conspires to make that scene remarkably powerful to me. It's a great, great cry.

Some people who are very dear to me are experiencing tears of a different sort these days, tears that are every parent's worst nightmare. Here's hoping that those tears flow beautifully and freely for as long as necessary.

Ain't life grand?
J