My Background Check

My new landlords, Linda and Travis, asked, quite justifiably, if I would submit to a thorough background check prior to being offered a year's lease on their Navarre Beach (FL) condo. I agreed to the background check and, when the results were in, I called in a few markers, greased the skids, pulled a few strings, (please insert your own favorite cliche here), and was able to find out what my background check revealed.

Here are the unfiltered results of my background check:

1. I am a person of good character much of the time. The only major exceptions to this occur when the Yankees are beating the Red Sox or when I leave a birdie putt short, at which time I revert to something ogreish or troll-like.

2. I am almost completely debt free unless you count emotional indebtedness to family and friends in which case I am and will always be beholding to many of you. You know who you are. Come down here and "collect" any time you wish.

3. I used a prohibited translation or "trot" during most of my Latin classes at Boston Latin School. I almost never used one during my English classes.

4. Ada used to do my algebra homework for me. To repay her, I would eagerly help her with her Spanish work. I never took Spanish and Ada's grades reflected that.

5. On more than one occasion I have paid to see one movie but managed to sneak around the cineplex and see two. In my own defense, I would usually pick a second movie I knew I wasn't going to enjoy.

6. On a hitchhiking trip from Boston to the San Francisco area back in 1966, I stole several candy bars from the student store at The University of California, Berkeley. I shared these candy bars with my starving co-conspirator, Andy Razin. It was only after pilfering about 5 or 6 of the delectable treats that I learned that the aforementioned candy bars were free for the taking. This revelation should not serve to dampen your opinion of the bravery and cunning needed to commit this larceny on my part; however, it should serve to strengthen your opinion of the stupidity demonstrated by the two of us.

7. At age 63 I still think farting is wildly amusing. Of course there was a time when I thought the same thing about drunken vomiting, but I've matured.

8. Owing to a recommendation made eight years ago by former colleague and good friend Russ Garland, I watch the tv show "24" without fail. It is the only show I refuse to miss. I particularly enjoy two things about the program: Kiefer Sutherland's ability to whisper and Kiefer Sutherland's ability to yell. I can take or leave the rest of it.

9. I said several bad words during and for about a week after my vasectomy.

10. Toward the end of my teaching career, my lesson plans were written retroactively; thus, they were not plans at all but rather an incomplete record of what may or may not have already happened in my English classes.

11. I didn't feel the least bit guilty about #10.

12. I was a bit overzealous as a youth soccer coach for both sons, Josh and Matt. This was never more obvious than when I had our mighty Purple team chant, "The Green Team Sucks" before competing against them for the championship. The fact that they did (suck) should not serve to mitigate this heinous offense. While I have the opportunity, I'd particularly like to apologize to player #12 on the Red Team. I didn't mean what I said.

13. I once bought a used lime-green Fiat. That alone would be enough to call my character into question; however, I bought it notwithstanding the fact that when I went to take a look at it, the sellers had already started it. This probably should have raised a warning flag or two, but I loved the color. I was very relieved to discover that starting it and getting it to advance were not at all problematic. Sadly, I was disappointed to discover after a while that it was very difficult, almost impossible, to stop. That did not prevent me from driving it, although it did force me to drive it v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y. My background check revealed that I never had an accident in that car and that I mostly used it on uphill journeys.

14. Thanks to an enduring friendship with Steve and Carol Davidson, and their son Jamie, Ada and I were able to travel to England many times. During much of that time I had no idea what English people were saying to me. Rather than reveal my stupidity, I opted to simply nod in agreement. As a result of this slovenly behavior, I evidently owe a tremendous amount of money for back taxes on a Northumberlandessexshire castle, and I have a third son, Nigel.

Despite all of the above, Linda and Travis took a leap of faith and the lease was signed. I move in next week. There's an extra bedroom for Nigel.

Much love,
J

The 7 Best Songs on my Ipod

We'll get to that later but first a question for those of you who own an Ipod:

Does your Ipod hate you as much as my Ipod hates me?

I have been nothing but a gentleman to my Ipod since I purchased it last week, using the proceeds from the sale of all 475 of my CD's to pay for it. I have not stuffed it, keeping it at a svelte 10% of capacity. I have promised to accessorize it with hot holders, cool carriers, and special sexy input and output jacks. I have demonstrated a compulsive attention to recharging.

Still it hates me. I know this because when I play it in "shuffle" mode, it will routinely play the music I either dislike completely or dislike a little. It will only rarely play the music I like and it has totally avoided the 7 best songs in its warped and cruel memory.

It has joined a long list of home products that have made it their mission in life to make me crazy. It's an axis of evil, a grotesque gang of gadgets. Included in this malicious mechanical mob are my vicious can opener, which can open my thumb in two seconds but is incapable of opening anything made of metal; my despicable toaster oven which refuses to toast any piece of bread evenly, but rather will burn one side the color and consistency of charcoal while defying the laws of physics and flash freezing the other; my simple-minded water heater which will cause the water to vary in temperature from "hot enough to cause instant blistering" to "Norwegian Fjord Cold" with just a millimeter's adjustment to the dial; and finally my absurd cell phone, which will blithely ignore the numbers I carefully input with my delicate, trained fingers and instead will randomly call people on our planet with whom I have no business and who are usually not in a mood to be disturbed. I won't even mention my openly antagonistic alarm(ing) clock which will not only tick at a decibel level close to that of a Springsteen concert on nights when I am having trouble sleeping, but will also go into "quiet mode" like Sean Connery's Red October submarine on mornings when I require assistance in waking.

I don't trust any of them and I haven't for a long time. But I really thought the Ipod would be different. After all, we both share a love of music. It's a member of the Apple family of products and they are supposed to be nicer and kinder than PC's. It was very easy to assemble. With 160 gigs, I thought it had a mind of its own, but it has obviously joined forces with its ill-tempered brethren.

There are 2,521 songs on my Ipod. If I play it continuously, from first song to last, I will hear the final song sometime in May of 2231. Of the 2,521 songs, (By the way, they're not all songs; some of them are symphonic movements and a few of them are spoken pieces. Just between us, this kind of shabby characterization shows you what I'm dealing with here.) I would estimate that I enjoy and look forward to hearing 2,000 of them. My Ipod insists on playing the woeful 521 losers over and over again, defying all the laws of probability. I tried to remedy this melodic mess by creating a few play lists which contained nothing but my faves. I even gave the play lists clever names like "Panhandle Potpourri" or "Navarre Knockouts". A perfect solution, I thought. Wrong. Inevitably there would be a hierarchy of songs on the play list. Certainly I liked all the tunes but, just as certainly, I liked some more than others. Using all of its 160 gigs to devise this clever scheme, my Ipod would only play the songs I liked the least and almost never shuffle in my absolute favorites. This made my listening experience worse than ever because I knew those great songs were right there, just waiting for the inevitable electronic impulse, but they rarely if ever made it to the top of the heap. The Ipod would callously reshuffle them to the bottom any time they were approaching the top.

Maddening. I think the only way to show it who's boss (and who owns the warranty) is to refuse to recharge it until it literally begs for its life. It's called tough cyber-love.

OK, the 7 best songs on my Ipod are:

7. Bach's Unaccompanied Cello Suite #1 by Yo Yo Ma
6. Music from The Mission by Ennio Morricone and Yo Yo Ma
5. Birdland by Weather Report
4. Come Correct by Matt Getman and the Trespassers
3. Waters of March by Antonio Carlos Jobim and Elis Regina
2. The Koln Concert Part One by Keith Jarrett
1. Giant Steps by John Coltrane

Even the great Sarah Vaughn, Tom Waits, Miles Davis, and Leonard Cohen couldn't climb this mountaintop. It's a shame I'll never get to hear any of them!

Be well and much love,
J

seriously...just for a change

First, a long overdue thanks to those brave people who have been following and, sometimes, enjoying these lame thoughts. I'm quite sure that you all have your own trials and tribulations; after all, who doesn't? It's called life. Yet you have generously taken an interest in me and my musings; you have offered me encouragement and clever commentary; you have made me feel welcome in your hearts. This is a very nice thing for you to have done and I appreciate it so much.

OK, that's enough about you. Let's get back to me.

I'm not crying as much as I used to. During the darkest depths of winter I could count on probably 4 or 5 crying "episodes" a day. They would happen randomly and would last a minute or so. They were almost never tied to a specific stimulus but rather seemed to happen of their own accord. For some reason, the car was a particularly fertile area for tears. Again, these tearful moments in the car were not memory-specific; they weren't tied to a favorite song on the radio or a favorite place or destination. They just happened, quickly and beautifully, and I was grateful for every one of them. Like many members of my peculiar species (male), I've never been very good at showing my emotions publicly; maybe that's where the car comes in. It's a private, safe enclosure where my emotions can have free reign and nobody has to know about it.

Except the couple in that Mazda staring at me.

At any rate, now it seems the tearful episodes are fewer but more specific in nature. They happen maybe once or twice a day, and they are usually tied to the idea that there is some nice or important event that Ada will not witness: like some of the twins' achievements, (Sara performing in her school's version of "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" or Sam demonstrating his reading prowess) or one of Matt's gigs, or some big piece of news from Josh or Cindy. There is a lot of pain that comes with this line of thinking; i don't know if I should "allow" myself to think this way, but I doubt there is much I can do about it.

Time is probably the only "cure," and a very imperfect one at that...

A particularly disturbing scenario played itself out in the post office line the other day. It was one of those times when I wish I had said something, but didn't. I was waiting in line when a gentleman even older than me struck up a conversation. I welcomed the chance to chat. He was from Michigan (quite a few folks from the Upper Midwest turn up in these parts) and without knowing a thing about me, he started railing against Obama and the Democrats. I politely told him I didn't feel the same way but, of course, he was entitled to his opinion. He smiled and then told me about his son, an Iraq combat veteran who was still stationed over there. I told him I hoped his son got home safely, but I had the feeling that he was of the opinion that Democrats or Liberals didn't have sons or daughters fighting over there.

But that really wasn't the disturbing part. After all, this is a very conservative area and there are many aspects of politics on which reasonable people can differ. Here is the part that bothered me. With no prodding or urging from me, he began filling me in on the high crime rate in the area. And he did it gleefully, it seemed to me. He took great pleasure in telling me about the looting episodes during one of the hurricanes that plagued this area a few years ago. My only lame response was to shake my head and say, "That's a shame."

This is what I should have said: Why are you taking so much pleasure in telling me this? What are you really trying to say here? Why aren't you telling me about the thousands of citizens who didn't loot and would never steal? Have you personally ever had anything stolen? If it's that bad here, why are you still vacationing in the area?

Maybe I'm being overly sensitive and a little naive, but I don't need or want that kind of negativity around me. If you're going to tell me sad stuff, at least do it sadly, please, or don't do it at all.

I went to the Navarre Water and Sewer Department today to sign up for water service in my upcoming rental at Navarre Beach. Connie, the woman behind the desk, was very good at her job and filled out all the requisite forms in a pleasant and efficient manner. Toward the end of the process, Connie asked me for my driver's license. I handed it over to her, wondering why she'd need that. She made a copy of it and then took it over to a laminating machine and created a makeshift ID card for me. I asked her why I would need that. She told me that in the event of an evacuation, the only people who are allowed back onto the island after the "all clear" are people who have that particular type of ID card.

Like I said a few episodes ago, we're not in Kansas anymore.

Much love to people of both parties,
J

My Car Radio and Other Useless Thoughts

As standard equipment on my 2010 Chevy Malibu, I have XM Radio, which is a commercial-free, satellite-based, double-sonar, star-guided, infrared, stereophonically programmable system.

I made all that up. I don't know how it works. I only know I like it.

There are hundreds of XM stations available. It is niche broadcasting at its finest. Here are some of the niches:

all jazz (and real jazz too; none of that smooth jazz nonsense) I've put this in the #1 position on the dial. (Actually, it's not a dial anymore.)

all classical (I've programmed that station into the #2 slot in case i ever have to impress someone.)

about a zillion sports stations (evidently, in this part of Florida there is some interest in SEC football; when you register to vote you have to declare your party affiliation and whether you're a 'Bama or Gator booster)

CNN Radio (I've programmed this one so that I can annoy any conservatives who might be riding with me.)

Fox News Radio (I've programmed this one so that I can bring on a migraine at a moment's notice.)

Here are a few of the other XM station options available: All Things Pork, The Catfish Station, The All-Sinatra Station (I'm not kidding!), The All-Sha Na Na Station (I am kidding), The Renault Station (That would be a nichette), Whatever happened to...?(This one doesn't exist, but what a great station that would be!), Bad Stuff You Didn't Realize about Your New Malibu (I knew I should have bought the Fusion).

With all these stations on XM, it will be a while before I work my way down to lowly FM or especially AM. While I was driving here in my dependable old Honda, I did find a weak local AM station which was broadcasting a kind of "Swap Meet"...people would call in with stuff they wanted to trade or sell and others would call in with offers to buy or trade. It was fascinating. There was nothing offered of real value in my opinion; it was all pretty much used up junk; yet, there seemed to be someone out there interested in everything that was being offered. Would this show survive in more prosperous times or in a more prosperous area? I wonder what a "Central Park West Swap Meet Radio Show" would be like...

Caller #1: Howdy, y'all. I have a 2008 Lexus coupe I'd like to swap.

Host: Well, she is 2 years old. What'er ya lookin' to git for her?

Caller #1: I'd like 2 tickets for a Yankees game.

Host: For a 2008 Lexus? You must be dreamin' sweetheart.

Caller #2: I'll swap 2 tickets to a Yankees-Oakland game for that there Lexus if'n y'all will throw in paid parkin' for a year.

Host: Looks like we've got ourselves a swap, y'all.

...or somethin' like that...(Hey, they can't all be gems!)

Apropos of nothing, yesterday I signed a one year lease for the 3-bedroom condo on Navarre Beach. Linda, the landlady, mentioned that she and her husband, Travis, have a lot of "extra stuff" for the condo in storage, and that she will email me an inventory and I can have anything on the list brought to the condo. That inventory hasn't arrived yet, but here is what I hope is on it:
1. salami
2. an XM radio user's manual
3. a Gulf Coast pronunciation guide
4. a Red Sox waste basket (I had one, but it didn't make the trip)

Finally, a little story about the sunset picture. Every now and then something happens on this odyssey that lets me know that I'm not traveling alone. I went down to the beach to try and capture the beauty of this particular sunset, and I saw a couple trying to take a picture of themselves with the sun in the background. Being the expert photographer that I am, I approached them and told them that I'd be happy to take their picture. They obviously hadn't read this blog so they quickly agreed. After I took their photo, we got to talking and they asked about me. I told them Ada's sad story and the woman grasped my hand.

"I'm a hospice chaplain," she said. "I know what you're going through. I think you're doing a very brave and wonderful thing by coming down here." We spoke for a half hour. There were some tears.

How does that happen? How is it possible that on a quiet stretch of beach at sunset one evening, I happen to meet a person so closely connected and so in touch with Ada's beautiful battle?

Ain't life grand?

Much love,
J

Joel's Good Day

Have you ever had one of those days when everything seemed to go smoothly and seamlessly, just the way you drew it up?

Me neither.

Until yesterday!

Yesterday was the day I had chosen to accomplish two things: line up a condo rental for a year and trade in my car for a gently used Chevy Malibu. In both cases I knew I would have to assert my usual male dominance. Both the realtor and the car salesman would soon know that I was not someone to be taken lightly. They would learn that I was a worthy adversary, and they would each tremble before me and do my bidding. I wouldn't bully them. No, that is not my way. But, like a Jedi knight, I would project such an air of confidence, such a calm demeanor, and such quiet strength that they would have no choice but to submit.

(Full disclosure: I tried the same approach with a girl named Melanie about 45 years ago...let's just say the results weren't pretty.)

For me this momentous day started around 4 am. That's when I woke up screaming from a nightmare that involved my being trapped in the same room as a rental agent and a car salesman. They were hooded and each one was brandishing an over-sized check, like the ones you see at golf tournaments. They were holding the checks to my face and laughing hysterically. I was tied to a chair, naked (Now there's a nightmare!) and begging them to let me spend more money than they had requested. I think there was also a Hostess Cupcake in there somehow but the details are fuzzy now.

Startled awake, I began making all necessary preparations for my car-condo conquest. First, I made sure I wore my power underwear, the ones that have "Yes I Can" stitched across the backside. (I had decided against wearing the ones that read, "Oh no you didn't!") Next I practiced every way I could devise of saying "No" including, "Get the hook" and "Pick up the clue phone." I debated about using "Go piss up a rope!" but eventually vowed to keep my image as classy as possible as befits a Jedi. Finally, I meditated and assumed the little-known but very useful yoga pose, "Dog Biting Salesman."

I was ready. The first battleground would be on Navarre Beach, a long narrow barrier island that stretches right along the gulf coast for about 15 miles from Pensacola to Navarre. It was here that I had scheduled an appointment with the realtor to view a bay side three-bedroom condo.

As I drove across the half-mile causeway that connects the city of Navarre with Navarre Beach, I was struck by the beauty of the gulf and, especially, the quality of the light. There was something about the light that evoked memories of all those beach towns you've ever visited. But this beach town is different. There is no amusement park or string of carnival food stands; this is a place where people come to live more than they come to play. Splayed out in front of me were a bunch of beach homes, many of them beautifully painted in a kind of South Beach pastel mode, most of them on stilts in order to withstand the September/October madness that frequently visits this part of the world. There were two main streets running east-west parallel to the coastline and a bunch of connecting smaller streets running north and south. At its widest point the distance from the gulf side to the bay side is about five or six blocks.

"I want to live here and I don't care what it costs."

I was horrified when I heard my inner voice say those words. "Shut up, you weakling! Just say no!"

"Yes I can," said my underwear.

"You shut up too."

"Everyone who wants to live here, raise your hand (if you have one)," said Dog Biting Salesman.

"You be quiet or I'll transform you into the 'Dog Under Steamroller' pose."

But before I could resolve this argument, I had arrived at the condo and there was the realtor. Only it turned out she wasn't the realtor, she was the owner. She was young, beautiful, and was carrying Alexandra, her sweet six-week old daughter, in one of those combination car seat/carrier/incubator/rocker/MP3 player thingies.

"You must be Joel," she smiled.

"I would like to rent your condo, whatever the cost," I stammered.

"OK," she said.

"Thank you," I said.

And then it was on to the car.

I was willing to drive the 75 miles from Navarre Beach to Panama City because the Chevy dealership there had a gently used 2009 Malibu that I was interested in seeing. I knew full well that when you buy a new car, you lose several thousand dollars in depreciation when you drive it off the lot. And since I may have committed most of my income and savings to the condo rental, I was more determined than ever to put up a strong fight on the car. I've bought many cars over the years, and I have found that it's best to enter the showroom with an "I could care less whether I get a car or not," attitude. Put them on the defensive and keep the pressure on until you hear those magic words: "Joel, what do I have to do to get you into this Malibu?"

That's when you know you've got 'em!

My salesperson was Nancy.

"You're here about the 2009 Malibu," she said.

"I could care less whether I buy a car or not," I said.

"What do I have to do to get you into a Malibu today?"

"From the looks of it, get a shoehorn."

"Good one."

"I know."

"Did you know that GM is offering a $3,000 rebate on the new 2010 model?"

"That should cover the damn depreciation," said Dog under Steamroller.

"Where do I sign?" I asked.

"Oh no you didn't," said my underwear.

Just in case you're wondering, I didn't go for the paint protection guarantee or the full-size spare tire.

Much love,
J

Oh, I almost forgot. The picture of the USA made of license plates from each state in the correct shapes of those states (Did I say that right?) was taken by me at the dealership. It's huge and it's hanging on the wall for all to see. I loved it immediately, especially the dedication it must have taken to cut up a license plate until it was small enough to be Rhode Island. Brilliant!