tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34020193496103254652024-03-13T05:27:16.355-04:00Madness of MarchIn 2007, I spent the first weekend of March Madness in Las Vegas and wrote a book about it -- The Madness of March: Bonding and Betting with the Boys in Las Vegas. This blog is about sport and assorted other musings about culture and society.Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574177065949676865noreply@blogger.comBlogger1260125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3402019349610325465.post-53684509667577434152023-06-06T15:54:00.005-04:002023-06-06T15:59:26.181-04:00A Moment<p>Each morning at 8am I play pickle-ball. Across the road from the pickle ball courts are several tennis courts. At 830 tennis players congregate there.</p><p>I used to be a decent singles tennis player. In 2000 I was the number one ranked 3.5 tennis player in New England. This included players from Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, and parts of Connecticut. The designation sounds more grand than it actually was. It is based on how a player competes in tournaments. Most of the tournaments are in the Boston area, so great players from other states might not want to travel hours to compete-especially since in 60 minutes they might get eliminated and have to drive back. Still, I won five or six tournaments consecutively, and while I am not certain as of this writing, I believe 8 or 9 tournaments during the season. I also had not been defeated in 3.5 league competition for two years running. <i>Three fives</i>, are not as good as <i>Fours</i>, or <i>Four Fives</i>, but the competition particularly in the leagues was serious.</p><p>Okay, so I was better than the average bear. Then sometime in 2013 I ran into a serious of ailments which required surgeries. A few years back I picked up pickle ball and now can hold my own on those courts. Not a champion, but I am decent.</p><p>Today, I decided it was too long since I had played tennis. After my pickle ball 8 am, I intended to go across the street and play tennis. How long would it take me to get back to form? There were some good players across the street, but nobody looked as good as I was when I played seriously.</p><p>After pickle ball, I get on the tennis courts and in the next ten minutes I had a moment.</p><p>During the warmups I could not get the hang of the bouncing ball. Used to the whiffle ball of pickle ball, the tennis ball kept comically hopping over my racket. I must have looked like one prize goof jumping up and trying to hit it. Fine, i would get used to it. It was doubles not singles and this wasn't the US OPEN. I started serving. They played "first ball in" which means that the first ball that goes in starts play. I hit a serve that could not be returned. It was lucky just well placed. "So" I thought "this is going to come back easily."</p><p>Then I double faulted three straight times. Six times in a row I could not get the ball over the net. The others were kind, but this was the sort of thing that drove me bats when I played. Some person saying he could play, but could not put the ball in play. Our team was down, 15-40 when I finally served the ball over the net. The opponent returned it. I chased after it. Then I did an imitation of the flying Wallendas, missing the shot, and falling ass over tea kettle, losing my tennis racket, and stopping play on both courts. Seven others came over to ask me how I was. </p><p>My pride was hurt more than anything else, though I would have preferred not to land smack on one of my artificial hips. I had two cuts that looked worse than they were. One of the players was a nurse and he came over with assorted stuff to clean my cuts. I felt like a fool with a capital f. </p><p>The players, all ten years younger than me, were being so kind and while I was grateful for their assistance, it has made me stop and wonder if I have lost it. Now, I know I should not have expected to play effortlessly, but gee I could not time the ball at all, or serve, or run down the ball. Good lord. </p><p>One of the players said he was feeling good at 66. I feel great at nearly 74, but there was a moment which reminded me that our heads and our bodies are not necessarily on the same page. For someone who self identifies as an athlete and proud of it, it was humbling to truly (and I am not sugarcoating it) look like a circus clown without the red nose as I chased down the only ball that was returned.</p><p>There's a ball machine so maybe I will go out and practice and see if I can try to redeem myself, but there was a moment there, and is a moment now, which makes me reassess where I am.</p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574177065949676865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3402019349610325465.post-19065410268384208942023-05-28T00:17:00.001-04:002023-05-28T00:17:26.503-04:00Septuagenarian<p> I will be 74 in October.</p><p>And I just ate a whole quart of ice cream because the Celtics beat the Heat with one/tenth of a second left in their season.</p><p>If you did not hear me during the last four minutes of the game you must live west of the Mississippi. We had our slider open and, in retrospect, I am surprised the local constable did not knock on my door for a Wellness check.</p><p>I had no money on the game. I almost never bet on sports, (except when I wrote the basketball book). I am just a fan.</p><p>Earlier today I went to see a division 3 softball game. No tv cameras, but it was still exciting. Many times in my life someone has seen me get excited about a sporting event and asked me "why?" My dad, who never ever bet on sports, would say, "I feel bad for those who don't get excited about sporting events." Not sure I feel bad for those folks because many may have other hobbies that thrill them. But there is a reason why the Boston Garden will be jammed on Memorial Day with screaming people like me.</p><p> </p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574177065949676865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3402019349610325465.post-84130632411466302732023-02-08T07:24:00.001-05:002023-02-08T07:26:38.243-05:00Norton and a Daly Double<p> I have, for years--since college--been a devoted fan of the 1950s series, <i>The Honeymooners</i>. I'd watched the series now and again when I was in my teens, but sometime in my junior year when the program aired nightly on an Albany station, I saw the program every day, to the point that I knew eventually all thirty nine episodes and could identify which episode one was during the first seconds of a program. I went to the first Honeymooner's Convention in 1984, received for my 50th birthday (alas before the internet made this gift unnecessary) VCR tape recordings of all 39 shows. I read the very extensive biography of Gleason, called <i>The Great One, </i>and am now a member of a number of facebook groups populated with folks like me. In one post I saw that there had been a biography of Art Carney called, go figure, <i>Art Carney: A Biography. </i>I took it out of our library and read it a few weeks back. If you're a zealot like I am, you might find it valuable. Even for me, I thought the book was a superficial chronology which did not tell me much more than I already knew. Carney was a considerate man, shy--certainly compared to Gleason--and a hard drinker. I knew he liked to bang them back, but did not know how at times his drinking interfered with his work on broadway. He was extraordinarily talented in terms of the kinds of roles he could play, and was self-effacing to a fault. I did not know that he did not get along with Walter Matthau with whom he starred in the original Broadway version of <i>The Odd Couple</i>, nor with Lily Tomlin with whom he starred in <i>The Late Show </i>a movie that came out in the late 70s. Both Matthau and Tomlin improvised so much that it was difficult for Carney to react. I found this interesting because Gleason was notorious for not rehearsing and improvising, yet Carney as Norton had no trouble with Gleason or the Norton role. In short, while I kind of sort of am glad I read the book, I think if you are not a big fan, you would find it too superficial to be of much value. I noted that in the beginning of the book, the author (Michael Seth Starr) thanks dozens of people for being willing to be interviewed. Art Carney (still alive when the book was published) is not listed.</p><p>Where I heard of <i>Just What Kind of Mother are You, </i>a novel by Paula Daly, I don't know. My guess is that it was listed somewhere as an outstanding debut novel. I thought it was very good. At first it seemed like a typical whodunit with a perp whose thoughts are written in italics interspersed with the main narrative of the novel. However, the book is more complex than a boiler plate mystery with a number of multidimensional players. There are two main characters. When the focus is on one, the story is written in the first person. When the focus is on the other, it is written in the third person. I think the author handles this well. While some characters certainly behave unconventionally particularly when you realize at the end what has occurred, the reader--at least I--recognizes that a point in the novel is that many families and many people that are, on the surface, conventional have their own very unconventional histories and motivations. The book reminded me of the line at the very beginning of Anna Karenina: "...every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. " A women, the mother of three, feels as if she has left her friend down. The friend's daughter is missing at a time when the community knows a pedophile is on the loose. Meanwhile a detective, very effectively drawn, is attempting to locate the pedophile. The book is well tied up at the end. While the book describes aberrant and disturbing behaviors, I nevertheless found the story and craziness believable. Recommended.</p><p>I liked the book so much that I looked for the next novel by the author. I couldn't get it easily, so I found the most recent one she penned. This one, <i>Clear My Name</i>, was not nearly as good as her debut novel. The story is not credible in many ways. The relationships just don't pass the sniff test for being likely. In this one a woman who works for a non profit that tries to free prisoners who have been inappropriately convicted, attempts to exonerate a woman convicted of murdering her husband's lover. That someone could kill a spouse's lover is not implausible, the coincidences in this book are not plausible. Also some characters are not realistic. The main character--the lead sleuth attempting to find evidence to exonerate the client-- has been given a trainee who is ostensibly learning how to do the investigative work. She, the trainee, is naive and not suitable. There is no explanation for why she was kerplunked to be the assistant. There is a biological mother who happens to run into the daughter she gave up for adoption and this daughter is a source of information about the crime. Finally, the main character simply would not do what she did at the end--not because she wouldn't have thought it was the right thing to do, but because of the enormous consequences of doing it. I would pass on this Daly novel, but I will give another one a try down the road because of how much I liked her debut.</p><p><br /></p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574177065949676865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3402019349610325465.post-51277815825224569532023-01-30T10:10:00.001-05:002023-01-30T10:10:31.649-05:00Take the Money and Run<p> I am not always (or often) correct with football predictions, but I had both games yesterday. I thought KC and Philly would win. I thought KC would win by more than three and who knew that both quarterbacks for the 49ers would be injured. Still I had the games right.</p><p>The Chiefs are 1.5 dogs against the Eagles. I will preface what's next by writing that I thought Carter would beat Reagan. That said, take the Chiefs and run. This will be a slaughter along the lines of the early superbowls. The Chiefs will beat the Eagles like they stole something. Hurts is a good but not great quarterback. Mahomes is great. </p><p>Take the Money and Run.</p><p>On a social impact note, in the 70s when the Steelers started a black quarterback it made the cover of Sports Illustrated. Both quarterbacks in this year's superbowl are black. We are getting to a point--and it took long enough--that the race of football quarterbacks is nothing to note.</p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574177065949676865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3402019349610325465.post-40006632763503037562023-01-23T15:40:00.000-05:002023-01-23T15:40:12.548-05:00Hell<p> I went to visit my parents' gravesite earlier today. In classic Florida form it was bright and sunny when I left the library for the ten minute drive to the cemetery. Within a minute the skies became dark. When I made my turn onto route 441, there was the kind of deluge that makes drivers consider pulling over to the side of the road because they can barely see. I forged ahead and the rain lightened up a bit. By the time I turned into the cemetery grounds, it was just drizzling. I drove to the area where the stone sits, and waited in the car for the rain to subside completely. Which it did. I then grabbed the chair I had put in the car for the visit and plod up the wet grassy hill, found the stone, and sat.</p><p>A half hour later I returned to where my car was parked. I saw that there now was a car behind me. A woman, maybe a year or two younger than me, was standing shakily by the vehicle. She had what looked like a tissue in her hand and was wiping the rain drops off of her car. It was a hopeless endeavor if drying the car was indeed what she was seeking to do. Had we not been in a cemetery, had the tissue been a towel, had there been a bucket of sudsy water near the tire, had the woman not been so visibly sad--her movements would have looked like those of a carwash employee who was in the final stages of cleaning a vehicle. She kept rubbing the car with the tissue.</p><p>When I approached my car, she smiled at me, or attempted to smile through her tears. I said hello and she responded similarly. She looked like she was having a difficult moment and so I asked her if this was a tough day. She nodded. Yes, she said. "You visiting someone?" I said. "Yes" she said again through tears. "My son." "Oh", I said "Your son. I'm sorry" She thanked me and told me that her son was now gone for a year and a half and had been only 32. None of this came out of her without tears. I asked if it had been a COVID related death. She said no and then murmured that she did not want me to ask about the cause. She asked me what brought me to the cemetery. I told her and she said that a few months after she buried her son, she also buried her own mother. She kept wiping the car with a tissue. Her mother she said had been 92, and had lived a good long life, leaving out what she was tacitly saying clearly, "but my son was only 32."</p><p>She said she knew she would see her son again. I wished her good luck. She said she did not believe in luck, she believed in (and then pointed to the sky). She was so shaky that I asked if she lived nearby as I was worried that this person might have trouble driving given her sadness. She thanked me but told me not to worry--she was fine--and lived close by.</p><p>I said goodbye and went to my car. As I was driving away I wondered about the emotional toll this young man's death had taken on his mother. A year and a half later, she was still distraught to the point of making me wonder if she could drive. Now maybe this was the boy's birthday; maybe it was her birthday; maybe it was another anniversary of some sort. And the significance of the date was what fueled the sadness. But I did not get that sense. It seemed like for this woman every day, or at least for a time within each day, she had trouble coping because of her young man's death. I've not been there; but I can imagine how the sadness could irreparably damage one's perspective and potential to experience joy.</p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574177065949676865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3402019349610325465.post-78311050168211271282023-01-22T08:30:00.000-05:002023-01-22T08:30:01.682-05:00Book Reviews<p><i> </i> <i>Lessons in Chemistry</i> is a very popular book. I checked last night when I completed it and close to 1500 people are on a waiting list in my library system to get the book. I must have read a review early on and requested it then, because I got it almost immediately way before the line became so long. In short, my recommendation is not to rush to get to the back of the line. <i>Lessons in Chemistry</i> is a one note book. It is engagingly written and the one note is an important one--which is why, I'll opine, the book is so popular. However, the characters are major league stick figures and most of them are wholly and literally incredible. That is, not believable. You have an elementary school kid reading at a college level. A dog with a vocabulary, a wildly popular television show that would not get the traction that it does in the story. All this criticism written, the one note the book makes is a significant one. The book takes place in the early 1960s. A woman Chemist is being dissed because she is a woman. Women in the book are relegated to servile positions and even brilliant female scientists are given menial jobs. The main character, Elizabeth, is an unwavering truth speaker and iconoclast. She refuses to marry the man she loves, does not care that their child is "illegitimate", challenges organized religion, conventional journalism, the educational system, and women who go along with the male dominated status quo. In this way the book is refreshing. Elizabeth, having been canned as a Chemist, has a cooking show in which she describes how to cook in terms of Chemistry. The tv executives are certain it will be a bomb but it is a stunning success despite the highly academic nature of the program. The book's stunning success is more understandable than the fictional 1960 tv show. People in 2023 are still victimized by conventions, and 1960 Elizabeth challenges the oppressors. The ending is ridiculous. Three stars out of five tops.</p><p>Someone on facebook asked the public for book recommendations. Several responses suggested<i> The One in a Million Boy. </i>I took it out. It is a sweet and more often than not engaging novel about a 104 year old woman who is befriended by, and befriends, a boy scout who has been assigned to help the woman. The boy is fascinated by records and figures the woman could be in the Guinness Book in a number of categories. Other characters are the boy's father and mother (estranged from each other), band members the dad--a guitarist-plays with, the scoutmaster, and assorted others. The boy tapes interviews with the wholly with-it 104 year old woman and these are interspersed throughout. We learn about her life before World War 1, her parents, marriage, and a dear friend. The problem with the book is that it is disjointed. There are a number of parts meant to congeal and they don't. Are there enough sweet parts to recommend the book? Yes, but if I was going to make a list of must reads, this would not be on it. Snowed in, poking around your bookshelves, see this lying around--you could do worse.</p><p>I was in a local library in December, and saw a holiday time display that included a book called <i>The Matzah Ball. </i>A librarian must have liked it or thought in this non Jewish area where the library was located, it would be good to suggest a book that would represent a minority group around Christmas time. The book is about a Jewish woman who is a very successful author of Christmas books. In addition, she is fascinated by Christmas. She keeps her fascination under wraps because she comes from a very observant family and she too has a strong Jewish background. There is a dear childhood friend who is the son of two prominent lesbian lawyers, a romantic involvement with another man, the main character's father who is a prominent Rabbi, and an event--a high end "Matzah Ball" where Jews meet up around Christmas time to celebrate hanukkah. The book is, as my grandfather would say, "ridikalus". It is billed as an adult novel, but i had to check half way through to make sure, because it reads like a young adult. It screams "hallmark movie" with-go figure--a couple falling in love, alienating each other and--wait for it--getting back together at the end for a happily ever after ending. Ridickalus. A positive about the book is that the author imparts some important points about Judaism (for example Hanukkah is NOT a major holiday) that are good to point out, and also some tidbits about Judaism and Hebrew that I, a somewhat knowledgeable member of the tribe, had not known about and found interesting. My recommendation is if you like Hallmark movies that are ridickalus, this is right up your alley. If not, run away from the display where the book is highlighted. </p><p><br /></p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574177065949676865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3402019349610325465.post-15200371381699316262023-01-18T18:06:00.003-05:002023-01-18T18:06:34.021-05:00Circle<p> One of my favorite crooners in the 70s was the late Harry Chapin. He became famous for a song, <i>Taxi</i>, and then wrote, prolifically, for ten years until he died in an automobile accident. Sad day for me when I heard that news. Among his oeuvre (first time I believe that I have used this word in a sentence) was Circle. It contains the recurring lyric, <i>All My life's a Circle, Sunrise and Sundown, the moon rolls through the night time til the day break comes around. </i></p><p>Monday night had to be one of the most depressing evenings of my life. Two and a half days after falling down a staircase backwards and ramming my back into a wall, I was convinced that I had another long rehabilitation ahead of me. I anticipated the pain in my back would dissipate but it had not. In fact, that Monday night it was worse than it had been. i could not get into a comfortable position in bed; tried sleeping in a chair without success; couldn't cough without feeling jarring pain, and just couldn't get out of a sense of gloom. I've often told people--and meant it-- when they were in throes of sadness to "look at the bright side" because there almost always is one. So I tried telling this to myself and was not persuasive. </p><p>The next day, on Tuesday, I was scheduled to see my doc and I imagined that the xrays she would prescribe would reveal that I had broken a rib when I went unconventionally from the second floor to the first. A trip I had planned, to do some work and also relax would inevitably have to be put on hold. I tried putting on the Honeymooners, the old 50s tv show, which often buoys my spirits. Did not do the trick. Watched Jeopardy which I'd taped--still could not find the zs. Eventually I asked Donna if we had a heating pad. She went and got one and I reclined on it, and finally fell asleep.</p><p>I was told a few years back when I had to take a medication that the drug could cause mood swings. For the record I hate taking drugs. Except for an aspirin to dull pain when I was playing tennis competitively, I took absolutely nothing until about ten years ago when a doc prescribed two drugs, one for blood pressure and another to combat plaque build up. I was reluctant to take either. I imagined a conversation my body had with me when I started taking the pills.</p><p><i>Hey, Al, what are you swallowing there.</i></p><p><i>It's for blood pressure.</i></p><p><i>No need. We got it Al. Keep exercising, eat something nourishing now and again, and we will take it from there. Don't swallow this poison.</i></p><p><i>Doc said it will be helpful.</i></p><p><i>"Doc said it would be helpful." That's the drug companies talking. Trust us in here. We can handle it.</i></p><p><i>I'm inclined to agree with you, but this is supposed to reduce the chances of stroke. Don't want a stroke..</i></p><p><i>Son of a bitch. I'm telling you, we got this. You pour this crap into the system and it is going to have an impact. You're going to get sluggish, not be able to enjoy time.</i></p><p><i>Maybe.</i></p><p><i>Listen to us pal. don't burden us with this witch doctor potions disguised as cure alls. If big pharma, wasn't making a mint on this, you would not be taking it.</i></p><p><i>Some drugs are helpful.</i></p><p><i>Maybe, but you are going to get low.</i></p><p>Anyway, I have been taking the drugs for a while. And I wonder if getting low or as low as I can get is because of the drugs. </p><p>Or is it because in the last year, four of my contemporaries have died and, concurrently, I have lost my sense of my invulnerability highlighted by not being able to negotiate a staircase without inadvertently testing the laws of gravity.</p><p>I had begun to play pickleball and was enjoying it and getting good at it. I'd joined a team. I got a text from the pickleball captain wanting to know when I would be available for a league competition. I had joined the Y, and was back on the elliptical and swimming and even shooting baskets in the gym. </p><p>I got to the doc early. It was my first time meeting with her. The appointment was supposed to be my annual physical with a new pcp. She was very thorough. Examined my back, listened to my lungs and offered what I thought were miraculous conclusions. She did not think I had broken any ribs nor punctured my a lung. I was delighted but asked why I felt this pain. She said in a monotone, with a heavy dose of duh in it. "Because you fell backwards down eleven steps and smashed into a wall. You're lucky you did not crack your spine or skull. You can walk. Now, you can practice on the stairs like someone not auditioning for the circus." Or words to that effect.</p><p>I took a bunch of xrays. They came back mostly negative. The radiologist saw something but thinks it is not a big deal so I have to get an MRI to be sure. However, essentially, I am fine. Not in for a long rehab.</p><p>On Tuesday after the doctor's appointment I felt like a tremendous dark cloud had left.. Metaphorically (and actually) the sun came out. I was told I could take my trip. I did not think of my self as an erstwhile jock relegated to inevitable deterioration. I went out and walked. I ate a jelly doughnut. Went to the library. Chatted up a librarian. The daybreak came around.</p><p>I don't know any longer if I am a glass half full guy. I don't know if my recurring half empty attitude is a function of the drugs I am taking. However, I don't think my reaction to the injury was healthy. The world was not coming to an end. There was pizza to eat, sports to watch, books to read, stories to write, embraces to enjoy, intimacy, memories of love and loving. On Monday night none of that had a chance of surfacing and remaining in my head. The fall was absolutely, horrendous and frightening. It hurt slamming into that wall. I was legitimately embarrassed not to be able to negotiate the stairs. But I was unable to acknowledge that the nighttime would give way to daybreak. The moon does roll through the night time 'til the daybreak comes around. It is important to remember that. The daybreak comes around.</p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574177065949676865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3402019349610325465.post-81418922732823630672023-01-16T16:11:00.003-05:002023-01-16T21:51:06.431-05:00put me down for a plum<p>I was reminded a day or two ago about a fellow Albany freshman. His name was/is Mike and from what I understand he is now a very successful physician.</p><p>We lived in the same dormitory on the same floor. The dorm was set up like a huge H. Three floors of H, Rooms along the horizontal line that connects the vertical lines of the H, and rooms on the two vertical lines on the three floors. Where the vertical lines met the horizontal lines there were community bathrooms with gang showers, a line of sinks, urinals and stalls. </p><p>Mike had put up a sign in the bathroom mirrors on our wing advertising that he had taken a barber shop course and for 50 cents a head, would shear any one brave enough to take a chance.</p><p>I was reminded of Mike the other day because I was chatting with my friend Kenny who told me that for his entire freshman year, he had gone to Mike for his hair cutting needs. I told Kenny that I too had used Mike as a barber. I remember that when it was time I would knock on his door. A very good student, he was usually in the room reading some Biology tome. He'd put aside his books, take out his scissors, put a towel around my neck and cut hair.</p><p>Some thoughts. </p><p> I wonder how Mike feels about this now. Fifty cents a head. He would have to cut ten of us to earn five dollars. He's now an oncologist. He probably makes enough dough to have him shake his head at the notion that it was worth his while to cut hair for 50 cents.</p><p>The thing is, it was then. We were at a state university. Our tuition was peanuts by today's standards, but nobody I knew who lived in the dorms came from any money. The fellow across the hall was one of nine and his dad was a fire chief. I remember we both shook our heads in wonder when we learned that one of our dorm mates' dad had gotten a raise and was now making 10K a year. Kenny's roommate, now a retired professor, woke up at 5 am every morning so he could work the cafeteria for minimum wage. Probably hauled in 25 dollars a week, tops. Every morning he would peel himself out of bed and dish out what passed for scrambled eggs to the few of us who got up early enough to eat it.</p><p>It's tough to write this and not sound like my dad who talked about how he remembered when a hot dog was a nickel, or how he got a tangerine as a gift during Chanukkah. I remember getting a real charge out of that. I said, "Put me down for a plum." He chuckled a little, but that was what it was like for him.</p><p>Most of the Mikes in my dormitory did well for themselves. My roommate, a dedicated Biology student, quit the Sciences and opened a multi franchised sub sandwich business in the Albany area. A number of my classmates worked for the state, keeping jobs they had started for next to nothing picking up odd jobs at the capital. Several, like Mike, became docs, a few successful lawyers. A long way from charging 50 cents for a haircut to take the bite out of 300 dollar a year tuition costs.</p><p>At some point when I was a senior I bumped into Mike on campus. I asked him if he was still giving haircuts. He said no and confided that he never had taken any lessons to cut hair. Probably is now certified to be an oncologist though.</p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574177065949676865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3402019349610325465.post-20208557547739525242023-01-14T16:38:00.002-05:002023-01-14T16:38:30.574-05:00Covid Plus<p>I had intended today to post a blog more akin to those I used to post. I'd stopped a few months back and only written book reviews because I'd read that a blog post is considered a publication--and if I ever wanted to adapt a blog for publication--and that publication eliminated any submission that had been published--then I could not submit the adapted version. I have seen, lately, some publications that do NOT consider blog posts publications, so--here goes. </p><p>My intention was to write some, not necessarily sequential, thoughts about COVID. And I still will but there will be an addendum. </p><p>Regarding COVID:</p><p>A pox on the administration that poo poohed this in the early months of 2020, and the neanderthal supporters like the current governor of Arkansas, and present lobotomized governor of South Dakota, and the various sycophants who've boosted the earning of knee pad companies because of how they groveled and grovel in support of the president at that time.</p><p>I have been vaccinated and boostered three times. Last week I won the COVID lottery and I had symptoms. Not benign symptoms. It was probably no worse than when I have had a bad case of the flu. However, as I have now traveled over seventy times around the track, and also because I am aware as is anyone who has not Rip Van Winkled through the last three years, that people have in fact perished because of COVID, I was more than just a cranky camper.</p><p>The doc I saw on Monday predicted, very accurately, what would transpire. I got better at almost the precise rate as he informed me would be the recovery pace. I am now two days safe for society if I was ever safe for society in the first place. The only thing that has lingered is a cough which today has nearly dissipated entirely.</p><p>So, my takeaways. You can get it, even if boostered. If you get it and are vaccinated you will likely not kick. I don't know how to be "careful" not to get it. I have not been "careful" but I don't know if I had been careful if I would have not gotten it. My best guess is that I got it after joining a local Y and using their steam room. That would seem to be a swell place for a virus to hang, but I don't know. Could have gotten it purchasing chicken breasts, baked potatoes, and little chocolate doughnuts that I enjoy snorting. I could have gotten it knocking back a beer at a sports bar mid afternoon on New Year's eve. Could have gotten it chatting with the mailperson. Therefore, while I was singing a different tune a week ago today when I could not sing at all having the worst sore throat of my existence, I think today that sequestering yourself is NOT the way to go. I have enjoyed life, to the extent that I enjoy life, for the past year. Taken trains, gone to ball games, stayed at hotels, gone on airplanes. I could have NOT done these things and maybe reduced my chances of spending last weekend thinking about my Will, but then I would have missed out on some very good times. The value of staying alive is to have good times, but if you preclude good times because you are concerned with getting the virus, then some good time has been lost. Look, I am not going back to the Y and and will not spend a half hour shvitzing in the steam bath. And when I use the elliptical I will try to find a bike away from others. And I will mask up on the train and planes. But if I'm invited to dinner, I'm going, and will stop off for a beer and a shot on the way home if someone else is driving.</p><p>The addendum is a metaphor. I will preface this by writing that I once was a very good athlete. In almost all sports, I picked up the game and could compete with regulars in not much time. However since 2013 I have had a host of injuries that have affected my ability to compete and in some cases undermined claims of athletic prowess. And one of those events/injuries that undermine claims of athleticism happened today. </p><p>We come in through a side door. There, on the inside of the door are a host of shoes in what amounts to a mudroom. Not technically a mudroom, more like an anteroom that serves as a mud room. Anyway when we come in from walking we put our wet shoes near the door. Today, I noticed that no fewer than five of my shoes, five pair, were right there by the doorway--an accident waiting to happen. So I gathered the ten shoes in my hands and went to bring them upstairs and put them where they belong. There is a banister along the left side of the stairs, but I had no appendage available to grab the banister as my two were otherwise engaged. I got to the top of the stairs and I had a sensation I've had before when carrying up laundry. I felt as if I needed to regain my balance because I was leaning backwards. I have to think this has happened thirty times. Always I regain my balance. Not a big deal. </p><p>This time I did not regain my balance and I fell backwards down the stairs. I could not grab the banister and felt myself rapidly going backwards. I slammed into the wall at the base of the stairs that protrudes and contains the light switch. Very hard. Very hard. I thought I had done serious damage.</p><p>I did not. Miraculously after, no doubt, waking all those in the 12453 zip code, I was able to get up. Major league pain in my pain but it was a miracle that I did not snap my neck or land on my spine. Immediately thereafter I was able to move my left hand above my head. (Four hours later not so easy). I feel blessed.</p><p>And there is a metaphor here. How many times in our life do we fall. This was up there with another for me as the worst. In both cases, I emerged with relatively minor injuries. We all fall down. Our life, metaphorically, consists of tumbles and bruises no matter how carefully we navigate. I do think there are ways to go up the stairs that allow one to grab a bannister. So there are ways to be careful. I don't ride bikes for example because I think they are, for me at least, not the best mode of transportation or exercise. </p><p>But our life is a tumble, and we catch breaks and make breaks or don't catch breaks or don't make breaks.</p><p>Happy new year to all. Seize the day (and the bannister). A buddy of mine turned 74 on new years day. We--he, I, and others--zoom regularly and I asked him after his birthday how it felt to be 74. The first thing he said to me was "Fuck you." Apparently, the milestone did not bring joy to his heart. Someone else asked why he was so sour. His answer: "How long is the damn runway?"</p><p>Fact is we don't know.</p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574177065949676865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3402019349610325465.post-26813561273823570762023-01-03T17:30:00.004-05:002023-01-04T09:20:53.921-05:00Book Reviews<p> I've read three books since my last post. One of these falls into the category of "superficial and implausible"; a second is in the category of "if this was not a famous author, the book would likely not have been published"; and the third is "close to brilliant."</p><p><br /></p><p>I was in a library a few weeks back that I'd never visited before. It was right near the airport and I was picking up Donna later in the day. Since I planned to go to a library near home and wait for her call, I figured I would find a library near the airport so that when I learned the plane landed, it would take me no time to get to the terminal. And that, for any Bostonians who are library people and who are scheduled to pick someone up at Logan, is the way to go. Once I got the call I was at the gate before she retrieved her luggage. While I was doing what I do in a library I saw a display of books that librarians had highlighted. I can't recall now if these were "staff picks" or just books the librarians thought patrons might like. One was called, <i>The Last Thing he Told Me</i>. It is a page turner. However, when you get done turning the pages, you're left holding something superficial and implausible, such that you (or at least I) figure that the value of the easy read is outweighed by the loss of time reading something that evaporates within moments of having completed the reading. In this, apparently very popular, novel a man disappears leaving his wife with a stepdaughter who is not crazy about the wife. The wife attempts to find her sweetheart and earn the respect of the surly stepdaughter. Twists and turns like you wouldn't believe--literally--you would not believe them. The husband, go figure, is not the guy he said he was. His history is not the history he had described to his wife. How the stepdaughter and wife learn this is through a series of implausible, but readable, escapades. In the end, guess what, the good wife earns the respect of the stepdaughter who seems, absolutely improbably, to be well adjusted despite what she has learned about her dad and her biological mother. In short, if you are on a plane and have nothing to read, you could do worse, but don't expect Tolstoi.</p><p>I request books from the library when I read a review that makes the book seem interesting. From now on I will write down, when I make the request, where I saw the review and why I was intrigued. <i>The Latecomer </i>is one of these books. I received a notice from my library that the request was in, so I picked up this book that I'd forgotten I'd requested. Bottom line. Very well written book. Longish 430 plus pages, but the author is able to describe events and people in a way that is, literally, <i>marvelous</i>. (i.e. I marveled at her skill). Basic plot line: a woman marries a man who she knew ahead of time was carrying a heavy heart and guilt. Nevertheless she wants to marry him and procreate. However, she can't conceive. Eventually through a doctor's intervention and modern science, she has triplets. Much of the book describes the triplets, and the parents. While I am not sure the kids could be as described, they are described vividly. I cannot relay who the latecomer is without giving something up that the author wishes the reader to figure out, or be surprised when it is revealed. With some pride I will comment that I predicted who the latecomer was after only about 100 pages. There is one event near the end however, that really was startling and again I marveled how the author prepared the reader for that revelation. In short: Highly recommended. Some tidy stuff at the end which I can't believe would have happened, but maybe. Snowed in for the weekend. You can do worse that settle in with this book.</p><p>I've been a fan of Scott Turow's since he wrote the magnificent, <i>Presumed Innocent</i>. I read it about 30 years ago and I've yet to read a comparable legal thriller. Since then I've read nearly all, if not all, of his books. They are almost always engaging, though none compares favorably with his first novel. I was in the library a week back and saw a STAFF PICKS section and there was a recent Scott Turow, called <i>Suspect</i>. The first 200 pages of this was engaging and classic Turow. The main character is the granddaughter of the main character in<i> Burden of Proof</i>, Sandy Stern, who was also a very important character in <i>Presumed Innocent.</i> Since I have read nearly all his books I recall many of the names, but not all of the details about characters who appeared in previous novels. I think he threw some characters from the past in the book to reward loyal readers as they are not all central to this book. The granddaughter, however, is, central. And there are several references to Stern, now living in Assisted Living. After the first two hundred pages, the rest of <i>Suspect</i> turns into high tech gratuitous gobblegook, and an ending that just could not and would not have happened in so many ways. The book read like half way through Turow said to his kid (I don't know if he has a kid) who kept nagging the dad saying "I can write better than you" to go knock himself out. It's terrible. Inclusion of completely irrelevant characters. Disappearance of central characters. Characters that blur into each other. Just not good. One thing I liked is that he attempts to deal with gender inequities. The book is about a police chief who is accused of sexually harassing cops in exchange for promotion. The thing is the chief is a woman and the allegedly harassed cops, men. The main character is a sexually active bisexual woman who discusses her amorous activities in a way that is not intended to make her seem promiscuous. And I think Turow did this deliberately to try and put a dent (or question mark at least) on the very much lingering double standard--as well as the insidious puritanical attitudes our society still has about sex. Still, even with these positives, the book disappoints. The plot does not pass the "is it ridickalus" sniff test. I can't recommend <i>Suspect </i>and am surprised that a librarian staff member did.</p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574177065949676865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3402019349610325465.post-69638685514732545662022-12-09T00:26:00.003-05:002022-12-09T09:27:53.489-05:00Book Review: The Position<p> I took <i>The Position </i>a book authored by Meg (not Hilma, her mother) Wolitzer, to Washington DC the week before Thanksgiving. I started reading it at least three times and I could not get past the first page. It just did not grab me. Maybe I was tired because of my travels, maybe the museums were stimulating such that I could not get stimulated by a book. Who knows. I could not get to page two.</p><p>When I returned home, I thought I would give the book another shot. I read a few pages, thumbed through to see how long the first chapter was, saw it was 20 pages, and almost gave the book the heave-ho. Then I determined to plow through the first chapter and then make a decision. </p><p>This experience is a good example of why one should give books a genuine chance. <i>The Position </i>is a very good book; exceptionally and vividly written. In brief (and this occurs on the first few pages) one of four siblings discovers a book the parents have written about sex. The book is called <i>Pleasuring </i>and it not only includes descriptions of sex acts, but also has pictures of the parents engaged in the activity. The kids are stunned. The rest of the book describes each of the four children's reaction to the book and their subsequent development. Also, the parents'--the authors of <i>Pleasuring--</i>evolution is described. In some cases, the partners of the characters are described as well. </p><p>I think the author was not quite certain how the book was going to end or even how all the characters would evolve. This, if you have read my reviews before, is not to my liking. However, in this book Wolitzer does such an extraordinary job of depicting each of the characters that I can still recommend the book enthusiastically. I'm not sure if I buy how the children reacted, or that the publication of the book could have been as jarring as it apparently was to the kids. The saga of the oldest child seemed particularly unrealistic, and the ease with which some characters eased from one relationship to another was atypical at least to my experience.</p><p>Still, I recommend the book. The title refers to a sexual position that the authors of <i>Pleasuring</i> claim to have "invented" The position itself is not described until the very end of the book. It's not a position that is likely to "work" at least for an extended period of time. About halfway through the book, before the reader knows what the position actually is, a woman friend of the female author of <i>Pleasuring </i>comments to the author that she tried "the position" and found it exciting, but the problem was "it kept popping out." Sexual and romantic connections are difficult to maintain and endure. They are initially, and can even be in the long run, exciting and bonding, but the reality is we keep popping out.</p><p>I've read two other books by Meg Wolitzer. <i>The Interestings</i> and <i>The Wife</i>. Neither was as good as <i>The Position</i>. Looking for a good read? Give this a chance.</p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574177065949676865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3402019349610325465.post-57122287900446017562022-11-30T09:42:00.001-05:002022-11-30T12:02:30.331-05:00An Available Man--Book Review<p> This morning I had to make an early run to the grocery store. My cat was out of treats and I was close to out of ketchup. An absence of either could result in grouchy behavior. At just about 8 am I walked into the store and at nearly the same time I saw a man leaving holding a takeaway coffee in his right hand. To compete I guess with a Starbucks nearby, in the grocery there is a takeout coffee station. The entrance and exit doors to the grocery are automatic. The doors opened for him and me concurrently. I had a great view of the guy banging into the close to completely opened door, spilling coffee from the tiny sucking opening on the lid and shouting as he burned his ungloved fingers. It's possible that he anticipated the door would open more and he would have space, but it seemed to me that he just wasn't paying attention. He rammed into the door. He burned his hand, he lost some coffee. As I walked past I heard him mutter "fucking door" Hey Mack, I thought, the door is inanimate. You walked right into it. Don't blame the door.</p><p>I finished <i>An Available Man</i> by Hilma (not Meg) Wolitzer yesterday morning. I was looking for a good novel and had enjoyed another book by her a few years back. It was an easy, fast read and in that respect what I wanted. As a drawback the novel reminded me of advice that <i>Bird by Bird</i> author Anne Lamott offered about plot. Lamott suggested that authors allow characters to develop the story and not to have a definite idea about where the story would go until the writer "listens" to the characters. As I mentioned in an earlier review, I don't agree with this advice. In <i>An Available Man</i> Wolitzer seemed to me as if she took Lamott's advice and was not really sure where the book was going to go when she started. She had the general idea. A man is widowed, is out there and <i>available. </i>The book is about what happens subsequently. In addition to the widowed, now available, husband, the author probably had other parts of the story in place: he had loved his wife; he had two stepchildren; the mother of the deceased was still alive; there was a dog; the main character was a teacher; the main character's romantic history had a big bump in it-but beyond these facts, it did not seem to me as if she had specifics or maybe even an idea of how it all was going to wind up. As it turned out, it wound up fine; interesting story--I don't believe some aspects of it are likely and without spilling the story I can't go into what, but I don't buy some of the plot. Still the story got tied up if in an unlikely way with an unlikely set of connections, but it was tied up and, in general, a good read.</p><p>A message in the book resonated with me even though it is not that profound. We are responsible for our own happiness. We can make decisions that will allow us to be happy or we can choose to block the paths to joy. I'm not necessarily the greatest at following that advice, but at least I know that we have, myself and everyone else, choices. One of the peripheral characters in the novel is a psychic and she relays this "you have a choice" advice to a character. A key is not to take the predictably bumpy roads when, even without a gps, you can see that there are routes that are likely to be far more exciting, salubrious, and relatively obstacle free. And it follows as a corollary that, unlike the guy I saw this morning who burned his hand, don't blame hot coffee on your fingers on the fucking door when you, yourself, walked into it.</p><p>Do I recommend the book? Yes, it is an easy, well written read. Do I suggest you rush right out and get it, no. It is not grab your neighbor and say you must read it good. But on a rainy day when you are looking for something to read in an easy chair, you could do much worse. </p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574177065949676865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3402019349610325465.post-9832426789332289252022-11-23T03:40:00.003-05:002022-11-23T03:46:40.913-05:00Bird by Bird--A Review<p>These past six months I've been writing beyond blogs and textbooks. Short stories, plays, essays. Some days have been more productive than others. Sometimes I write what seems brilliant to me, only to have it rejected by an editor who obviously does not have the wisdom to publish what is unequivocally brilliant. In October I hit a bit of a wall in terms of motivation for writing. The book <i>Bird by Bird</i> was highly recommended. I read it. i second the recommendation. </p><p>The author, Anne Lamott, is a successful writer who also--at least at the time when she wrote this book--taught writing classes. <i>Bird by Bird</i> is a collection of essays that each describes some message that she relays to her students. In addition to the essays, there is an excellent introduction in the book that frames the essays. </p><p>Some specific reactions.</p><p>There are parts of the book that have stuck with me in the ten days or so when I completed it--and I believe these will stay in my. head for the duration. The most significant is the story that explains why the author titled the book as she did. The story: Her brother had procrastinated writing a paper in high school. The paper was about birds. At the 11th hour he was overwhelmed with the assignment. Lamott's father came over to the young man, put his arm around him, and said: Bird by Bird. And that is a key thing in writing. Not that I always use the key, but the point is that when apparently overwhelmed, address the task (and the assorted factors that impede progress) bird by bird. There are other parts that are valuable as well. So, one reason to read the book is that there are stick to you take-aways.</p><p>Second, she is funny. There are several parts that are very much laugh-out-funny. Others that are good smile funny. Still others that are read the part to whoever is sitting in the living room funny or at least clever.</p><p>Third, she makes important points that are not wholly related to writing. The Bird by Bird could be said to be one of them, but another is as significant to me. In one essay she talks about how some of her students believe that once they publish they will feel better about themselves. Lamott contends that this sense of self worth if it is based on being published will not last. She relays a story of an Olympic coach who was working with bobsledders hoping to win a gold. The athletes felt that if they could medal, then they would feel great. The coach's comment went something like this--If you're not enough without the medal, you won't be enough with the medal. As they say: in Spanish <i>Es Verdad</i>; in Hebrew, <i>the Emmess</i>; in English <i>True Dat</i>.</p><p>One part with which I will quibble. I don't agree with her essays about plot evolution and character development.And I believe she contradicts these recommendations in a subsequent chapter. Essentially, she writes that the act of writing will help you understand your own characters and that the plot will evolve if you listen to your characters. I don't buy that. In a subsequent essay she describes a book that was rejected by an editor and friend. When she railed against the decision, the editor/friend said that she needed to explain in writing what she had just expressed orally. Lamott then wrote out a chapter by chapter description of the book. That novel, according to her at the time of <i>Bird by Bird</i>, became her most successful. Personally I don't like novels that seem to be written with the author not knowing how the characters would evolve. Then the evolution seems fictional And too many times i read a book that ends as if the author had no clue how it would end and, after a spell decided, to stop and did not know how to conclude.</p><p>On balance however, <i>Bird by Bird</i>, is a very good read. Here I am in a hotel room having trouble sleeping. There are a dozen notions darting through my consciousness including several to dos. One to do was that I wanted to write this blog. Wrote it at 326 am. One down. Bird by Bird.</p><p><br /></p><p> </p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574177065949676865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3402019349610325465.post-3454936299938773402022-11-18T08:36:00.003-05:002022-11-18T08:36:36.126-05:00Death at the Fair-review<p> Annually in October there is a book fair in Copley Square in Boston. Because of COVID the fair did not take place, at least in real time, in 2020 and 2021. This year it was held and because it was a beautiful day the Fair was well attended and the atmosphere was festive. </p><p>The Fair includes several concurrent sessions during which authors or reviewers or publishers speak on various subjects. I attended one session during which three book reviewers and the editor of a book review section opined on issues related to being a reviewer. In a prior year I listened to three authors who had recently penned books on sports and social issues. When the panelists are authors there is typically a book selling/autographing session after the program.</p><p>In addition to the sessions, booths are set up in Copley Square itself--not far, in fact, from where the bombers took lives and limbs when trying to make some sort of irrational political point during the Boston Marathon in 2013. At the booths, various publishers of magazines and books, display their wares. This year one booth was occupied by a group called The Mystery Writers of New England. I visited it, as I visited most of the others. A woman there told me she had written a series of historical novels featuring a young woman named Emily Cabot. I asked her about the first novel in the series. It was, <i>Death at the Fair</i>. I bought it and read it during the first week in November.</p><p>The plot is interesting. A student, Emily Cabot, is visiting the 1893 Chicago fair. Her mother and brother travel from Boston to attend, and some friends from the South also meet up with Emily to visit the Fair. The friend from the South has brought along another friend, an acquaintance, to visit as well. Emily has been mentored and supported by a professor at the university. (If you're interested in reading the book, you might want to skip to the next paragraph as some minor details of the plot are coming. I do think I leave enough out, so that a reader could enjoy the book even with this information. The minor details:) At a gathering of all people identified, the professor is startled when he sees the acquaintance. Apparently, they had been sweethearts at one point. However, the woman married another man. That man it turned out was a tyrant and virulent racist. At one point he beat his wife, the acquaintance, and blamed the beating on a black servant. The servant was then lynched. After the initial gathering, the racist husband joins the entourage. Subsequently, he is murdered. That is the death at the Fair. The professor is accused to be the killer because, it is alleged, he is jealous since the victim married the professor's former sweetheart. Emily is certain he did not do it, and attempts to learn the identity of the killer. </p><p>This is an historical novel and several characters are real people--not the victim or Emily or professor--but others. At the Fair is Ida Wells and Ferdinand Barnett. Students of history will probably recognize the name of Wells. I'd heard of her, but could not have told anyone much about her contributions. I can now. I did not know how she met her husband, Barnett, and who he was--and perhaps this reflects inappropriate ignorance--but now I know. I'd read <i>The Devil in White City</i> which is also about the Chicago Fair. Now I know more about the Fair. There are real Chicago politicians, miscreants and events in this novel. One I'd heard of, others I'd not. So the book had some educational value.</p><p>However, it was not a gripping read. Some terrific sentences and paragraphs beautifully written, but overall, it could not hold my attention despite an interesting plot line. Others who like historical fiction and writing that tries to capture the language of the late 1800s might feel differently. I'll not read the other novels in the Emily Cabot series. If anyone who reads this review does, I'd be interested in your perspective.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574177065949676865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3402019349610325465.post-74905989593795304622022-10-28T20:58:00.002-04:002022-10-28T20:58:29.592-04:00Lucy By The Sea--A Review<p> I have read all the novels Elizabeth Strout has written. I've read them all because the first one I read, <i>Olive Kitteridge</i>, is a special book. If you've watched the tv series and not read the book, I suggest you take it out of your local library. It is very very good.</p><p><i>Lucy By The Sea </i>is Strout's fourth book about Lucy Barton. I liked the first one, <i>My Name is Lucy Barton.</i> This one, I write at the risk of being pilloried by Strout devotees, is not a very good book. I've a number of reasons.</p><p>The first is, well, enough already with Lucy. We know about her mother, her marriages, her upbringing, her siblings--there is very little that is new here. This novel takes place during the pandemic. William, an ex husband and father of her two daughters, scoops Lucy up out of New York and drives her to Maine. Lucy is not a COVID denier, but she is not as concerned--at least initially-as William is about the dangers of the virus. Nevertheless she travels with him to Maine and they live in a home near the coast. They take separate bedrooms and try, like many of us did, to deal with the hours after the world closed up. Some of her observations are akin to those I, and I imagine most readers had during the pandemic. I'll not divulge plot details--such as they are. Four books about Lucy--there's not enough more to discuss.</p><p>The book is also not engagingly written. Lucy Barton, the character, is supposedly a successful author who has been on television discussing her books, and been on book tours. She is also the narrator of this novel. A popular author should be able to write better. Lucy often speaks like a child--like perhaps a senior who has been addled by some illness or severe emotional turbulence. I typically like books with short sections, but here there are just too many of them. It is as if the book is written in three or four paragraph bites. Sometimes there is just a space between sections, sometimes some marker indicating more of a content break. If Lucy Barton wrote for a living like Lucy Barton narrates the novel, I don't think she would have published many novels.</p><p>I will not, as mentioned previously, divulge much about the story line. However, I don't find the issues she and William face and how they evolve, especially profound. Their relationship with the daughters; William's relationship with an ex wife; Lucy's dreaming about a dead husband--well okay, but nothing especially novel about this novel's plot line.</p><p>Finally, there are characters in this book from other Strout books--not just the Lucy books. Olive Kitteridge shows up, one of the Burgess boys from the novel <i>The Burgess Boys</i>. Isabelle from <i>Amy and Isabelle.</i> Olive has such a small role--just referenced by another character--that it is not essential to remember the details of her life. But the Burgess boy has a major part and there are allusions to his siblings and the story in that other novel. I only vaguely remember the other book and understanding Burgess in this book requires--for full appreciation--remembering Burgess from the other book. I feel similarly about Isabelle. She does not have as big a part as Burgess. But there is a section when Isabelle recalls an incident that is not insignificant to this novel, but you would have to remember the other book to get it. And I barely do. If you haven't read the others I am not sure the reference to what Isabelle recalls would have much significance.</p><p>As I look through the Amazon reviews of the book, my take on the novel is in the minority. Many like the book a lot. So, you may enjoy the novel. i didn't. Not the kind of book I carried along so that if I had a spare moment I could get lost in the story. It was a slog. And only 288 pages. My recommendation to the author is to find another character to write about and jettison the Barton writing style.</p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574177065949676865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3402019349610325465.post-57460262032936298872022-10-20T19:52:00.003-04:002022-10-21T06:31:24.835-04:00Bad Sex--Review<p>Lately I have been attempting to publish pieces in varied literary magazines. One thing that recurred when reading the submission rules for these publications is that a blog post counts as a publication. That is, if one has published an artcle/opinion piece in a blog, and the magazine requires that any submission has not been published elsewhere--the existence of the blog post technically disqualifies the submission. Therefore, I have not been writing here.</p><p>However, I will begin again to post book reviews at least--unless I believe that I might want to publish the review elsewhere.</p><p>I've been reading, as is my wont. It was family lore, and true, that when I was a kid my mother had to harass me to get me to read. As long as she was alive she would marvel that I had become a reader since it had been pulling teeth to get me to read when I was a child. Lately, I've gone on an Ann Patchett tear. I've read now nearly all of her books and her two essay collections. (One of her lesser known books is called <i>Taft</i> and it is terrific. I inhaled it one week this past spring). </p><p>But I am not writing about <i>Taft</i> or Ann Patchett with this blog entry. I am writing about a book called <i>Bad Sex </i>written by Nona Willis-Aronowitz. I should have known about her famous mother, but did not. Ellen Willis, I learned, was a feminist in the early days of the 60s feminist movement. Her daughter penned the book <i>Bad Sex</i>.</p><p>This, to me, was a startling book. Of course I was born during the Truman administration, and the author was born during Reagan. I have more in common--in terms of generation--with her mother than with the author. It will be interesting to learn how the author's contemporaries feel about the book.</p><p>My thoughts.</p><p>I did my share of frolicking when I was a young 'un. However compared to Ms. Aronowitz I was a monk. If she is the norm, I am in another world in terms of slow dancing.</p><p>Second, if this book had been written by a man he would have been pilloried mercilessly. She discusses her affairs in detail. She does not boast so much as describe, but if a man were to describe the sundry activities that the author enjoyed, he would be dubbed a capricious and inconsiderate satyr. </p><p>I liked her openness about sex because it, implicitly and sometimes explicitly, criticizes the puritanical and counterproductive repressive attitudes about intimate activities that bring people joy and are, I'll opine, salubrious. </p><p>She presented historical context in many of the chapters and I found that informative. I did not know much about Emma Goldman and knew nothing of the author's mother. The author's discussion of the origins of the free love movement was unfamiliar to me and, I suppose, was left out of my high school history books.</p><p>Her discussion of the tension between polyamorous activity and jealousy was important to include. The part about how Goldman and Willis and Aronowitz herself had trouble reconciling their politics regarding non monogamy with how hurt they felt when their lovers took on other lovers--even when the dalliances had the partners' consent--made sense to me. </p><p>If the book had as a goal moving the mainstream, forget it. I thought about my parents reading the book and hurling it against the wall. And many of my contemporaries would be outraged at her, so what attitude about multiple lovers and "boning" (her word used often) this fellow or that. It can liberate those inclined to explore whether monogamy is a healthy social construct--but my guess is that 75% of the people in this establishment where I am typing the blog, would dismiss the book before the first twenty pages were up. And I live in one of the bluest of the blue states. </p><p>My take away is that the politics of challenging the status quo in terms of sexual attitudes is important to consider and yet these politics run into a wall of natural human responses when people fear that their partners might leave them for more excitement or more whatever with another. </p><p>While the book is called Bad Sex, there is a good deal of good or at least pleasurable sex described. </p><p>Do I recommend the book? It was a slog at times. The book is 288 pages but I thought I had seen it was 281. When I got to 281 and there was more I was disappointed. But if the author is anything like what is the prevailing norm of those born in the 80s, it exposed me to a culture and a set of attitudes far different to those of my generation.</p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574177065949676865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3402019349610325465.post-84969250526192029802022-06-09T08:51:00.004-04:002022-06-09T09:02:55.267-04:00Oblada<p>I was at the McCartney concert on Tuesday night. Donna had scored two tickets from a friend of hers who had mistakenly bought the tickets for a day when she would be out of town. So there we were with about thirty thousand others in Fenway Park going back in time.</p><p>I rarely have gone to concerts since my college years. When I have, it has been in small venues. For birthday gifts I saw Joan Baez about twenty years ago, and Judy Collins about ten years later. Both were in spaces that held fewer than 500 people. Friends invited us to hear the The Manhattan Project a short time before COVID and that too was in a small venue.</p><p>Watching McCartney in Fenway Park was something else entirely. Some observations</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>We were seated in very good baseball seats. Behind home plate several rows up. He was on a stage set deep into center field. You could not see him. If you matched up the blown up image on the screen, and then glanced at the stage you could maybe make out which of the performers was McCartney, but otherwise it was like watching a movie of a performer.</li><li>He's still got it. The man will be 80 in nine days, and when he sang songs with which I'm familiar, he sounded to me like the same guy on the records.</li><li>I had not been to Fenway Park since before COVID. We drove in, parked near Northeastern, and walked to the venue. Since it had been a while I was not quite sure when we got to a particular junction which way to go. Then I saw a cluster of gray and bald headed people ahead of us, and I knew we were on the right route. </li><li>We were seated next to people who had bought the tickets in part to celebrate the man's 80th birthday. He was not an outlier. Lots of folks collecting social security for years in the stands. A majority. There were some young 'uns, but the crowd acted like the Ed Sullivan audience in 1964--just sixty years later.</li><li>I typically don't like to sing or hear others sing along with the crooner. It did not bother me on Tuesday particularly when he sang Beatle songs. And if it bothered me, it was tough luck because everyone was banging out the lyrics. Some attendees were getting up and dancing spontaneously at some junctures.</li><li>The place was jammed--any worries about COVID in that group were not apparent. We brought masks, but mine remained in my pocket. Donna wore hers but only for short intervals. Maybe there was one percent of the audience wearing them.</li><li>The promoters told us that the show would start at 630. It really didn't. Some piped in music with pictures of the Beatles and McCartney were displayed for an hour. When he came on at about 730, he did not stop for two hours, before we left, and from what I understand continued for about 40 minutes afterwards. The guy is pushing 80, looked on screen like he was fifty, and performed as if he had the energy of a young man.</li><li>He gave a number of shout outs to George and John. And the crowd responded energetically to these references.</li><li>The people to our left went to get food and drink before the show started. The guy came back with two cans of beer while his wife was buying food. He leaned over to me, showed me the two cans of a nothing special beer, and said "Twenty Three bucks."</li><li>McCartney said he knew that the audience wanted to hear Beatle songs but he interspersed some new ones and Wing numbers as well. They, the non Beatle songs, did not get the same kind of response. Band on the Run and Live and Let Die were appreciated. However, it was I've Just Seen a Face, Something, Obladi Oblada, Lady Madonna, and the other Beatle numbers that revved up the crowd the most.</li></ul><br />Like the lyrics in the song: <i>life goes on, la la how the life goes on</i>. He brought a lot of the past back for me. The apt name of his concert tour is Get Back. <p></p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574177065949676865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3402019349610325465.post-19740876814581668322022-06-08T09:24:00.003-04:002022-06-08T09:31:15.649-04:00Adjustable <p>If I were to leave Boston, one thing about the area I would miss is the number and diversity of libraries in the area. I am a library person. Some people hang out in bars--and I do that occasionally. But if I have a few hours, and nothing major on the agenda, I will pack up a briefcase or knapsack, and park myself in a library. </p><p>The Minuteman library network in eastern Massachusetts is remarkable. Boston, like most large cities, is surrounded by one suburb after another. Each of these communities has its own library. The Minuteman Library Network consists of forty two libraries. There are about ten of these in my orbit and each one has a distinctive feel. Waltham, the closest to me, attracts children who are mesmerized by the spacious kid's area. Weston, next closest, has a sitting room with puzzles that makes you feel like you're in a very rich person's den. Newton's has three floors of stacked shelves and nearly any dvd you seek to play. I've been to more than a half dozen others in the network.</p><p>In addition, the Boston area is home to many university libraries. There is a collective called the Boston Library Consortium and twenty two libraries are part of it. If you work at, or are a student in, any one of the universities in the consortium, you can obtain a card and use any library in the consortium. Harvard is, of course, too snooty to be a member. However, Boston College, Brandeis, Northeastern, Boston University, Tufts, and Bentley University, are among the member institutions.</p><p>I live adjacent to Brandeis and have used their library several times. About two miles from where I live is Bentley University. I had not gone to Bentley's library since the late 1980s, for no reason other than there were many other choices. But sometime in mid May I went to it for the first time in decades. And it is there that, during my fourth visit earlier this week, that I saw something I had never seen in all my library jaunts. Very cool.</p><p>When I walked into Bentley's library that day in mid May, I was taken aback. It had, of course, gone through renovations in the thirty plus years since my last visit. What they'd done, however, was transformative: all modern furniture, big tables to settle in to spread out and write, walls of current periodicals, a museum exhibit, engaging resource center, and thematic displays of books here and there--Boston related; abolition related, whatever is current related. They'd modernized the entire space.</p><p>On Monday the 6th, for about the fourth time since my first visit, I parked myself in what I have come to think of as my spot up on the third floor. I was researching something and read that the library had a book I wanted to review with an HD call number. I traveled to the second floor where the HD Reference section is, but the HD regular books were not in the vicinity. I asked the librarian and she told me that the regular HD books were on the first floor. "Just go down the stairs" she said, "and you will walk right into them."</p><p>That I did. I walked down the stairs and saw in front of me rows of shelved books with letter pairs on the wall of each row indicating which row had which books. The rows, however, were all jammed together, as if someone was cleaning and needed to push the rows together to get to what needed vacuuming. </p><p>I saw where my book would be, but the slimmest person could not get through the opening between the rows to look for it. A stick of gum, could barely get through the gap. It seemed odd to me that the rows would be so pushed together. What good are the books if you can't get to them? I was about to go back and ask the librarian how/when the books could be accessed, when I noticed something at the end of each row. There was a tiny computer screen with an arrow attached. I pressed the screen at the end of one row, and the row opened so that patrons, regardless of girth, could get through and scan for their books. Just to make sure, I pressed the button on other rows, and they opened right up as well.</p><p>This seemed so cool to me. What a clever way to conserve space. </p><p>Later I thought of the adjustable rows metaphorically. What if we could depress a button when encountering some closed relationship and the previously blocked relationship could open up. Having a year long feud with your sibling and can't get through to her-?-press a button and miraculously there is a way to get in there and work through it. Haven't spoken to your spouse about an issue because it tends to trigger an avalanche of accusations, press a button and you can ease right in there to talk without setting the world on fire. Your erstwhile best friend was, somehow, offended by something you once did and has tightened up such that any greeting is met with a terse response. Just press the button, get right in there and hug letting tears of joy flow to your knees. We'd be well served to consider the possibility that blocked relationships can be reopened with maybe even a tiny touch that, somehow, opens up people who naturally would love to embrace.</p><p><br /></p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574177065949676865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3402019349610325465.post-60947854651745834252022-06-04T12:12:00.000-04:002022-06-04T12:12:03.024-04:00Tim<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A smile and friendly behavior matters.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When I first saw the name above the photo in the obituary, I thought it might not be him. The picture did not look like him. But then I read through the notice and it was the Tim Donovan I knew.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I met Tim sometime after I was hired at Northeastern University in the early 80s. I found him to be always welcoming, friendly, self-effacing, and apparently genuinely interested in how I was doing. We both liked basketball and he spoke to me about a faculty team he played on called the Wedding Knights. I did not play on that team, but I enjoyed hearing about their exploits.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Tim led workshops periodically for the university. I was fortunate to be invited on two occasions. One was held in Vermont, the other on Martha's Vineyard. Both programs were valuable. He had them well organized. The one in Vermont was held in the mid 80s, the one on the Vineyard that I attended was in the 90s. These were two of the more beneficial retreat type experiences I have had in forty years working in higher education. Beyond the academic take-aways, which were substantive and memorable, the workshops were enjoyable and helped foster social relationships that likely would not have been generated otherwise. There are pressures whenever you coordinate such conferences. Tim was affable and welcoming throughout each.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Tim was an Associate Dean in the College of Arts and Sciences for many years. During at least one of those years, I was serving as an interim chairperson for my department and had to interact with the dean's office periodically. Subsequently, I too had a stint as an Associate Dean after Tim retired. I realize now how stressful the job can be, yet I do not recall a single interaction with Tim when he was in the dean's office which was anything but pleasant and fair.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">For a short time I was looking at a house in Tim's neck of the woods in Arlington. I called him to ask about the neighborhood, and then, as always, he was helpful and informative and self-effacing. I remember him telling me that there was a community board of some sort and he had been elected or selected as, what he called, a grand poo-bah spokesperson for the group. Not surprised that the committee elected him to be a spokesperson. Not surprised that he made light of the group's choosing him to be the representative.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A newcomer to any institution, as I was when I met Tim, can find comfort in a friendly face, an easy conversation, a welcoming smile. And it goes beyond the positive effects the behavior can have on any one person. It can affect an entire organization. Smiles and friendship and intelligence are seedlings for a culture that is conducive to productivity and joy.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I lost touch with Tim after he retired. Had not seen him for over a dozen years when I read the obituary in the newspaper and was saddened by it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Tim brightened up the world of the people who had the good fortune to cross paths with him. </div><br /><br /><p></p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574177065949676865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3402019349610325465.post-84264813785054831822022-01-11T00:26:00.003-05:002022-01-11T00:26:35.290-05:00Expiration Date<p>On the morning of the 31st, I decided it was time to tackle the pantry. We had cans and boxes of items in there that had not been unearthed in a while. Donna was driving back from Virginia. We had done a pantry examination a few years back. That time we filled a garbage bag with so many cans that the trash workers had to be weight lifters to yank that bag into the truck. I figured I'd use some hours while she was on the road to do the job again.</p><p>I didn't think of any significance to the date of the task when I started out. But as I continued to take cans of soup, and boxes of pasta, and assorted bottles of oil, vinegar, sauce--the fact that I was checking out expiration dates on a day at the end of the year, gave me pause.</p><p>I've spent over seven decades bringing in the new year. Sure, the first dozen or so I had little regard for the event, but still we are talking about 50 plus years of celebrating and, on occasion, evaluating what I need to do and resolving to do them. </p><p>We all have an expiration date. It's just not stamped on our bodies somewhere. I'm in Florida now, vacating the frigid New England temperatures. I bumped into a woman here whose husband died last year. I overheard a cluster of snow birds talking about who all has been lost since last season.</p><p>The experience of checking out the expiration dates two weeks ago has stayed with me for the fortnight. COVID has taken the life of two people I knew this past year. Some friends are now sick, but because they have been vaccinated, will get better. </p><p>Typically I do not get maudlin about the inevitability of mortality. Most of the time, unless I look in a mirror or have to run across the street, I think of myself as a 20 year old. But we all have an expiration date. And like the cans of soup and pasta sauce and matzoh ball mix I discarded on New Year's eve, at some point there will be no time to laugh and love. It is sobering. </p><p> </p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574177065949676865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3402019349610325465.post-31918750152060068662021-08-31T03:13:00.001-04:002021-08-31T03:13:25.830-04:00Trifecta<p> Sweet. Recovering from my third major surgery in five years.</p><p>Next time I fly, I will set off the machines at Security and then some. The luggage area will sound like your nightmare neighbors' teenage kid's cacophonous garage band.</p><p>Assorted thoughts.</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>After my dad's knee surgery went bad, he spent a miserable six weeks or so in rehab. He pulled through. Years later, his other knee became worthless and he was in agony. I asked him when he would have that one done. He said, never. That the memories of the first one were so overwhelming that he'd rather be in pain for the duration than to have another operation. That is pretty much the way I am feeling this week. Of course, the first week out is the worst, but I sure do feel lousy. Here I am typing at 230 in the morning. Felt good around 5 pm, almost normal in fact. But lemme tell you these hours of the night are from hunger.</li><li>I will never, I guarantee it, take Oxicodone again. They say get ahead of the pain. And the first few tabs you take, do take the pain away and you feel like it is the 60s. But after a day or two you feel awful.</li><li>The good news is that you have an appreciation for good health and the days that silly things bugged you seem to be absurd wastes of time now.</li><li>I am ensconced on the second floor of the house. I was not "cleared" to go down the stairs. NOt much fun this. Room service, given the other constraints, is not what it is made up to be. Tomorrow I see both Occupational and Physical therapists. I will do the hora with my crutches when I get out on the deck after I am so cleared. Donna could be entertaining sailors on the first floor, for all I know.</li><li>The one thing they keep telling you is not to fall. "Falling is not an option." Was how the visiting nurse put it when she came out here on Saturday. For those not initiated, going up the stairs is easy, going down the stairs not so much. On Friday I got up the stairs in no time. When I tried to show the physical therapist on Sunday I could go down, she looked genuinely nervous as she looked up at me when I descended one foot at a time.</li><li>I've gotten calls and notes from many. I'm surprised at how comforting these have been.</li><li>I get, and have always gotten when sick, night sweats. I go through three or four shirts a night. I awaken drenched and sometimes require assistance to remove garb. I prepared a stack of dry shirts so that I can change uniforms.</li><li>Tomorrow I learn how to get into the bathtub. Today I am ripe, despite sponge baths.</li><li>Good news is that my appetite has not abated. A friend of Donna's made a blueberry pie and brought it over. Very good thing I cannot access the kitchen because otherwise I would have snorted the whole thing after I had taken one slice.</li><li>haven't been able to knock one back since the 10th. Thought I would miss it more than I have. Still, looking forward to cracking a cold one, when the word is go.</li><li>Pandora's Phil Ochs station, is a good companion.</li><li>I am a big reader, but cannot focus on reading. Maybe tomorrow. Could barely get through the Sunday papers a couple of days back.</li><li>The discharge papers suggest sexual relations can be resumed when the patient returns home. I want to meet the horny bastard who thinks about getting laid for five seconds during the first week post major surgery.</li><li>The discharge papers also include information about the various drugs one is supposed to take. Fuck big Pharma. Yes, I know drugs have allowed us to make us feel better and last twenty years longer than our parents. But flawless panaceas they are not. And the notion that drug companies are altruistic ethical companies interested in the public good, more than they are interested in making profits is comical.</li><li>It seems to me that doctors have gotten into more and more niche categories. "I only do surgery" "I only do rounds after surgery" "I only do anesthesia", "I only speak omnisciently on Wednesday's, If you need someone to speak omnisciently to you on Tuesday, call Charlie."</li><li>Horror movies in the middle of the night are not the way to go.</li><li>The tendency for serials to go immediately into the next episode, is a problem for someone who dozes off during episdode two, and wakes up in episode 6, not sure when in 2 the sick sandman hit.</li><li>If Covid can still be transferred, I am giving it a whack having been handled in a hospital by, literally, dozens. Then there is the visiting nurse, occupational therapist, and physical therapist at home--not always the same person.</li><li>Writing this has been therapeutic.</li><li>Full recovery is 3-6 months. Great. Looking forward to that. Of course, by then something else in me will have fallen apart.</li><li>I was a long distance runner. Played tournament tennis. Never smoked. Didn't eat great, but did not snort ribs three times a week. Like my beer, but compared to some college cronies, belong to the WCTU. Maybe I should have smoked a carton of Luckies, snorted smack, eaten cheesecake, and sucked down s quart of Ripple each day.</li></ul><p></p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574177065949676865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3402019349610325465.post-39980857756648479072021-08-08T22:40:00.006-04:002021-08-08T22:40:56.662-04:00Deconstructing Funny<p> I was switching channels tonight and thought I'd watch some news. So, I clicked on CNN. It wasn't news; it was something I had heard about, a documentary called <i>The History of the Sit Com</i>. </p><p>To be clear, I did not watch the entire episode. Actually, I saw pieces of two episodes. For those unfamiliar with the format, the show identifies programs, shows short clips, and then an actor--sometimes an actor from the series itself, sometimes a tv expert, explains the significance of the program and what it depicts.</p><p>I am a very big <i>Honeymooners </i>follower. I went to the first Honeymooners convention held at CWPost in 1984. The auditorium was jammed with people dressed as Norton or Kramden or some minor character. Everyone there, like me, knew every line from every show. When a character from an episode who appeared for less than five minutes in that episode, came to the stage at the convention, the thousands of attendees gave the guy a standing ovation. His response, "You people are insane." The crowd responded with cheers.</p><p>I'm not a follower of many other shows. I watched <i>Curb Your Enthusiasm</i> and enjoyed that. In the seventies I did plan my Saturday nights around <i>All in the Family</i>. Watched a good deal of the <i>Mary Tyler Moore</i> show which, as I recall it, followed <i>All in the Family </i>on Saturday night.</p><p>The thing is I found the comments on the documentary, particularly from the pundits-as opposed to the former actors--off the money. There were some claims that a show reflected societal values--which is not particularly profound. But the ones which I thought were off-putting were those that attempted to deconstruct the sitcoms as if the writers and producers of these programs were attempting to make social commentary with their story-lines. As if the <i>Honeymooners</i> was trying to make a comment about society in the 50s as opposed to reflecting a tiny piece of society in the 50s. <i>The Jeffersons</i> and <i>Alice </i>were not intended to make social commentary as much as they reflected the times and, more significantly, were developed to get laughs.</p><p><i>The Andy Griffith show</i> did not want to comment on the virtue of small towns. The writers thought that the vehicle would get laughs and win audiences, particularly with a character like Barney Fife--and to a lesser extent Gomer and Goober. I never thought <i>the Beverly Hillbillies</i> was all that funny, but that was the writers' goal</p><p>The segments I saw may not have been representative, but I thought that many of the comments about the meaning of particular sitcoms were meaningless deconstructions. </p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574177065949676865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3402019349610325465.post-28266968089997943262021-07-09T13:55:00.001-04:002021-07-09T13:55:21.510-04:00Good news and Bad news<p>About a week ago I received a card indicating I had upcoming jury duty. I was due to report at a time that was not a good one for me. I looked on the card to see how I could postpone the service. There was a website to visit. (a pause here to comment that I do not know how people who do not use the internet are capable of functioning in a world that assumes that all can and do).</p><p>I went to the site and saw that there were several reasons that would allow a postponement. One startled me.</p><p>The good news is that it was easy to get my jury duty postponed. One might think it is also good news that I could be, if I so desired, be disqualified for life from serving--at least in Massachusetts. The reason for disqualification: if you are over three score and ten, you can opt out.</p><p>So, that could be construed as good news.</p><p>The bad news is the implicit assumption that we post three score and ten, might not have the faculties necessary to deliberate meaningfully. My initial reaction to the news that I could forever postpone jury duty was mixed. I do not like the notion that I should graze on the back pasture to wait for my eventual demise. I feel pretty vibrant and with it. Read.write, think rationally-or so it seems to me. The idea that after a certain age we are less able to participate in the activities of the living is uncomfortable.</p><p>When I have to do my taxes, maybe I can trot out my age to avoid doing so. Probably not.</p><p>On another note, thanks to those who read the serial mystery I've been posting. I appreciate the feedback I've received. I've sent the novel out to agents and we will see if there are any bites. I've titled it, <i>Statue of Limitations</i>. (for those who read it, you know that the first word is not a typo). Any feedback on the title is welcome. Unless, that is, if you are over three score and ten. (that last sentence is a joke).</p>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574177065949676865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3402019349610325465.post-24804768790739607802021-06-29T17:22:00.075-04:002021-07-13T18:25:49.008-04:00Fifty One<p>2019</p><p>After Mike’s confession, we spent the afternoon being debriefed by a host of suits. I was reprimanded for grabbing the stiff by the neck, but it was worth the finger wagging admonishment. I’ll always have in my memory bank that image of Mike sputtering when I rammed his eye-ball popping head against the wall. </p><p>During the debriefing, the suits went through the next steps in the prosecution and what our roles might be. I could not focus. I sat there pretending to listen, but they’d have to send me an e-mail. My head had no room for next steps right then. There’d been no problem with the audio. We’d got the confession. I felt good about that.</p><p>However, I knew I would never be able to purge the demon completely, even if they hung Mike. I don’t like to kid myself and the truth was that I had. I had kidded myself. After the Fireside, I should have contacted the Smiths and persisted with the police. Sure, maybe they would have dismissed me as a quack, and maybe for a while they would have thought that I was involved, and--as far as I knew then--it was possible that the drowned woman in Cline Pond was not Jenny, and it was possible that even if Jenny was the victim, that Mike was not the killer. All that was possible. </p><p>Yet, the case could have been explored in 1974 if I’d persisted. The Smiths might have been able to identify their daughter. Initially they would have been devastated, but they would have been spared forty-five years of not knowing what had happened to Jenny. Mike could have been stopped from any subsequent crimes he may have committed. </p><p>I could lie to myself again and say that I’d done all I could, but I hadn’t. After a spell, I made the demon disappear in my own head, rationalizing it away. Suppressing somewhere for half a century what I’d not done. It wasn’t until I got whacked in the head with the newspaper article that I did anything.</p><p style="text-align: center;">***</p><p>Becca and I went to get something to eat after the debriefing. A sort of celebratory early dinner. We returned to the motel around 7. Her room was up on the third floor away from the traffic. She doesn’t sleep well with noise. My room was on the first floor facing the road. Tonight, I could sleep on an airport runway. </p><p>Tomorrow, Becca has to return to work, so I will be taking her to the airport in our rental so she can catch an early morning flight. I will have to wait until evening to go back. The suits have more questions. The Smiths are flying in and want to meet me. </p><p>I’m in my room and am packing up. I too will be checking out in the morning. After I take Becca to the airport, I’ll return to the motel, shower, and put my suitcase in the car. I plan to leave directly for the airport after I meet with the authorities and Jenny’s parents. </p><p style="text-align: center;">***</p><p>It’s about 830 pm. There’s a knock on my motel room door. I go to open it and there is Becca. She has a huge shopping bag from Trader Joe’s in her hand. She’s wearing a white cardigan sweater, jeans, and sneakers. I’m surprised. I thought we’d said goodbye for the night when we came back from the restaurant.</p><p>“Hey Z.” She says.</p><p>“Hi Becca. What’s up? What’s in the bag?”</p><p>“Oh. I brought something.” She says as she walks past me into the room. She puts the bag down and turns toward me.</p><p>“A gift?” I say.</p><p>“A gift.”</p><p>“For me.”</p><p>“Well, for us.”</p><p>“Well. That’s uh nice. Thank you.” I lift my head and gesture in the direction of the where she's placed the big shopping bag. “What’s the gift?”</p><p>“Not yet. There are some things I have to say.”</p><p>“Okay.” I take a seat on the bed and point to what I’d discovered was a surprisingly comfortable motel room chair. She sits and waits a second before starting to speak.</p><p>“It would be good” she says “if maybe you cannot be a wise guy for the next few minutes.”</p><p>“I’ll give it a go.”</p><p>“Tough for you, I know.”</p><p>“I’ll try.”</p><p style="text-align: center;">***</p><p><br /></p><p>“Right. Look, Z. A few things. First, I want you to know that I think that what you did was special.”</p><p>“Not a bad job as an actor. Eh?”</p><p>“Well that too, but I’m not talking about just what you did today. I’m talking from the beginning. Once you read that article in the newspaper.”</p><p>“That was not the beginning. The beginning was forty five years ago. Once I saw the article in the airport, I had no choice.”</p><p>Becca shakes her head. “No. You had a choice. You could have ignored it. Parked it somewhere.”</p><p>“I parked it for half a century. Once I saw the article. I couldn’t ignore it.”</p><p>“Well maybe you couldn’t have. But others would have. Z.” She stops for a moment. “Look at me.”</p><p>I was, but I look at her more squarely. “I’m looking.”</p><p>“If the situation was reversed, if I’d seen that article, and I’d taken that trip. I would have found a way to ignore it.”</p><p>I look at her as if to say, “No way.”</p><p>“I would have Z. I could have made up a dozen reasons. <i> It’s forty five years. There's nothing that can be done now. I did what I could have done. I have my own life, </i><i>The Smiths are better off not knowing.</i><i> This is what they pay the cops for. </i> I would have trotted out a host of excuses. Maybe the article would have bugged me some on the flight home, but by the time I landed in Boston, I would have buried it and gone on with my life.”</p><p>“Tough to believe.”</p><p>“Believe it. I would have buried it and so would have most of the population. What you did shows who you are and what makes you the person you are.”</p><p>“Thank you. Not sure, I deserve an award for sleeping on something for half a century that may have allowed a murderer to keep killing-but thank you.”</p><p>“You’re welcome.” Another pause. She puts her head down for a moment and then picks it back up. Looks right in my eyes. “Listen Z. You know that you and I could never have made it together.”</p><p>“I know that.”</p><p>“You’re just too much of a pain in the ass.”</p><p>I point to myself. “I’m a pain in the ass?”</p><p>“Yes, you are a pain in the ass. You know, the government has sent me medals for being your girlfriend for those years we were in Buffalo.”</p><p>“Medals?” I say.</p><p>“Medals. There’s not enough room in my house for all the medals they sent me for putting up with you.”</p><p>“You might want to check the inscription on those medals. See what’s written on them. It’s probably not complimentary. Those medals are probably engraved with the word ‘BallBuster.’ "</p><p>“No. I’ve looked at them. That’s not what they say. On one side the inscription reads ‘Patience’ and the other side ‘Perseverance.’”</p><p>“Patience? Right. Must have been delivered to the wrong address. You know. The post office...”</p><p>“You and I could never live together. If I foolishly ever decided to move in with you and brought my furniture over, two weeks later I’d have to call the moving company to take my furniture back.”</p><p>“Less than two weeks.” I say.</p><p>“One week.”</p><p>“Probably” I say. “You know if you were thinking of moving in, you could have booked a round trip with the movers.”</p><p>“Right. Round trip. Like a plane.” She said. “Make sure to reserve for the move back.”</p><p>I snap my fingers. “Or, you know, when they come the first time, have the movers wait on the street. Like a cab. ‘Hey driver. Wait here and keep the meter running. I should be right back.’”</p><p>“Something like that.” She laughs. “Look we both know we couldn’t make it together. But still, I want you to know that I think—I’m being serious now—I think you are a wonderful person. What you did, few would do.”</p><p>“Not sure I am wonderful. Mike might have killed others. I could have prevented it. That doesn't make me real wonderful. But if we are talking about wonderful and are being serious here…” I pause and make sure we are looking into each other’s eyes. “I’m not blowing smoke, Becca. What you did was other worldly. We don’t get to today without what you did. Not only how careful and meticulous you were. Your influence. We don’t get a hearing without you knowing people. You didn’t need this time sap. You were so thorough. Becca, if I was wonderful, you were wonderful squared.”</p><p>“Glad you think so Z.” Becca puts her hand on the back of one of mine. Holds it there for a moment. Then she gets up from her seat. She takes a few steps one way before turning back and sitting down again. </p><p> “I’ve been thinking a lot about your trip in ‘74. I remember something you told me when you returned. You said that it was like a microcosm of life. You remember talking about this?”</p><p>“Well, I remember thinking about it.”</p><p>“You talked to me about it. You said the trip was a microcosm. Good rides and bad rides. Going the right way, but then sometimes going the wrong way. Getting off track and having to find your way to the right path again. Like life. You don’t remember telling me this?”</p><p>“I probably did. I thought about it a lot.”</p><p>“I thought of something else the other day. Another way your trip was a microcosm of life. Your trip, like life, was really made up of a bunch of coincidences. You get one ride it leaves you off here, and therefore you get an opportunity to meet a person there, who would never be part of your life, had you not taken the first ride. You leave a half an hour later from UCLA and you get different rides. Never see the Chicken Farmer or Tim or Lomack. If you don’t get turned around in Salt Lake City, you don’t meet Maurianne, and then you don’t meet Jenny. What happens to Jenny may or may not happen, but it occurs in a different orbit.</p><p>“Our whole life is just a bunch of coincidences. What are the odds that Jenny meets Mike at the motorcycle show? Tiny. But then again, what are the odds that I ever meet up with you. I’m from Baltimore. We meet in Buffalo because you, at the last minute, decide not to enroll at Michigan. I was in that class we were in because the one I wanted to get into was cancelled. And I wasn’t even supposed to be in Buffalo. Before Buffalo I intended to marry my then boyfriend and live in Annapolis. He and I break up and I go to school in Buffalo to get away and have a fresh start, and I wind up taking the substitute class where we meet. </p><p>“And now here we are. In a motel in Scranton, Pennsylvania doing something that would not have been done, by us at least, had it not been for hundreds of coincidences. We all connect because of coincidences. </p><p>Again, Becca reaches out and puts her hands out. This time she holds onto mine.</p><p>You remember when we went to see <i>Jacques Brel is Alive and Well?</i>”</p><p>“I’ll never forget seeing that show with you.” </p><p>“And then I bought you the album for your birthday.”</p><p>“Sure. That was a great gift, Becca. We played the hell out of that album.”</p><p>“Over and over.” Says Becca “Lying on that cheap rug in your room in front of those secondhand speakers you had. Do you remember the song about the carousel?”</p><p>“Sure.” I sing-song the recurring lyric: “<i>‘We’re on a carousel, a crazy carousel.</i>’”</p><p>“That’s right. I wrote that on the wrapping paper when I gave you the gift: <i style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: times;">‘We’re on a carousel, a crazy carousel.’ Happy birthday Z. Let’s enjoy this ride. Becca’</span></b><b>” </b></i></p><p>“I remember that.” And I do. I even had kept the wrapping paper for some time.</p><p> “I’m glad that you remember that note.” Another pause. “I just want to say this last thing and then I am going to shut up.”</p><p>“Good.” I say "If you speak any longer I'm afraid you'll send me a bill for consulting."</p><p>She waves at me. “When we all are on our carousel rides, we, on occasion, mess up. We’re not machines. We mess up now and then. And then we have choices. We can either keep on riding around in circles and pretend nothing is wrong. Or we can clean up the mess.”</p><p>“Good analogy.” I say.</p><p>“And what sets people apart, I think, is their willingness to acknowledge their messes; and not pretend they don’t exist.” Becca releases her hands from mine. She stands up again and looks down at me. “The truth is Z, you did mess up. You’re a good man. But you did mess up. Not saying I wouldn't have messed up in the same way. I think it's likely that I would have done just what you did. But you did mess up.”</p><p>“Believe me, I know.”</p><p>“But as opposed to most people-including me-you, today, and for the last months have looked squarely at the mess and you dealt with it.”</p><p>“A little too late.”</p><p>“Not too late. Not too late. There is no” Becca puts her hands up to make air quotes, “There is no ‘statue of limitations’ on acknowledging our messes and cleaning up.”</p><p>Becca pulls me up from where I’d been sitting on the bed “You’re a good man Z. A good man.” </p><p>And then Becca embraces me. She gives me a hug that is no tent triangle hug. It is a braless squeeze that is accompanied by as steamy a kiss as one can enjoy. I embrace it and return the kiss. When we disengage, my heart is beating rat a tat tat. There is no traction on any of the thoughts that are coursing through my brain. Starch is beginning to work between my legs.</p><p>"That wasn't the gift?" I say</p><p> Becca laughs. “Jenny had that moon and star tattoo. Light illuminating the darkness. When anyone cleans up their stuff, they are light illuminating darkness.”</p><p>“Hey Becca, I’m serious. Without you, today does not happen.”</p><p>“I helped. I know. You’re too stubborn and impetuous to have done this yourself.”</p><p>“Now you sound like Becca.”</p><p>“And it was beyond stupid and irresponsible for you to have hitchhiked by yourself in the first place. Stupid. Irresponsible. We’re not invulnerable. And really, Z, let’s be honest, you are difficult…But you’re a good man.”</p><p>“Should I have that as my tattoo. Get a tattoo on my chest that says Good Man.”</p><p>“Nah. Don’t bother with the ink. It’s already there and you can’t get rid of it. Besides, to be truthful, you’d have to have another tattoo underneath it… ‘But extraordinarily difficult.’ It would require more ink and probably be expensive. So many letters in extraordinarily.”</p><p>“Okay. Fine. Enough with the barbed compliments. What’s in the bag?”</p><p>“Right, the bag.” Becca takes a breath. “I told you. We could never make it, you and me.”</p><p>“Nothing could be more incontrovertible.” I say.</p><p>“But we did bring justice to Jenny Smith.” </p><p>“Thanks. Glad you used the pronoun We.” I gesture with my head toward the bag. </p><p>“The bag.” She says. The bag is sitting a few feet over from where Becca and I are standing. Before moving toward it, Becca leans over and kisses me lightly. Then she turns and reaches into the bag. She yanks out a stuffed pillowcase and hoists the pillow case over her shoulder.</p><p>“Santa Claus coming to town?”</p><p>“Sort of.” Becca says. Then she opens up the pillowcase, and pours out tee shirts, underwear, a pair of white shorts, and a bra.</p><p>I stare at the clothes. I think I know where she is going. Becca sees my staring and begins speaking.“It’s time to do the wash, Z." She pauses. “There's a very powerful there here, and the carousel does not run forever." </p><p>“Is there a reason you still separate the white clothes from the dark. I never could get that.”</p><p>Becca smiles. “It’s time to do the wash. You agree?” </p><p>I nod. “I can be down with that.”</p><p>Becca smirks. “I trust you soon will be.” Becca slowly unbuttons her cardigan and removes it. She turns around and, go figure, folds the sweater neatly before placing it on the motel dresser. She turns back “Take off your shirt Z.” </p><p>I do. We stand there naked from the waist up staring at each other. </p><p>Then Becca takes a step forward and hugs and kisses me again. It is thrilling. The starch has done its work.</p><p>"We'll always have Scranton." I say.</p><p>Gently Becca takes a finger and presses against my chest so that I will fall back on the bed. When I am seated, she begins pushing her jeans below her hips. “This is right.” She says. “The crazy carousel does not run forever. It will stop for us both at some point. Right now. This moment when the there is so here. Let’s enjoy the ride.”</p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: x-large;">The End</span></p>
Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574177065949676865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3402019349610325465.post-85691492681514267132021-06-28T17:41:00.026-04:002021-06-29T07:34:13.037-04:00Fifty<p> 2019</p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">I</span><span> make sure to take a souvenir</span></i></p><p>Becca and I stare at the enlarged picture again. Mike and his nephew Pedro. </p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Happy Father’s Day Uncle Mike. You’re like a father to me.</i></p><p>There’s scrawny bespectacled Mike. Flannel shirt, dirty jeans, no smile. </p><p>There is something around Mike’s neck. A leather chain. Dangling from the chain is a rabbit’s foot; a rabbit’s foot designed as a key ring. But instead of any keys, linked to the top of the rabbit’s foot is a charm in the shape of a moon and a star.</p><p style="text-align: center;">***</p><p>It pays to be a big shot. Becca belongs to several national organizations composed of vice presidents. They meet periodically and consequently she has formed friendships with executives throughout the country and the world. She knows someone, who knows someone, who knows someone.</p><p>Thanks to Becca, I gain an audience with lawmakers and police officials. I detail what I know. I also describe the plan we’ve devised. Becca is there in the room with me. She provides moral support and also interjects details when I forget to include them. She establishes, because of her connections and reputation, a degree of legitimacy without which I’d likely be considered a quack. There are dozens of questions directed at me. I feel like I am on the stand. That’s okay. The more questions I hear and respond to, the stronger I feel about what needs to be done.</p><p>When we have finished with our presentation and the interrogation, we are told to leave and wait in an anteroom. Becca gives me a pat on the head—good job. I nod. I think she is right and, not for the first time, thank her for greasing the way. </p><p>We are not in the waiting room more than fifteen minutes, when an ambassador-- someone Becca knows peripherally-comes out and says she thinks it is a go. They need, however, to gain approval from authorities before we will receive the final consent. </p><p>We return to Boston and within a week, Becca gets a call. All systems are go. </p><p>Again, we travel and meet with lawmakers. We role play and role play and role play some more. I am told what I must do and what I absolutely must not do.</p><p style="text-align: center;">***</p><p>Mike Martin lives in an assisted living community in Scranton, Pennsylvania. He shares a room with another person. There’s a curtain between his bedspace and his roommate’s. </p><p>I walk into the facility. I am confident but apprehensive. I was up early thinking about what needs to happen. Last night I went through it one more time with Becca. </p><p>I have got to get this right. It is an opportunity to purge a demon that has been lurking in my gut and corrupting my insides for half a century. Since April it has been an ever-present reminder of what I could have done and did not do.</p><p>Echoing in my head are Becca’s last words to me this morning “You can do this Z.”</p><p>We had seen a map of the facility before today. I knew that there was a lounge on Mike’s floor for the residents. A hallway to the left led to one set of rooms. Similarly, there were rooms down a corridor to the right. There was a central nurses’ and attendants’ station in the middle of the lounge. The lounge itself contained reclining chairs and couches spread out in a space the size of an elementary school gymnasium. Today, several of the residents are sitting in various parts of the lounge. No one is particularly close to anyone else. Some of the people in the lounge appear to be more with it than others. There’s music piped into the lounge. A tv is on that nobody seems to be watching. </p><p>I see him in the lounge. He’s not reading a paper or magazine. Not watching tv. Just sitting there rocking slowly with a “the world messed with me” look across the face. He wears a sweater. Brown and plain. He’s got on a pair of slacks that are a size too large. Baggy around the legs. Looks like the belt pin is attached to the last notch or else he could get up from the chair and leave the pants behind. Again, as I thought when I first met him, he looks like Barney Fife’s brother who went bad. A ne’er do well who believes he has been wronged. The adult version of the kid who blew up the school and when confronted by the principal, scowled and said defiantly--with the dynamite in his hand-- “It’s my fault right?” </p><p>The good Barney went to work for the sheriff. His twin shoplifted his way out of town before moving on up to uglier crimes. Thin, gray hair now, balding. Still dandruffed. Mashed in nose. Sliding spectacles. Rocking slowly.</p><p>And he has the rabbit’s foot around his neck. The moon and cross charm visible.</p><p>Becca looks every bit of an orderly working the floor. She’s left Rebecca Carey somewhere and now has an Annie name tag. She is unobtrusively moving about the lounge bringing water to the residents. </p><p>This is it. I have to get this right. </p><p>Annie brings me over to where he is sitting.</p><p style="text-align: center;">***</p><p>“Mike. You have a visitor.”</p><p>He looks up. “Who the fuck are you?”</p><p>It’s show time. </p><p>“Mike. Hey Mike. Remember me?” </p><p>Mike looks at Annie. “I never saw this bastard in my life.”</p><p>I try to look puzzled. “Mike, Come on. Mike. Albuquerque truck stop. All those years meeting up at the truck stop. Come on, Take a good look.”</p><p>He glances at me. </p><p>“Don’t know this guy.” He says to Annie. He flips his hand up. “Get him the fuck away from me.”</p><p>I continue to look puzzled. I say to Annie, “He doesn’t remember me. Is he in here for Alzheimer’s?” </p><p>Mike snorts. “Nothing wrong with me.” Mike is facing straight ahead. Not looking at me. Speaking straight ahead as he did in the truck coming out of Gallup.</p><p>“Cmon Mike. Take another look.” I say “We’d meet up in Albuquerque. Eat at the restaurant. You’d always order Steak and Eggs. I mimic, “ ‘Steak and Eggs. Steak rare. If it's not rare I'll send it back.’”</p><p>Mike pauses. He looks at me suspiciously. He dismisses any doubt. Then he turns away and stares straight ahead again. “Lots of truckers eat steak and eggs.” He says.</p><p>“Sure, but we met. Hey Mike, you told me a lot. You know, you told me about your uncle. The drunk who raised you. C’mon Mike don’t you remember me? We ate together a bunch of times when we came through Albuquerque. You know the big truck stop.”</p><p>“I know the big truck stop. Drove truck for thirty years. Should know the truck stop. But I don’t know you.”</p><p>I make a face like “this is tough to believe.” “Okay I’ll leave, but if you don’t know me how come I know about what your ex-wife did. How you come home one day from a haul, and your wife has left and taken everything in the house except the toaster.” I shake my head.</p><p>Mike raises his eyebrows. Glances at me. Still with a skeptical look. “I told you about the toaster.”</p><p>“Yeah. You come home one day and that’s the only thing in the house.”</p><p>Mike’s returns to looking forward. “Don’t know how many people I told about the toaster.”</p><p>“Well you told me” I say. “And then you know, you told me about your sister.”</p><p>This gets a rise out of Mike. He looks over. “What did I tell you about my sister?”</p><p>“Well, you told me that she was an ingrate and” I look around and lower my voice, “even married a spic.”</p><p>A pause. “What did you say your name is again?”</p><p>“Georgie. Georgie, Tell me you don’t remember Georgie.”</p><p>Mike raises his eyebrows. Takes another look. He’s not convinced. Still sour he turns back to the straight-ahead stare.</p><p>“Pedro, right?” I say. “You told me she married a spic named Pedro.”</p><p>Mike looks down. Scratches his pursed lips. A sideways look at me “Albuquerque? We met in Albuquerque?”</p><p>“Albuquerque. Truck stop” I confirm.</p><p>Back to staring ahead with a scowl. “Still don’t recognize you. Sort of remember the name Georgie.”</p><p>“Sure you do.” I say.</p><p>“Okay.” He glances at a chair nearby indicating, in a suit yourself way, that I could pull it over and sit. I do. “What do you want, Georgie?”</p><p>“Well you know you told me if I ever was in Scranton I should look you up.” I have memorized the address he had written at the truckstop service area. I recite it.</p><p>Mike snorts something that passes for a laugh. “I haven’t lived there in quite a while. Been here. Nothing wrong with me. Shouldn’t be here. My sister thinks I need to be here. Stupid.”</p><p>“The sister you raised. Right? Your mom died. At least that’s what you told me. Dad dumped you off on the uncle who liked to knock them back. So you said--you told me anyway--that you had to raise your sister. And then, well, she didn’t appreciate it. Maybe I got that wrong.”</p><p>“No you got that right. I raised the ingrate.” He turns and looks at me full on. “Georgie. Georgie. Now you’re looking a bit familiar” Mike squints. “From the truckstop?”</p><p>“Right. ‘Steak and eggs.’” I mimic Mike again. “ ‘Steak and Eggs. Steak rare. If it's not rare I'll send it back.’” I laugh.</p><p>Mike emits another snort. “I would too. I’d send it back.”</p><p>“I know it.” I nod my head a couple of times. “That sister with that damn tattoo.”</p><p>“I told you about that too?” Mike shakes his head. Surprised that I know so much about him. “Let’s go back to my room where we can talk without all these jackasses around.”</p><p>This is music to my ears. There will be less ambient noise that might interfere with the recording. “Are you sure? You look comfortable here.”</p><p>“My room is more private. Got a roommate who is a jerk, but he keeps the curtain shut. Cmon. ‘Nurse.’” Mike yells.</p><p>Becca/Annie comes over. “Help me up. Need to go into my room. And bring me the damn walker” He looks at Becca “You new here?”</p><p>“Started last week”</p><p>“Well move.” He says to Becca. She returns with the walker. Mike leans on Becca’s shoulder and stands up from the chair. Then he opens the walker and turns to me. “Staff sucks around here. Jews or Spics.” </p><p>I nod. </p><p> Mike points to the walker. “I don’t need this damn thing. They make me use it. Insurance, they say. Bull shit.” </p><p>Again, I nod. </p><p style="text-align: center;">***</p><p>I follow Mike into the room. The room is spartan. There’s a curtain that bisects the space. Mike’s section is on the right. A closet is on the immediate right as you walk in the door. His bed is against the wall parallel to the curtain. There’s a dresser adjacent to the bed that is against the far wall. Next to the dresser under a window is an upholstered chair. </p><p>Becca walks in with us and helps Mike down onto his bed. Mike doesn’t balk when she helps him get seated but once settled facing the curtain with his legs dangling over the side of the bed, he barks at her. “I don’t need you to sit on my damn bed.”</p><p>“Pull up a chair Jackie” he points to the upholstered chair.</p><p>“Georgie” I say.</p><p>“I said Georgie” says Mike. “You got wax in your ears?”</p><p>I make a self-effacing gesture. I am still standing. I look around. “Not a bad room you got here.”</p><p>“Sucks.” Says Mike. As usual, Mike is staring straight ahead speaking as if addressing the curtain.</p><p>“Not bad is what I said. It aint the Marriott. But not bad.”</p><p>“Not the Marriott. You can say that again. The Marriott. Ha…Sit down. There’s another chair in the closet if the big one don’t suit you. Two chairs per room. Not that anybody ever comes to visit here.”</p><p>“Your sister don’t visit?”</p><p>Mike waves his hand in disgust. “To hell with her. She put me in here. Her kid’ll come by, now and again. He turned out not so bad. I think she forces him to visit.”</p><p>I comment, “Pedro, right. I think you told me that she gave the kid the dad’s name. Pedro Jr.”</p><p>Mike shakes his head from side to side. “Yeah. That’s the kid’s name. Can’t believe I didn’t recognize you. Maybe I am losing my mind. What else did I tell you? My favorite position.” I see that mirthless laugh. Laughter caught behind his closed mouth.</p><p>I laugh dutifully.</p><p>I get a folding chair out from the closet and place it with my back to the door. I get as close as I can get to Mike without it seeming peculiar.</p><p>“You just passing through, Georgie?” Mike says</p><p>“Well sort of. Wanted to talk about something you started telling me about.”</p><p>“What’s that?” Not much enthusiasm in Mike’s voice. Still staring straight ahead.</p><p>“Well” I start. “You know I told you about my ex.”</p><p>Mike squints. Shakes his head. “Remind me.”</p><p>“You know, I told you about her affair with the Indian and the damn tattoo.”</p><p>At the word tattoo Mike pulls raises his eyebrows. He speaks slowly. “The Indian and the tattoo? I need to hear more.” </p><p>“Well, I told you that--maybe I shouldn’t have--but we were having dinner at the truck stop. You and me.” I stop, shake my head, and mimic him again. “’Steak and Eggs. Steak Rare. Make it rare or I’ll send it back.’ You killed me with that.”</p><p>Mike smiles or what passes as a smile for him. I can almost see teeth. “How damn hard is it to make it rare?”</p><p>“Right.” I say.</p><p>“Don’t know how many times they got it wrong.” Mike shakes his head sourly bemused. “You were saying. About your wife.”</p><p>“Right, My wife. Well, you remember I told you that I knew she was screwing this Indian.” I stop and look at him. “You do remember that I told you about the Indian?”</p><p>Mike gives a signal with his fingers moving them toward his face suggesting that he needs more information. It looks like a pedestrian helping a motorist back up into a tight parking space.</p><p>“Well,” I continue, “she’s screwing this Indian and I call her on it. I say, “‘I know you’re screwing the Indian’. At first she denies it. But I keep pressing her and finally she admits it. She yells “Yeah, I’m screwing the Indian.’ Bitch. That’s the word, right? Bitch.” </p><p>Mike nods his head. “What happens then? Remind me.”</p><p>“Well after I call her on it, and she admits it, instead of apologizing she gets all huffy. She leaves the house and doesn’t come back that night or the next night or the next. Finally, she comes home… You don’t remember this, Mike?”</p><p>Again, Mike waves at his face, “Keep it coming. It’s sounding more and more familiar.”</p><p>“Well she comes home eventually with a damn tattoo. A warrior tattoo. An Indian warrior. Can you believe it. This is before everybody had tattoos. A warrior tattoo. Well I go nuts. It’s on her arm! A warrior on her arm!” I change my tone. “When I told you this in Albuquerque, that’s when you tell me about your sister’s tattoo. On her bicep right.” </p><p>Mike shakes his head again “Shit. right. My sister’s tattoo is right there.” He jabs at his right bicep. “I can’t believe I forgot meeting you.”</p><p>“Well the thing is I tell you about my wife over dinner and I just say that I got to do something about this. You know get her back. And you say, that you can help me with that.”</p><p>Mike raises his eyebrows. “And what did I say.”</p><p>“Well, you say” I look from one side to the other “you say that you know how to take care of business. That’s what you say. You say you know how to take care of business and you have taken care of business.”</p><p>There’s a Barney Fife proud smirk. “Damn right I take care of business.”</p><p>“The thing is you don’t tell me what you did. You’re about to start, but someone from the garage comes over and says that your truck is ready. You look at your watch and say something like holy crap. that you gotta go.”</p><p>“I didn’t tell you nothing else?”</p><p>“No, but you said I could look you up if I ever got east because you’d taken care of this kind of business before.” Again, I look left and right. I drop my voice but make sure it is loud enough. “As you were leaving to go get your truck, you leaned over the table and told me that you once took care of a cunt who had a tattoo on her tits! On her tits!”</p><p>At this Mike smiled such that I could almost see a tooth. He looked like someone, starved for recognition, who had just been reminded of a decades’ old accomplishment. Barney Fife’s no-good twin delighted that someone remembered how he once did something. </p><p>We are betting that Mike is eager to spill. I stay silent for a moment and just look at him.</p><p>“I told you that?” He said.</p><p>“Oh yeah.”</p><p>Now it was Mike’s turn to swivel his head from left to right. He leaned over to the clothes dresser to the side of his bed. He opened up a drawer, pawed around, and took out an envelope. Then he pulled from the envelope what looks like a copy of the photo Jenny posted at UCLA. </p><p>Mike holds up the picture.</p><p>“Who’s that?” I say.</p><p>“That’s who. That’s who I was talking about. The business I took care of.”</p><p>“You took care of her?” I ask.</p><p>Mike smirks “You could say so.”</p><p>“Can I see the picture?” </p><p>Mike hands it over. He’s bragging. “I got a bunch of them.” </p><p>“You do?”</p><p>“Four or five. Took them after.”</p><p>“After? What happened? How’d you handle it?”</p><p>Mike pauses, dramatically. “You want to know?”</p><p>“Up to you, but you know maybe what you did. Maybe it can help me with my ex. I still want to punish her.” I say. “She’s not with that Indian anymore, but I see her around. Still has that damn tattoo. And it bothers me. Like a smack in the face when I see it.”</p><p>“I can understand that.” Said Mike. </p><p>“You don’t have to tell me…”</p><p>“It’s okay. Telling you how I took care of business might be useful to you.” He is busting to spill. </p><p>“That would be great.”</p><p>“Well Okay then.” He’s ready. He pauses for a few seconds. “I remember it clearly.” He turns toward me. “You know they say here that my memory is for shit, and sometimes, it’s true. I can’t remember what I did an hour ago. But I remember what I did with her” he points to the photo before continuing staccato, “like-it-was-yesterday. I’ll never forget a detail.” </p><p>“If you don’t want to tell me.”</p><p>Mike waves me away. “Might help you with your wife.”</p><p>I nod. “Could. What happened?”</p><p style="text-align: center;">***</p><p>Mike gives a little left and right again before starting. Big inhale. He looks like someone who doesn’t need much prodding to talk about how he caught the big fish. He speaks straight ahead toward the curtain. I make sure I am close enough. Plan is for Becca to come in on some pretense if the volume is insufficient. There’s a gizmo I can press if that’s the case. But there is no need. Nobody comes into the room. They’re apparently catching it all.</p><p>“Here’s what happened. It was in July. I was home in Carbondale between hauls and went over to the Wayne County Fairgrounds over by Honesdale. Not that far from here. Maybe 40 minutes. Have some good girlie shows at the Fair there let me tell you. </p><p>“Anyway, I am at the Fairgrounds because there is a motorcycle show. Bunch of motorcyclists gathering there. Ride motorcycles myself.”</p><p>“You do?”</p><p>“Yeah. Wasn’t riding that day, drove my wagon there, but I know motorcycles. I went over to look at the bike show. And she” he points to the photo of Jenny I am holding. “she is over there.</p><p>“She’s wearing, sneakers, jeans and one of those blowsy shirts. You know a pull over type thing. Used to call ‘em peasant blouses. My damn sister used to wear them. “</p><p>“Uh huh. She’s wearing a blouse.”</p><p>“Yeah. Big blouse. A size probably too big. I decide to go over to chat her up; see if she knows motorcycles. And she does.” Mike nods a few times. Raises his eyebrows. “She damn well knows motorcycles. We get to talking. I can tell she’s got a thing for me.” Mike shrugs, “Always been that way for me. Women are attracted to me.”</p><p>“Sure. I can see that.”</p><p>Mike shakes his head to affirm. “Always been that way. Well, it’s got to be close to 830-9 at night. She” and again he points to the photo I’m holding, “She tells me she has to get back to Callicoon and she’s hitch hiking. Callicoon is about thirty-forty five minutes from the fairgrounds. She says she has got a job as a cleaner at some resort in Callicoon. I think it was a wop joint. Still there I think. Villa something or other.” A pause. He pulls two fingers over the nostrils of his smashed nose. “I tell her I’m going that way myself. She hesitates because she thinks it’s a lie which it is. But like I said she’s attracted to me. She says, sure I can drive her back to work. She asks if we can get a sandwich or something before we go. She’s hungry. I say fine. I figure I am going to get some action if you know what I mean.”</p><p>“Oh yeah. I know what you mean.”</p><p>“Well, there was a place at the fairgrounds where you could buy burgers and fries and stuff like that. Kind of like a truck with a kitchen in it. There were picnic tables nearby. I buy her a burger and we sit at the picnic table for a while talking about motorcycles. At one point she bends over to tie her shoelaces. The blowsy shirt comes down and I can see, as clear as day, that she has got this big tattoo right on her tit.” Again a pause. The world has messed with me sourpuss stares straight ahead. “Anytime I see a tattoo on a woman it bugs me, reminds me of my goddamn sister marrying a spic and putting that damn tattoo on her arm.”</p><p>“Sure. Like my wife and the Indian tattoo”</p><p>Mike points at me, moving his left hand to the side, sticking a digit in my direction. He glances at me. “Right. Like that.”</p><p>“What happened then.”</p><p>Mike is still looking at me. “I say to her that I couldn’t help but notice her tattoo when she was tying her shoes. She says, ‘uh, huh’ or something like that. Irritates me. Just saying ‘uh huh’ like I am some kind of creep for looking at what she has put out there for everyone to look at.” </p><p>Mike returns to staring straight ahead. Takes a breath. “But I don’t say nothing about being irritated. I just ask her about the tattoo. Why she likes it. Why she got it. She gives me this song and dance crap about what it means. Then she says something that does it. She said she decided to get the tattoo to make a statement. Make a statement.” He nods and then shakes his head--bringing the world has done me wrong scowl up a notch. “That is what my slut sister told me when she put that spic’s name on her arm. She was making a statement.” Mike shakes his head in disgust. “Make a statement. </p><p>“My sister wants to make a statement? How ‘bout thanking me for raising her. Giving up everything to raise her.”</p><p>“She never thanked you?”</p><p>He gives me an “Are You Kidding Me” look. “Never. My drunk uncle was worthless. I had to work. Had to protect my sister from my uncle. Come home and try to do stuff to her. Try to do stuff to me.”</p><p>“No kidding?”</p><p>“No fucking kidding. Grabbing her. Grabbing me where he shouldn’t a been grabbing. I protected her from that damn bastard. Mom dies and I’m the father. I’m a kid myself. I watch out for her. Make sure no jerks take her out. Make sure she gets to school. Gets home from school.</p><p>“And then she goes ahead and gets a damn tattoo to “Make a Statement” Mike is close to shouting now. He realizes this and takes a breath before lowering his voice. “Make a statement that she belongs to a spic name Pedro. Where’s her appreciation for me. Where is her statement for me?”</p><p>“Damn right.” I say. “You had a big thanks coming to you.”</p><p>“Damn right.” Mike pauses. “Anyway when this” he makes a gesture toward the picture “bitch says she got a tattoo to make a statement, on her tit no less, I got real angry. She asks if anything is the matter. I say nothing, but it is time we start driving to Callicoon.”</p><p>“Right.” I say.</p><p>“Right. But we never get to goddamn Callicoon.”</p><p>“What happened?”</p><p>“We never were going to get to Callicoon. We start driving and get to a hamlet called Galilee. Galilee probably got a population of about ten. West Bumfuck has skyscrapers compared to Galilee. Nothing to the place. Got a general store that closes at like 4. We get to Galilee. It’s pitch black. Instead of continuing on to Callicoon, I pull over in the middle of nowhere and take out my knife.” Mike nods his head up and down. </p><p>“Well she is startled of course and wants to know what I am doing. I tell her I want to see her tits up close and personal. I want to see her goddamn tattoo. Her make a statement tattoo. There’s a cost for driving her to Callicoon, I tell her ‘Maybe I want to make a statement.’ I say. </p><p>“Her eyes get wide for a minute or two. Then, it seems that she figures, what the hell. She says that I can feel her up and she’ll even blow me, but only when we get back to Callicoon.” Mike shakes his head from side to side.</p><p>“I say to her ‘What do you think I am a moron? Once we get to Callicoon you’ll run. I want to see those tits and that damn tattoo now.’ Well, she smiles and says that she knew I was too smart for that, but she just needs to get something to drink. We’d passed that general store a way back and she’d noticed a coke machine out on the porch. She wants me to go back to the machine so she can get a Coke. Then, she says, I’m all hers. Just to entice me, she takes her tits out and starts to shake them for me. But she puts them back in and says she needs a drink.</p><p>“Okay that’s fine with me. I go back to the dead as a doornail general store, but before I let her out of the car to get the Coke, I wave my knife at her and tell her just what I am going to do. Give her a damned description of just what I plan to do. I tell her I am going to fuck her and tear that goddamn tattoo off of her. I also tell her that I got a thing for twats with tattoos. That my no-good sister that I raised myself got a spic tattoo.</p><p>“Well, there’s this minute pause when she’s looking at me, and then she just goes wild. She opens her eyes wide again, but this time even wider, like she recognizes me or something. Eyes bugging out of her head. Not kidding.” Mike still staring straight ahead makes a meal out of demonstrating how wide Jenny’s eyes open up.</p><p>“After like a second of these eyeballs bugging out, she starts to scream. I got the windows down and we are nowhere. No one is going to hear her, but I whack her across the face anyway. You know to discourage her from screaming. </p><p>“Before I know it, she has a knife out and the bitch has cut me under my chin. Right here.” Mike points to a scar. “I grab her, but she takes out a can of pepper spray from somewhere and sprays it in my eyes Then while I’m still blind, she bangs my head against the door.”</p><p>“Holy smokes.” I say.</p><p>“Yeah, that’s right. Well, I must have conked out for a few seconds. When I come to, I see she has run up to the general store porch where there is an outside pay phone. She’s making a damn call. I stagger out of the car and pull her by the hair away from the phone, hang the damn phone up, and throw her in the car. </p><p>“Then and there I go to work on the tattoo, but she is a feisty bitch. I smash her head but good into the window and that knocks her out. There’s an old Jew kids camp about a mile from the general store. It’s out of business I know because I know a trucker who delivers food to the Jew camps up there. </p><p>“I drive into this out of business Jew camp and keep going until I find a lake. All these camps have lakes. So, I’m down at the lake. She’s still conked out. I take all her clothes off.” Mike stops and looks directly at me. “Gotta do that. If you don’t take their clothes off, they can trace it.”</p><p>“Good to know” I say.</p><p>He returns to looking straight ahead. “I got all her clothes off, but then she comes to. And she’s kicking and screaming. Finally I just stab the bitch. Don’t get quite the whole tattoo but she is dead, dead. I drag her to the water. </p><p>“Before I dump her, I find some rocks. There was a long rock wall near the lake. I got a bunch of rope in my wagon. Get a few of the rocks and tie them to her feet and arms and then drop her in the lake. Probably still there now. Dumped her right in the lake.” He stops again to look at me to be clear about the tutorial. “You gotta find a place to dump em Georgie, or else, you know there could be problems.”</p><p>Again I say, “Good to know.”</p><p>“Anyway,” Mike inhales with a sense of pride. “That’s what I did. I made a damn statement. Took care of business. Got home bandaged up my chin. Cleaned out the wagon. The next day I started a three week haul out West. Maybe that’s when I saw you. Out in Albuquerque.”</p><p>“What did you do with her clothes? </p><p>“I burned them. Easy. But I kept souvenirs. Up to you if you want to do that. But I did. Kept souvenirs.”</p><p>“You did?”</p><p>Mike snorts and points to the picture I am holding. “I told you I had more of those pictures. She had about five of these in her pack. Took ‘em all.”</p><p>“You took the pictures as a souvenir?’</p><p>Mike nods. “That aint all.” Mike puts his hand around his neck. “In her pack was a rabbit’s foot. For good luck. Guess it didn’t work.” I see Mike’s mirthless smile.</p><p>“I take the damn rabbit’s foot. I got some leather afterwards and made a lanyard. Put the rabbit’s foot on the lanyard. Now I wear it around my neck all the time. My damn statement.” He nods his head “It’s got silver on it. Take a look.” He turns and holds the rabbit’s foot up for me to see. “Real silver charm here. Moon and star. Real silver. Not going to sell it though.”</p><p>“You killed her?”</p><p>“Damn right. Took care of business.”</p><p>“You killed the woman in the picture here.”</p><p>“I killed her.”</p><p>I pause. I feel and hear a buzz in my back. It’s the signal to tell me that they got it.</p><p>“What’s that noise?” says Mike.</p><p>I don’t answer. I grab the sick bastard by his sweater, lift up the scrawny prick and ram him against the wall.</p><p>Mike’s eyeballs retreat. He looks at me stunned. “What the fuck?”</p><p style="text-align: center;">***</p><p>Into the room come the suits who have been listening. Must be about five of them. Mike starts moving his head back and forth like he’s watching a high-speed tennis match. “What the fuck” he says again.</p><p>“Let go of him.” I am yanked away.</p><p>The officers tell him he is under arrest for the murder of Jennifer Smith. They read him Miranda.</p><p>“What the fuck? Who the fuck are you?”</p><p>“We are the people arresting you.”</p><p>Mike tries to rally. He laughs that mirthless laugh that can’t come out of his mouth. </p><p>“Well,” says, Mike, trying to regain his swagger, “the joke is on you.” He makes a face that in another context would look like someone exaggerating puckered up lips waiting for a kiss. A piece of his tongue sticks out from the pursed lips. He nods his head up and down.</p><p>One of the officers takes the picture from my hand. He shows the picture to Mike. “Did you kill this woman?” </p><p>Mike snorts. Opens up his pursed up lips with the tiny bit of tongue sticking out. “Damn right. Killed her and threw her in the lake at the Jew camp.”</p><p>“You know you have the right to remain silent.”</p><p>“I know. I know. Fuck you. Doesn’t matter. I killed her. But so what.” Mike shakes his head from side to side. “You morons. Ha.”</p><p>“Ha. Is it?”</p><p>Mike is almost laughing with his mouth open. “Yeah, I killed that tattooed twat in the picture. But nothing you can do about it.”</p><p>“Nothing we can do about it?”</p><p>“That’s right you morons.” And then he smirks. “It was a zillion years ago. Ever hear of the Statue of Limitations.</p><p>“Statue of Limitations” Mike shakes his head from side to side. “You morons. Statue of Limitations.”</p><div><br /></div>
Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574177065949676865noreply@blogger.com0