Oblada

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.

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.

Watching McCartney in Fenway Park was something else entirely. Some observations

• 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.
• 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.
• 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.  
• 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.
• 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.
• 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.
• 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.
• He gave a number of shout outs to George and John. And the crowd responded energetically to these references.
• 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."
• 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.

Like the lyrics in the song: life goes on, la la how the life goes on.  He brought a lot of the past back for me.  The apt name of his concert tour is Get Back.  

Adjustable

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.  

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.  

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.

This seemed so cool to me. What a clever way to conserve space. 

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.

Tim

A smile and friendly behavior matters.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Tim brightened up the world of the people who had the good fortune to cross paths with him. 

Expiration Date

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.

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.

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.  

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.

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.  

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. 

 

Trifecta

 Sweet. Recovering from my third major surgery in five years.

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.

Assorted thoughts.

• 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.
• 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.
• 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.
• 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.
• 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.
• I've gotten calls and notes from many.  I'm surprised at how comforting these have been.
• 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.
• Tomorrow I learn how to get into the bathtub. Today I am ripe, despite sponge baths.
• 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.
• 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.
• Pandora's Phil Ochs station, is a good companion.
• I am a big reader, but cannot focus on reading. Maybe tomorrow. Could barely get through the Sunday papers a couple of days back.
• 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.
• 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.
• 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."
• Horror movies in the middle of the night are not the way to go.
• 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.
• 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.
• Writing this has been therapeutic.
• Full recovery is 3-6 months. Great. Looking forward to that. Of course, by then something else in me will have fallen apart.
• 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.

Deconstructing Funny

 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 The History of the Sit Com. 

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.

I am a very big Honeymooners 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.

I'm not a follower of many other shows.  I watched Curb Your Enthusiasm and enjoyed that. In the seventies I did plan my Saturday nights around All in the Family. Watched a good deal of the Mary Tyler Moore show which, as I recall it, followed All in the Family on Saturday night.

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 Honeymooners was trying to make a comment about society in the 50s as opposed to reflecting a tiny piece of society in the 50s.  The Jeffersons and Alice were not intended to make social commentary as much as they reflected the times and, more significantly, were developed to get laughs.

The Andy Griffith show 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 the Beverly Hillbillies was all that funny, but that was the writers' goal

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.  

Good news and Bad news

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).

I went to the site and saw that there were several reasons that would allow a postponement. One startled me.

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.

So, that could be construed as good news.

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.

When I have to do my taxes, maybe I can trot out my age to avoid doing so.  Probably not.

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, Statue of Limitations.  (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).