Frank was an In kind of guy. He brought the In to:

• _ _ competent
• _ _ difference
• _ _ capable
• _ _ efficient

I would praise his work, but I hate to be _ _ sincere.

I don’t believe in destiny
Or the guiding hand of fate
I don’t believe in forever
Or love as a mystical state

I don’t believe in the stars or the planets
Or Angels watching from above
But I believe that there is a ghost of a chance
We can find someone to love
And make it last
– Neil Peart

The heat has been intense. I took my temperature and was surprised and pleased that I was right where I should be. Still, the combination of illnesses and deaths of friends and clients, our political system’s inability to generate qualified candidates, and a government that wants to put me out of business could have had a real impact on my internal thermostat. But I’m fine, about as relaxed as I’ve ever been.

It is at a moment like this, when you realize that your internal well-being and balance aren’t being thrown by the extensive external pressures you are encountering, that proves the value of your support team. I am incredibly lucky. I am surrounded by people who understand that we are all a part of something bigger than ourselves and are more than willing to help me find my particular role.

Can the stability you find in one environment allow you to better cope with the chaos in others? I think so. And if you find that person or persons who choose to create that safe-haven, that oasis of peace in your world, then it is important to acknowledge their place in your life and your appreciation for everything they do.

If you let people know how thankful you are, there is a ghost of a chance that they will still be there tomorrow.

It was the summer of 1974. I was a tall skinny 19 year old with shoulder length curly hair. And I was calling on businesses, door to door on the eastside of Cleveland, selling a burglar alarm system. Hough. Superior. Kinsman. So, I’m standing in the back of a bar. The owner is talking to me while he is cleaning his gun.

Word on the street, boy, is that either you’re armed, you’re crazy, or you really know how to take care of yourself.

I answered him immediately. “I don’t carry a gun. I don’t need one. I’m not crazy. And yes, if I have to, I can take care of myself. But I won’t ever need to do that. I’m just selling burglar alarms.”

I still don’t own a gun. I don’t want one. I have no interest in guns. I don’t even bother to feign much of an interest when my son tells me about his trips to the firing range with his father-in-law. I don’t want to take away their guns. Nor do I wish to disarm the hunters amongst us who, for sport, food, or possibly both, march through our woods each fall. It is as foreign to me as the recipe for a great pork roast. I just don’t care, AS LONG AS YOUR GUN RIGHTS DON’T INFRINGE ON MY SAFETY.

And that is where it gets a little sticky. The idealized version of this country, the one in all of the movies and civics books, is that we believe in live and let live. You do what you want, pray or don’t pray as you so choose, live your life to the fullest, and as long as it doesn’t impact anyone else, you’re OK. In the real U.S., not so much. And we are becoming far less tolerant of our differences. We are becoming more polarized. We don’t trust the other side. And there is always another side.

I received a hate-filled email from a group that claims to be both Conservative and patriotic. Barry Goldwater, the father of modern Conservatism, would not have recognized the authors of this piece as either. The arguments weren’t designed to garner a single vote for Mitt Romney. I have seen very little promoting Mr. Romney. No, this was a revisit of the birth certificate, a laundry list of half-truths and complete lies, and thinly veiled racism. It was nauseating.

The authors of this and other advertising now appearing on television aren’t attempting to win over the undecided. Recent polling suggests that there are very few undecideds. Most of us have already chosen the lesser of two evils. The question is whether we can be motivated by fear or anger to bother to vote. Can we be so disgusted with our choice that we stay home? Can the other side get us to give up?

Right now my true-believer Republican friends are feeling slighted while my solidly liberal Democratic friends are smugly nodding their heads. It is not that easy. The rivers of mud are flowing from both molehills of talent. As Mr. Gingrich and Senator Santorum proved, it is easy to fight Mitt Romney by simply quoting Mitt Romney. The Democrats have spent millions of dollars to cast him in the most possible negative light. His reluctance to release his tax returns to the army of CPA’s waiting to analyze every line is understandable. I doubt that he could be elected dogcatcher once everything is out. But is any of it relevant? That, like the silly birther stuff, is a question that is never addressed.

But do you trust President Obama and the Democrats? What is their secret agenda? If elected to a second term will he take away your guns? Will he end the possibility of you, a middle-aged, middle class suburbanite; from quitting your job, creating the next Microsoft and becoming a billionaire because of his confiscatory tax policies? Will he sell nuclear weapons to Iran? And what about Obamacare?

Well, do you?

And do you trust the Republicans, with or without Mitt Romney? A bunch of Republicans, campaigning on economic issues, were elected to statehouses around the country in 2010. What did we get? Countless anti-abortion laws. Anti-union laws. Changes in voting laws. Were these the issues of their campaigns? Of course not.

So, do you trust the Republicans?

Another terrible tragedy occurred last week in Colorado. It was politicized before the dead could be buried. Each extreme has marked off its territory. Hero fantasies are quite the rage on both Facebook and in the news as if more guns would have made the theater safer.

I didn’t carry a gun in 1974. Don’t carry one today. That doesn’t mean I want to take yours. Can we start the conversation there? I think we have work to do.

I was in the left lane, ready to turn, to enter a place I no longer needed to visit. I wasn’t thinking, just driving. It was July 4th, a free day, and I found myself outside Menorah Park with no reason to go further.

Odd how death affects you. One minute you are on the way to the mall, a sale at Nordstrom with an hour or two to waste. The next you are in a parking lot, looking up at a building that no longer serves as a friend’s last stop before the next major journey.

Death. Cancer. Another Cancer. Another Death. Another Cancer. Another Cancer. Another Death. And then today, another Cancer. There are days, even weeks, where the only news that crosses my desk is of births and recoveries. These last few weeks have been particularly dark. There are times that I can help, but not lately. Impotent, my job has devolved to holding the hands of the dying and comforting the survivors.

Today’s Cancer is a vibrant man in his mid-sixties. He was recently diagnosed with prostate cancer. It is too early. He’s not ready. And I’m not ready.

But nobody asked me.

I read an article in Forbes by a nuclear physicist about the future of insurance agents. He didn’t see much of a future for my chosen profession. The consumer, he predicted, will soon elect to purchase insurance the same way one buys a small appliance, by price, online. He didn’t even bother to pretend that the elimination of over 100,000 jobs and the skills we brought to the marketplace would be missed.

And the truth is that he may well be right. The new exchanges, coupled with the faceless voices emanating from call centers around the world, will be how most people purchase their coverage. And it will be fine, right up to the moment when it isn’t. And then, it won’t matter.

My last alarm clock came from a store. My computers come from stores, brick and mortar entities that are staffed with knowledgeable associates. These businesses are prepared to stand behind the products they sell and the people they employ. Will these stores be here tomorrow? Where will I go to get my questions answered? Who will care if the product I purchase fits my needs?

Is the buying of a product an end to itself, or is the proper utilization of the product and the satisfaction one derives from getting value the real goal?

Sally, my girlfriend, bought a set of sheets at Macy’s last week. A set of sheets, something we’ve all done countless times. The color was perfect. They felt nice to the touch. They were on sale! This was not a purchase that required any specialized knowledge or planning. The sheets were awful. After one washing the queen-sized fitted sheet would have worked on a king-sized bed. Macy’s graciously credited her account.

What will we do when the deep thinkers explain away the need for Macy’s? Is insurance easier to buy than a set of sheets?

But my real focus, these last couple of weeks, hasn’t been on the end of my career. That would almost seem like a pleasant diversion. My focus has been on nursing homes and hospice, surgeries and chemo, and the small part I play in my clients’ stories. Sometimes I’m a bit player. Sometimes I have a bigger part to play. Regardless of size, I am always present in a supporting roll.

I only needed a few minutes to assure my client that his coverage supported his desire to meet with other doctors and to explore other treatment options. That’s what he needed. That’s what I do.

Years after incidents that should have been long forgotten, he was still questioned by those who knew him well enough to know but didn’t like him nearly enough to remain silent. And it didn’t matter who was to blame, what the circumstances were, or that the people who brought up his past were not even remotely involved. It didn’t matter.

Remove Our Staples, We’ve Been Badly Collated

Monday night, sitting outside at the Barking Spider and listening to Steev Inglish, Heidi Cool asked Sally and I to explain the difference between a Putz and a Schmuck. I did my best to differentiate between a sad-sack loser who meant no harm and an impotent jerk. She would have seen a living, breathing embodiment of this had she been with me Tuesday afternoon.

I won’t bore you with the specific details as to where I was or what he actually said. I have no need to publicly shame this guy, the Schmuck. Besides, if Tuesday was any indication, he is already shaming himself on a regular basis. I was embarrassed, for him, when he admitted that he and his insignificant friends were so fascinated with my life twenty years ago that he still, to this day, had questions about certain details. There are few things sadder than a short, balding man in his sixties who still suffers from penis envy.

I felt badly for him. No, I did not cut him to ribbons, not even after I politely hinted (twice!) that he was out of bounds. He was incapable of understanding the need to stop. The room went silent as he verbally dirtied himself.

What I will do is print a copy of this blog and mail it to him at his office. I don’t need an apology from him. I will know that he learned something, that he regrets this incident and others, when I receive notification that he has made a donation to either my synagogue or the American Heart Association. The acknowledgement won’t reveal the amount of his contribution. If he has any honor, any menschlichkeit, it will be a nice sized check.

Adam Duritz once sang that he wanted to be Bob Dylan. Well for one brief moment last night, I wanted to be Adam Duritz.

The Cain Park Amphitheater was filled with people who came, who paid (!), to hear him sing about his feelings. He led into one song by saying that he had been involved with a girl from around here eleven or twelve years ago. She drove him crazy. That relationship led to a number of songs.

We came to hear him. I confess that I want people to come to hear me. No, not sing. The only thing worse than my singing is my golf game. This blog is my stage. And the concept of people intentionally coming here is emotionally gratifying.

Intentionally is the key word. Some people stumble upon Again? Really? while searching for a particular topic. Some get hooked by the titles. And of course, some of the visitors to this blog just like to see me tied up and gagged. But intentional visitors, people who subscribe, who read the new posts and even, occasionally, explore the archives, are my packed house.

And witty, on point comments are like having the audience singing along.

The frog was placed in the pot of cool, pleasant water. He looked comfortable, as if he had chosen this pot to be his new home. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary to the frog as the water’s temperature gently rose. The frog was oblivious to the danger of complacency. Eventually the water came to a boil, the frog…

I had wanted to live in Beachwood in the worst way and literally succeeded at that goal. I spent six years in the Hamptons apartments where I moved after selling my house in Shaker Heights. My new neighbors in 2006 were professionals or people who had sold their homes and had downsized to an apartment. Initially, I was, at 51, the youngest resident of my wing. I leave the oldest. The move-ins and move-outs of 2006 were choreographed by the professionals of North American Van Lines, Weiss, and other qualified movers. The residents now arrive Beverly Hillbilly style with all of their worldly possessions tied to the top of a pickup truck.

It would be easy to use the next four hundred words to torch the management, cleanliness, and services of the Hamptons. But, blaming my environment for my own inertia would be like the frog complaining about the color of the pot. I wanted to move to the Hamptons in 2006. I gladly signed new leases in 2007 and 2008. I may have been sleepwalking in 2009, 2010, and 2011, but there certainly wasn’t any force involved.

So when I woke up, I moved.

I have purchased a flat in Woodhawk, a gated condominium community in Mayfield Heights. The unit is spacious, quiet, and private. The move was May 8th. This post will be published when I receive my security deposit.

A return to homeownership? Why not? The water was cool and pleasant.

As I walked into the room, the patient looked up at me as if I was the Angel of Death and asked, “Is it time, David?”

His caregivers were silent. I knew what he was asking.

“Is it time”?

“Yes, David. Is it time”?

I looked down at my watch and said “No. The Indians don’t play for another couple of hours”.

The tension lifted. The nurses and social worker left the room to attend to the needs of the other sixteen members of the Hospice unit. I was left alone with my friend.

My friend was expecting to be visited, as he neared death, by his friends and his enemies. I told him how lucky he was that I was there. Since we never agreed politically, I was an adversary and yet I am also a friend. He seemed comforted by the thought.

Over the next several hours we talked, we prayed, we sat quietly; we endured the visit of some caregivers and welcomed the attention of others. I watched. I listened. And while holding his hand and keeping him relaxed, I monitored his pulse.

At one point his pulse slowed, his breathing became labored and I thought that he was ready to slip away and be at painless peace. But it was not to be. At least not yet.

When will the Angel of Death visit? Soon, I suspect. Very soon. I will try to be there with my friend so that he doesn’t have to face Death alone.

It had been several years since I had seen the eighty year old stroke victim. She took one look at me, gathered all of her strength, and managed to say, “Where’s your HAIR?” Analie, my niece who lives in Texas, had a similar reaction after she saw a picture from my last vacation. “What happened to your hair Uncle David?”

I am not bald. Yes, I did have long, curly, wavy hair in my teens and twenties. As I grew older I allowed my hair, and to a lesser degree my wardrobe, reflect my age. Now in my late fifties, my hair is thinning and I have cut it short lest I would look like I was attempting a comb-over or a swirl. There is still hair up there, just nothing like what I had in my youth.

The joys of middle age. I have always said that the three signs of a guy reaching middle age are a gray ponytail, getting an earring, and buying a red convertible. There are others.

I drive through Chagrin Falls every Friday on my way to my gig at the Alzheimer facility. My question is what part of your youth are you trying to recapture if you and your friends dress alike, hang out in front of an ice cream store, and your favorite mode of transportation has three wheels?

I am not chasing my youth. I didn’t like being a kid. I was powerless. I had very little control over my personal environment. The twenties saw struggles with money and direction. At fifty-seven I am as secure as I will ever get. I enjoy my life, my work, and my friends. I have come to terms with my ineptness on the golf course.

I will trade a little hair for a little peace of mind

Tom Hanks is famous for reminding his team that “There’s no crying in baseball”. I can’t say that about insurance. Unfortunately, there are way too many tears shed in my office. I can handle rude clients, unappreciative clients, and even angry clients. Crying? Crying I can’t handle.

The woman on the phone was angry, hurt and crying. Her boss, my client, has no idea what she really does for him and his company. She deserves a sizeable raise based just on his verbal abuse. Ostensibly, she was calling me because an employee died over the weekend and she needed to know how to file the paperwork. In truth what she really needed was ten minutes to calm down so that she didn’t quit a job she really needed. So while she was dealing with the death of a coworker she was also forced to acknowledge that she, too, might be working there until she died. Her tears were totally justified.

There are any number of reasons for me to break out the box of tissues in my office. It might be the cost of coverage. It could be a loved one being diagnosed with a dread disease. And sometimes it is the conversation with a recent widow or widower. Tears are tears. I can’t separate or prioritize pain. The man who didn’t want his wife of thirty years to leave is just as deserving of my time as the mother of three whose husband can’t ever come home again. And all of these life-events necessitate a trip to the insurance office.

It has been a difficult week. One of my friends is in the hospital. And there are times when I may spend a little too much time in nursing homes and extended care facilities. These places may be designed to make the last years comfortable, but only a fool forgets that the residents are there for their last years.