You must remember this
A kiss is just a kiss
My evening appointment ran long and I found myself at the corner of Pearl and West 130th Street at 10 PM. It’s a nice neighborhood. It is just not my normal stomping grounds.
I studied the area around me as I waited for the light to change. In front of my Caravan was a little black Chevy pick-up. You know the type. It was one of those trucks that are purchased by people who really don’t need a truck.
The couple in the truck were talking softly. No gestures. They hardly moved as they spoke. Suddenly they leaned together and kissed gently. I don’t know why, but the kiss, their kiss, seemed strangely intimate. It wasn’t a long kiss. It appeared to be no different than thousands of long forgotten good-bye kisses I had shared over the years. But it was different.
The couple resumed their conversation after the kiss. The light changed. They went straight while I turned right to catch the freeway.
A sweet kiss. An innocent kiss. A kiss shared by young lovers. Cliché? Perhaps. But does the fact that these thoughts are common make them any less valid or desirable?
I remember my first kiss. I remember the long, agonizing walks from the car to the doorstep when maybe, just maybe, my date might reward me with that momentary thrill of physical intimacy. How was I to know that she was just as nervous, just as unsure as to what the rules really were?
Is it any different today than it was twenty plus years ago? Not much. The kids seem to age quicker, but they don’t really mature faster. They have the same fears and frustrations as we had when we were in junior high and high school. Their concerns are in some way reassuring. It proves that they aren’t THAT jaded. Innocence changed, but not lost. They’ll be fine.
But what about us? I know that it has been a long time since I have been considered innocent, but as someone starting over I need to know what the rules are in 1993.
I have passed from one serious relationship to another for almost twenty uninterrupted years. Since October 1973 I have never been “unattached” for more than 30 days. I’m wondering if withdrawal symptoms will kick in at the six week mark.
Of course my friends have complete faith in me. The barber shop by my office has a lottery set up to predict the next time I get married. Yes that is as tasteless as betting when an alcoholic will fall off the wagon, but a certain amount of abuse is inevitable.
Is a kiss just a kiss? I don’t think so. I think the first time, each first time, might be the best. The first kiss is the culmination of all our fears, indecision, and sexual tension overwhelmed by the sheer imperative of our need to touch.
It was 3 AM and I was thoroughly exhausted. I had gotten up at 6 the previous morning and had been at her home for about seven hours. We had talked endlessly abut the usual topics: kids, music, cooking, etc… The tension was wonderful. I noticed she touched me when she made a point. I’m a sucker for that. Was she going to kiss me? Would I make a move? I found myself strangely gun-shy.
The moment came as I was about to leave. A kiss. Softly, our lips met for a brief moment. It seemed that the tension evaporated as we hugged and then kissed again. And then I left.
It seems silly to assign so much value to something as common as a kiss. Whether it is the witnessed kiss between two strangers at a stop light or two friends in a kitchen, it is still just a kiss. And we know what a kiss is worth, don’t we?
“No Dave. You can’t buy a 386. It’s already outdated. Ancient history. You have to get a 486.”
My eyes were glazing over.
“And you’ll need a DX. That math coprocessor chip is a must.”
How many stores had I been in? Four? Five? I’d lost count. I barely possessed the qualifications to use a computer and here I was trying to buy one for my office.
Nothing in my background, training or schooling prepared me for this mission. I never took a computer class in high school or college. In fact, the closest I came to a computer in college was to help the pocket protected FORTRAN and COBALT devotees pick up their computer cards that they constantly dropped on the walkways outside of the Student Union.
I checked in to Case Western Reserve University in the fall of 1973. I had an English and Religion double major with a Political Science minor. I was going to be either a Rabbi or an attorney. In either case I would have no need for a computer. One day I had a startling revelation; I wasn’t holy enough to be a rabbi and I wasn’t amoral enough to be an attorney. I have been in the insurance business since 1979. Now I need a computer.
Actually Bill and I have a computer. It is an antique. Our XT clone has a 40 Meg hard drive, no graphics, and we use our typewriter for a printer. This is a system that would have amazed and satisfied all of my computer maven friends ten years ago. Today it brings derisive snickers.
Dealing with computer salesmen is a lot like fielding a solicitation from a charity. “Mr. Cunix you donated $50 when we called last year. We were hoping we could count on you for $100 this year.” No matter what you have done before, you will be pushed to do more.
If you tell the salesman that you want VGA graphics, he will push for Super VGA. Walk into the store in search of Super VGA and you will be advised to purchase Extended. Try shopping for Extended…well, you get the idea. No matter what you choose, you will be counseled by the “computer professional” that you need more.
A guiding maxim of my business is that you never buy more insurance than you need. I have been told that I can’t buy more computer than I need. So I’m looking for a mainframe. Of course, I also need a bigger office to house this new machine and someone to run it. Maybe I can still get into law school.
You heard Brinkley. You saw Feagler. You read George Will. It is now time for me to weigh in with what will hopefully be the last article about the recent election.
Winner- The American people and our system of government. We had the largest voter turnout in twenty years. We are also witnessing a smooth transition of control of the world’s only remaining superpower. We take for granted something that could not happen in the vast majority of countries.
Loser- Negative, deceptive campaign advertisements. From muddy Margaret Meuller to Mike DeWine, the candidate who appeared to hit below the belt (or below the belt the most) lost. By election eve I was beginning to think that Congresswoman Mary Rose Oakar was going to accuse her challenger, Martin Hoke, of kidnapping the Lindbergh baby. And who can forget the Republican version of Arkansas?
Winner- The 13th Congressional District. People who know Sherrod Brown would be tempted to move to Elyria or Chardon just so that they could be represented by him in Washington. I attended an International Leadership Conference in Washington several years ago. Mr. Brown, then Ohio’s Secretary of State, was a featured speaker. His talk, and his obviously bright future as a public servant, were topics of discussion during the balance of the conference. It is great to see one of the “good guys” finish first.
Loser- George Voinovich. You campaigned heavily for George Bush, but Ohio made Bill Clinton the President-Elect. Your Lieutenant-Governor ran a campaign for the U.S. Senate that will be remembered long after his name is forgotten. And even with the newly Republican drawn districts, Ohio’s House, Senate and congressional delegation are substantially unchanged. Not a good election, George.
Winner- Dan Quayle. No, really. Actually, Dan won twice. Had he been re-elected there would have been no way he could have successfully run for the presidency in 1996. The American public would not allow either party to control the White House for five consecutive terms. This loss greatly increases his chances for victory in the future. Also, whether you agree with his stand on the issues or not (and I certainly don’t), you do know his beliefs and values. Dan Quayle is consistent and true to a certain set of positions and that gives him a real foundation.
Loser- Cleveland radio. Now that the election is over, we will again be inundated by commercials for “Hooked on Phonics”.
Winner- My son Phillip. Burke Lakefront Airport was the scene of Governor Clinton’s last campaign stop in Ohio. I took Phillip, Jennifer, and my new step-daughter Andrea to not only hear the candidates, but to also work as volunteers. I had a great time, but my experience paled beside Phil’s. He not only shook the eventual winner’s hand, he also shook hands with the future First Lady and exchanged pleasantries. Energized, Phillip volunteered to work the balance of the campaign. He learned more about the election process in two days than in all his previous schooling
By the way, Andrea was disappointed that Phil and I had the opportunity to shake hands with the future President and she hadn’t. I told her that it wasn’t that big a deal. After all, more people shook hands with Bill Clinton than had seen Madonna naked.
I lied. It was a big deal.
There was all the potential for great drama. Three brothers, separated by a total of four years and three worlds, sat with their mother in the hospital waiting room anticipating news of their father’s surgery. The dialogue was Pinter-like, enough for a play. In fact, there was enough material for a feature film. Unfortunately, I don’t write drama.
Hospitals bring out the best, and more often, the worst in people. Brought together by the joy of birth or the gravity of illness, we gather out of hope and concern in an effort to will a positive outcome. Sometimes we are successful. Sometimes not. Often the patient leaves the hospital simply altered, only to recover and improve months later or to eventually regress and return. Uncertainty and fear of failure permeate the halls.
Relatives and friends who hardly socialize, or even speak during good times, are stashed in claustrophobic waiting rooms and compelled to vegetate until the doctor or surgeon summons them The forced smiles disappear quickly and every slight and indignity is remembered and exaggerated by the assembled clan. The door opens and another family troops into the waiting room. Two, three, four groups now vie for the limited seats, ancient magazines and control of the now black and white T.V.
As evening fell the soap operas and game shows were replaced by the Republican National Convention. The delegates, speakers, even the signs in the Astrodome helped divide the family. Each member picked a side and either cheered or debated with the television transmission. They fought each other through the tube and a convention 2,500 miles away. Officially they weren’t fighting. They were simply agreeing or disagreeing with the Republicans.
“Look at Marilyn Qualye’s hair. It looks like a helmet.”
“Isn’t President Reagan amazing? Eighty-one years old!”
“Helmet? Maybe a defective helmet.”
And so it went. The comments and remarks became nastier and nastier until they sunk to the level of the late Lee Atwater. The whole time everyone pretended that the discussion was not personal, but political. But they all knew better.
The hostility had just about reached the surface when Doctor Cohen entered the room. His face was calm and emotionless. There were no clues as to how the procedure had gone or what the patient’s status was. And then he spoke. With minimum of jargon he described a successful surgery.
He was asked a few questions that eventually led back to his initial report. The sixty-seven year old man would be in Recovery for about three hours and then spend about a week in a private room on the seventh floor.
Now that the immediate danger had passed, whatever remained of their shared focus and purpose quickly disappeared. No more pretending. No more Republicans. The uniting fear and guilt gave way to anger and resentment. They were the only family now in the waiting room and the veneer of civility was shed as completely as a rattlesnake looses old skin. They truly hated each other and they wanted to be certain that that wasn’t a secret.
One stormed out, only to return a half an hour later with a fresh supply of venom. Occasionally a stranger or two would enter the room, but the uncomfortable silence and icy stares forced them to leave.
Four hours later the patient was wheeled into his room. He was attached to five machines. One unit automatically took his blood pressure every 15 minutes. Another provided pain medicine whenever he pushed a button. A unit of blood was slowly dripping through the IV. Tubes were down his throat and elsewhere. His breathing was aided by an oxygen mask.
The family gathered at his bedside, drawn by his apparent vulnerability. For a moment it appeared that the seriousness of his condition would overcome the animosity of his family. But only for a moment. As he drifted in and out of consciousness his family drifted in and out of the lounge next to his room.
The whispers gave way to shouts. The door stayed closed for ten, fifteen, thirty minutes at a time. Negotiations failed. Someone suggested an abortion in the 108th trimester. But when the doctor would come to check on the patient, all fighting would stop and everyone returned to his bedside.
The morphine helped to mask the patients’ pain and will erase all memory of this day. Lucky him. The rest of us will remember this day forever.
Dave Cunix is a local freelance writer and owner of Northpoint Insurance Services. The surgeon delivered a 12 pound spleen 8/18/92. Patient and spleen are resting comfortably. Not every family reunion is a Kodak moment.
We, the Baby Boomers, had a variety of role models while we were growing up. These leaders helped us to decide what we wanted to be as adults.
How many young men practiced an extra hour of basketball motivated by the on-court heroics of Dr. J. and the off-court exploits of Wilt Chamberlain.
How many young men and young women entered public service and government spurred by their admiration and respect of Robert Kennedy and Golda Meier.
And how many of us followed the day-to-day unraveling of the Nixon White House so flawlessly executed by the greatest of all investigative reporters, Woodward and Bernstein? We read the book. We saw the movie. Journalism schools reported a glut of applicants. We all wanted to go undercover and land the big one. Well, this morning I finally had my chance.
Like other self-employed individuals, I too am constantly barraged by solicitations from associations that are supposedly representing me in Washington. Each piece of mail included all of the various ways they have influenced legislation, made my life better, will lower my phone bills, get me better insurance, and all they want in return is the $50-$100 dues they have already earned.
Now I don’t mind these missives. Some are pretty amusing and they all fit easily in the wastebasket. One group, however, is particularly annoying. To protect Joyce from legal action, I won’t use their real name.
The National Association of the Semi-Evolved sells health insurance. No, let me correct that, bad health insurance. Over the last five years I have talked to many of their ex-clients. Somehow I got on to their mailing list. About two months ago I made the mistake of sending back a reply card (postage paid) with a dismissive note about their products and agents. This prompted a call from a local supervisor.
I talked with the supervisor for almost a half hour. Actually, I told him to mail me a brochure and I’d get back to him. He couldn’t. More precisely, he wouldn’t. I was ready to just blow him off when he started to make some extremely strange charges about my current carrier, John Alden, and other normal insurance companies. He begged for a face to face meeting in my home, and this was my opportunity to finally be an investigative journalist.
At about 8:40 this morning, a rusted blue van parked in front of my house. The magnetic sign identified the occupant as a representative of the National Association of Sleaze and Expediency. As the rumpled salesman entered my home I felt like I was about to compete with Dan Quayle on Jeopardy.
I had seen so many movies about going undercover and investigative work that I thought I knew what to expect. I was totally unprepared for the boredom. Five minutes into his presentation I had already tired of the half-truths and generalities. He produced a copy of a Blue Cross claim statement and misrepresented what was in black, white and orange highlighter before me. He lied. And when caught in his lie he restated his remark in the form of a disclaimer that would have made a law professor proud.
My lack of patience got the best of me. After thirty-five minutes of sparring I finally landed the knock-out punch. I told him I wasn’t interested in his conveniently handy book of testimonials, I only wanted to see one claim they had paid successfully. Beaten, he recommended that I stay with my current carrier and quickly packed up his stuff. He was careful to grab all of the written information I had been able to drag from him. He left, tail firmly between his legs, his parting shot roughly translated to “Why buy insurance from a company that will pay most of your claim, when you can buy insurance from us and be guaranteed to have half your bill paid?” I was polite. I didn’t laugh until he climbed into his van.
And there you have it. A story of fraud and intrigue equal to the best of Carl Monday or Geraldo Rivera. Now if you’ll pardon me, I’m going to get washed. He insisted on shaking hands when he left.
It was a quiet Friday morning in July. The Justice of the Peace of this small Massachusetts town paced the aisles of his office turned wedding chapel as he waited for the bride and groom to arrive. Finally one stood by the podium while the other was directed, shotgun to the small of the back, to the front of the room. Not the ideal way to get married, but it was HER fault. After all, she had KNOCKED me up!
Ok, I’m not preggers. There was no shotgun, but yes, I have remarried. I thought you all should know.
Wow, married! Scared? You bet. I mean, I’ve been here before and yet I haven’t. I’ve enjoyed marginal success as a husband, but all previous attempts have ended in divorce. Acquaintances ask me how I have the guts to do this again. I simply answer that I’ll keep trying until I get it right. My friends know better.
I began my quest for stability about twenty years ago. I remember Mark Farner of Grand Funk Railroad singing “I’m getting closer to my home” and realizing that that was a worthy goal. I wanted a home of my own. I envisioned a shelter. There would be walls to block out the cold. Blankets of warmth would be available as needed. Home wouldn’t be a strife torn dungeon I was sentenced to when I couldn’t find anywhere else to be. No, it would be a safe haven, a secure and peaceful place that would be hard to leave each morning.
Yes, that is a touch simplistic. So, you have your goals – I have mine. As the years have gone by, I have learned from each relationship what has worked and what hasn’t. Now, with all of this experience and knowledge to guide me I stand here today as confused and hopeful as I was on my first wedding night.
Knowledge and research don’t guarantee a successful marriage. Love, luck and flexibility are key ingredients. But who am I even to speculate that those are the key ingredients to MY MARRIAGE. Yes, I love Anna deeply and I have every reason to believe that is reciprocated. Surely, I am due a little Good Luck. I am working on flexibility, though I will never be mistaken for Olga Korbut
We enter hopefully, prepared to work hard for our sake and the sake of our children. Wish us luck. We all could use some luck.
I was knee deep in the déjà vu. Another friend was telling me how she and volunteered for doormat duty. Volunteered might not be the right word. She had what she thought were some compelling reasons why she was “forced” into being a patsy. She couldn’t stop her brother from taking advantage of her. And as always, she swore she would never, ever, let him use her again. Like I said, knee deep.
Perhaps it is chromosomal. I’m always amazed by how many women are user friendly. Motivated by guilt, a desire to be loved and appreciated, low self-esteem, or all of the above, they are in constant servitude. Sometimes the person pulling the strings and pushing all the right buttons is an elderly parent. Sometimes it is a sibling. It can even be an ex-spouse.
I remember one friend who showed great personal courage and strength in every area of her life but one. Her chronically unemployed ex-husband and her manipulative children completely controlled her. They snapped their fingers and she came running. We all agonized over her self-inflicted imprisonment and wondered how long her second husband would tolerate her weakness. The answer was not long. She now lives alone in a Lakewood apartment where she divides her time between work, visiting her kids, and backbone reconstruction.
Last night I heard another tale of woe. The bottom line is that a thirty-five year old divorced woman with two kids was allowing her single, slightly younger brother to sponge off her. Fifty bucks here. Eighty dollars there. Co-sign for a loan. He is simply financially incompetent. He is not on drugs. But he is as addicted to her money as surely as a crack-head is to coke.
Whether you view addiction as a disease or an illness it is her obligation to cut him off. Tough love is the only cure. Bankruptcy may be part of his treatment. A return of her self-respect would be a positive side effect.
Women should not allow people to take advantage of them. It is hard to respect a doormat.
I was slightly out of breath. I hadn’t realized how big my soapbox was.
I was ready to pontificate about the jerks and fools that had crossed my path today. I was ready to relay to you, my readers, how these cretins had ruined my plans and disorganized my agenda. And I was prepared to skewer the cowards who are unable to handle the rigors of life in the America of 1992.
But I had to stop. I had to because it became apparent that they, and you, and I are all victims. We have lost our privacy. We are losing our dignity. And the word RESPECT has effectively been eliminated from our vocabulary. There was no point in skewering anyone. We are all innocent bystanders.
My industry is filled with snoops. It is part of the business. We collect data, analyze it, and then decide how good a particular risk is. We ask specific, detailed questions. We talk to doctors. We check medical records. And we often send blood and urine samples to the laboratory.
We need this information so that we can properly underwrite you as a risk. But do we need all the info we seek? I don’t know.
I sat across from Bob in his new office. He had just signed the application for a large life insurance policy. Everything was terrific until I reminded him that he was going to have a blood test. The test would check him for a variety of things including drugs and AIDS. He freaked. He didn’t want to take an AIDS test. Period. Over the next fifteen minutes he detailed his extremely limited sexual history. (It would have only taken five minutes but he kept repeating himself.) I sat there thinking to myself that I have a better chance of becoming the Pope than he has of having AIDS.
Was Bob over reacting? Yes. Is “ignorance is bliss” a good lifestyle to choose? No. Was I a touch upset? Yes, a little. But, it is his body. And if he really would be happier not knowing whether or not he has AIDS, who am I to force him into confronting the issue? I will find him a different policy or he will simply have less life insurance protection for his wife and sons. It is his choice.
I was eating breakfast with Lou at the Beachwood Marriott two summers ago. He was a Home Office employee of a major insurance company. He confided to me that their blood tests had yet to discover even one HIV positive applicant. I said “Great. Does that mean that we can stop the testing?” He said “NO. You won’t believe how much cocaine we’re turning up!”
It is so easy to be frustrated. Doctors are practicing defensive medicine. They order tests and treatments as much to prevent lawsuits as they do to prevent disease. Medical records reveal that patients aren’t necessarily healthier, just more medicated. And when these people try to buy other insurance, their medical records serve as an impediment.
Your health, your credit, your driving record, etc… are all readily available. Sometimes that makes your life and mine easier. Sometimes it screws up my whole day. But there is no sense in being mad at anyone; not the client who has chosen to slow down the runaway train of information collection, not the collectors not even the doctors more interested in protecting themselves than their patients. We are all part of the system. And in our own way, we are all victims.
The Ohio Primary has been pushed back to June. Our muffled voices might be heard. Our choices as nominees of the Democratic and Republican tickets may have some bearing on the final outcome of these races. We might not be irrelevant.
Two men entered the Republican primary in New Hampshire. As I write this in Mid-March (the deadline of a monthly publication can be a real pain). Buchanan and Bush are still mud wrestling for the nomination.
Over a half a dozen “legitimate” candidates began the race to become the standard bearer for the Democrats. Today only three, Clinton, Tsongas, and Brown, have managed to reach the first turn. The Democrat horses appear to be more in search of a glue factory than engaged in a run for the roses. You may be experiencing déjà vu. Me? I feel like I’m just stuck with leftovers.
Newspapers, even monthly singles publications, have two responsibilities at election time. The first is to encourage you to vote.
EXERCISE YOUR RIGHTS
FULFILL YOUR OBLIGATION
Ok, I’m done. Our second responsibility is to suggest for whom you should cast your vote. This is called endorsing a candidate. We are charged with the duty of finding the right choice, the safe choice for our country. As editors, publishers, and good government types we know who the best candidates are. Honest. The task of choosing the Ohio’s Finest Singles endorsed Republican and Democrat has fallen on me. Frankly, I don’t know what I did to Joyce to deserve this honor, but hey, I wouldn’t turn down the opportunity to tell 130,000 readers how to vote.
Republican: Ohio’s Finest Singles is proud to endorse Dwight D. Eisenhower for the Presidency of the United States. We’re not bashful. . We like Ike. Now some of you may have noticed that Ike isn’t running this year. We will not be deterred. General Eisenhower was the last Republican to run that we could vote for without shame. Even dead, Eisenhower is more courageous that George Bush. And he has spent the last twenty-five years more productively that Pat Buchanan.
Democrat: Ohio’s Finest Singles endorses a man with experience. A man who has done it, and done it, and done it, and done it. No, we are not talking about Teddy Kennedy. We want F.D.R. Yes, we endorse Franklin Delano Roosevelt for President. Cast your vote for the REAL Democrat. We’re tired with this fixation with Massachusetts. Kennedy, Dukakis, and Tsongas are pale imitations. Clinton has more skeletons in his closet than Jeffrey Dahmer. And Jerry Brown’s dreams could really screw up our realities.
Fearlessly, Ohio’s Fines Singles endorses Eisenhower and Roosevelt. The economy is freefalling and our foreign policy is adrift. Surely we could do a lot worse that these proven leaders. And, neither ever bounced a check in the House Bank.
I. The man of the 90’s, who is he? He awakens on a Saturday morning and makes love to his girlfriend. She then rolls over and goes back to sleep while he gets up, washes the wine glasses from the previous night, makes coffee, and marinates steaks for that evening’s dinner. Ah, Liberation! We all benefited.
II. It is said that people make fun of things they don’t understand. Well I’ve got years’ worth of material on the new “Men’s Movement”. The pendulum has swung from the Cro-Magnum ethic of “Real Men Don’t Eat Quiche” to the pathetic Wild Men who sit around beating drums and bitching about their fathers.
I learned a lot from my father and the example he set. I learned the value of hard work and the fun of material success. I saw that you were defined and ranked by your profession or job. Like many of these whiners, I too disliked the hours my dad worked and how that affected our relationship. At an early age I realized that the cure was to own your own business and to be your own boss. No books. No therapists. No beating drums.
III. Wrapped in Garbage. My friend Jack, the attorney, was recently smeared in our local daily. Plain Dealer reporters Joel Rutchick and Scott Stephens, with the help of low-blow specialist Joe Dirck, gnashed their teeth, ranted and raved that Jack wore Gucci shoes and owned a B.M.W. Talk about penis envy! Of course, none of these scribblers mentioned that Jack’s Beemer was purchased used and is worth about $8,000. Just think what these boys might do if they ever found out about my Wright Arch Preserver shoes and my brand new Honda Accord EX
IV. Sitcoms. Life at the Cleavers sure looked good. While growing up I fantasized that as an adult my family might one day resemble “Father Knows Best” or the “Dick Van Dyke Show.” As I got older, and the deck had been reshuffled a couple of times, I set my sights on “The Brady Bunch.” Well I never accomplished any of those goals but my life has finally begun to resemble a sitcom. My luck, its “The Courtship of Eddie’s Father.”
V. We spent a rainy Saturday afternoon in Tower City. As we were leaving The Museum Company I realized that I had less than 48 hours left. Her plane was scheduled to leave on Monday at 2:29. I told her that by the time she took off there wouldn’t be an inch of my body that wasn’t sore, scratched, or aching. That included my heart. I didn’t know the half of it.