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.

The trap was set. Walter Mondale was debating President Ronald Reagan who was running for a second term. Mr. Mondale looked into the camera and said that both he and President Reagan knew that taxes had to be raised, but that only he had the courage to tell the truth to the American people.

President Reagan took the bait. He couldn’t wait to deliver his famous line, “There you go again”. But Mondale was ready. He noted that the first time Mr. Reagan delivered that line, then President, Jimmy Carter had been right. Reagan did attempt to cut Medicare once elected. And Mondale was certain that he, too, had cornered the market on truth.

Astute political observers came away from this exchange with two important insights:

1. The Democratic nominee, Walter Mondale, was absolutely right.
2. There was never going to be a President Walter Mondale.

It is really difficult to win an election when all you’ve got are facts. Don’t believe me? Ask President Kerry.

President Barack Obama launched his reelection campaign last Saturday afternoon. He and the First Lady wowed a crowd of about 14,000 at OSU’s Schottenstein Center. MSNBC broadcasted the entire introduction from Mrs. Obama and the President’s new stump speech. CNN showed the into and most of the President’s speech. I wanted to watch this on FOX. I got to see the start of Mr. Obama’s speech, but certainly not all of it. The crowd was too hot, too engaged, so FOX went back to the studio to give us another interview with yet another middle-aged white guy who was there to tell us that there is a whole lot less excitement on college campuses.

Ignore what you are seeing. Trust us, our guy is just as loved and respected.

My Republican friends may have wanted someone else such as Gingrich or Santorum or whoever, but they’ve got Mitt Romney. My Republican friends may not love Mitt Romney, but they hate Barack Obama. Why? Got an hour or two? My guys will fill that time and beg for more. And though I generally don’t agree with these guys, I have to admit to being disappointed and frustrated by some of the President’s programs and policies.

My personal frustration does not cloud my judgment. I am positive that Barack Obama will be reelected. Why? Because you can’t beat something with nothing.

Take Saturday’s speech. Mr. Romney couldn’t deliver that speech, that seemingly effortless 36 minutes of human interaction, if he shut down his campaign and practiced daily till October. It’s just not in him.

Not that Mr. Romney would qualify, but we are not electing our most successful businessman. We are not electing the smartest American or our most talented technocrat. We are electing a president. And we want our presidents to be so much more.

The great American myth, the one that we were told again and again as children, was that in America any boy could grow up to be president. That has been amended to now be any boy or girl. Lyndon Johnson, Bill Clinton, and George H. W. Bush made that seem almost possible. Barack Obama proved it.

Do your kids want to be Mitt Romney? More importantly, would the Mitt Romney circa 1994 want to be the coreless Mitt Romney running for office today?

I found myself at a nude beach wearing only a turtleneck, flannel-lined khakis, long underwear, and three pairs of socks.

It was an hour before sunset on a warm April evening and I was at Lizardville, a temple to alcohol in a Cleveland suburb. It was darker inside than out. The walls had posters of old beer ads, beer paraphernalia, and cans and bottles of one type of alcohol or another. Wine bottles were by the entrance. Wood tables and chairs were readily available for those who chose not to stand.

I was there for a beer tasting. There will be several accounts of this evening. Some may be more factual.

We were served a variety of small pizzas, sausages, and cheeses. But we, a group of bloggers, were there for the beer. I was totally out of my element.

I have been to any number of wine tastings, even the old fashioned kind that included spitting instead of swallowing the beverage. I have been to scotch tastings. Orchestrated tastings are not my favorite way to experience either wine or scotch. This was my first time with beer.

I was ill equipped for the experience. To begin with, I’m not a huge drinker and beer is hardly my favorite beverage. I probably have fewer than a dozen beers a year. My daughter and son-in-law, Jen and Matt, are beer aficionados. They have suggested interesting beers while we were having dinner at places like Hiroshi’s Pub. That’s when I will try something new or different.

At these dinners the beer arrives early, sometimes before the appetizer. I take a sip or two as an introduction. It is seldom love at first sight. Over the course of the next half hour or so I get to know the beer, that one glass or mug, through the meal. It is a courting process. Slow and nuanced. And when the meal has ended and the beverage gone, I have had a beer with a meal, a complete experience, and can honestly say whether I really liked it or not.

The beer tasting was not like that.

The food, though perfectly fine, finished a distant second to the beer. Pizza slices were consumed without comment. Sausages were noted for their spiciness. A little dish disappointingly held grapes instead of olives. No worries. The focus was on the beer.

There was a certain promiscuousness to the way we flitted from one beer to the next. No courtship. The beers were introduced, one at a time, in two ounce glasses. There was a pilsner, an amber ale, a Belgium Triple, a porter, an oatmeal stout, and an IPA. We were told about noble hops, golden monkeys, and bears with antlers. Sip it. Drink it. Chug it. It didn’t really matter. The most important thing to remember was to not get too connected, to not get too involved. Another glass was going to be out soon.

And when it was over, the only thing I knew for sure was that I had been to my last beer tasting. It was not for me. And there was this one beer, a Founder’s Porter, that I met briefly, but never got a chance to really know.

I may try, one day, to get that porter alone.

I finally laid to rest the last victims of the great flood of ’96. That was the first major sewer back-up at my house in Shaker Heights. The basement had been fully furnished. Gone. My entire record collection had also been down there. And though I never played those records again, I still had them. They spent the last six years sealed in boxes. Now they are in the dumpster.

I’m moving. The Why’s and Where’s will have to wait for another couple of weeks. Today is about moving on, the emotional exercise of letting go of one’s past.

Tossing the albums, literally, into a dumpster was not easy. I had to first admit that those boxes probably held more mold that music. I emptied the storage closet of items that I was never going to use again and that were of no value to my children. Between the storage closet and my second bedroom I’ve got nearly two car loads’ of stuff for the Salvation Army.

I found pictures of my children, step-children, and assorted relatives while sorting through the boxes. There were mementos of trips to Paris, Israel, and Australia. Some of the pictures were rally old. I still had brown hair.

I was getting a lot done. Productive. Efficient. I confidently chose which keepsakes were meaningful and which, like the program from the 2009 Senior Open at Canterbury, I could toss. And then I opened a box of wooden plaques. And I stopped.

If you visited my office sometime between 1992 and 2010, you have seen those plaques. I was a national leader for a wonderful company that no longer exists. Those awards, that wood on the wall, meant something to me. They represented a relationship. They represented a commitment. And now they represent the past. I closed the box and walked out of the room.

I’ve lived in this apartment for six years. With pen, legal pad, and an adult beverage, I’ve sat on this balcony and written more than a few of these posts. And in the waning hours of sunlight on a warm Sunday afternoon, I can convince myself that I needed a break and a little fresh air.

But I know what I have to do. There’s still room in that dumpster for one more box. And it is time for me to be movin’ on.

The boys at the table shifted in their seats nervous in their anticipation. They imagined a variety of scenarios. Will she? Would she? It was all so exciting. Yes, porn again. Political pornography. My right-wing Republican friends were dreaming again of Hillary.

Yes, that Hillary. These guys hated her in the nineties. They mocked her Senate campaign. And now? They now have a grudging respect for Secretary of State Hillary Clinton. They will tell you that they prefer her to the current occupant of the White House. Don’t take the bait. Their fantasies don’t include a Madam President Clinton. These daydreams are about havoc. Floor fights! Divided loyalties! Maybe an invigorated Bill caught with a campaign aide or three!

If the Democrats self-destruct, maybe, just maybe, the Republican nominee can win. True, they also debated $5 a gallon gasoline and 9% unemployment, but the Hillary scenario allows them to win without sacrificing the country.

The table, my collection of some of my most conservative friends, was initially thrilled with last week’s Supreme Court hearings. They have already waved good-bye to the individual mandate. The vote? Perhaps 9 – 0! The Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act? That is probably gone, too.

My friends mocked the Solicitor General, Donald B. Verrilli, Jr. They asked me why the President couldn’t come up with a better advocate for “Obamacare”. They were sure that they could count the still secret votes of the nine justices. They were celebrating until a shadow covered them.

What if Obama had thrown the fight? What happens if the Supreme Court eliminates the individual mandate and then kills “Obamacare”? He could run against both Congress and the Supreme Court. That is the Republican’s territory. He’ll win. He’ll install single-payer. We’re doomed to four years of Socialist rule. We will lose capitalism and the United States we know and love.

The President Obama who is naïve and ill-prepared looks just like the President Obama who is a political mastermind.

Since I don’t pretend to know what the Supreme Court will decide, I just sat back and fed their paranoia. Of course, several of my Conservative friends who are so adamantly opposed to federal spending and big government are financially dependent upon Washington. Irony, however, is lost on ideologues.

The table shifted to Rush and his take on the shooting in Florida. There is nothing like a good liberal conspiracy to lighten their moods. They were feeling better about themselves and their world until I mentioned Santorum’s latest gaffe.

That is when they returned to fantasizing about Hillary.