Adventures With Big Muddy

Dave

What did cowboy movies, Tarzan flicks, and even Amazon adventure stories have in common? Quicksand! Quicksand was the ever-present danger lurking just around the bend. It didn’t discriminate. Both the good guys and the villains could be entrapped in its clutches. And though our hero, or more often, the beautiful damsel in distress, would be pulled out just in time, the danger was still there. Life or death was determined by the availability of a vine, a rope, and of course, a well trained horse. The randomness and unpredictability of these attacks fed my imagination. I spent a lot of time making sure that I didn’t step into quicksand the first time or two that I was in a desert.

I have never claimed to be a good golfer. In fact, my goal is to achieve an acceptable level of mediocrity. This year, I have had to contend with more than just the speed of my backswing and my incessant desire to over swing. It has rained most Sundays. Absolutely poured. Twice we were forced to quit after just nine holes. The ground is saturated and the courses are mushy. Memorial Day weekend has been a welcome change. Highs in the 80’s. Sunny. The pools are filled with sunbathers and we had 7:30 tee times.

We were on the 11th hole at Wicked Woods searching for Karl’s ball. This was very unusual. My ball was in the middle of the fairway and his was nowhere to be found. It is normally the other way around. It was easy to loose a ball in the rough. The grass was high, the ground soft, and the balls plugged as they hit.

“Guys, come here. Need some help”, I heard Karl say. I didn’t like the way that sounded. I sprinted off the side of a hill and found Karl buried up to his thighs in the muddy river bank. Stuck. His cigar was in one hand, his cell phone in the other. He thought he had seen a ball and hadn’t realized that the ground was so soft. I couldn’t reach him without stepping on the same unstable ground.

I called out to Larry to come and help and to bring a club. Larry held on to me as I extended a 7 iron out to Karl. This wasn’t the first time Larry had made the wrong club choice. We were able to drag him out without any damage or injury to Karl (Big Muddy), the club, or even the cigar.

Karl waded in the creek to get most of the mud off his legs and finished the round barefoot.

No vine. No rope. No horse. Who knew the real answer would be a 7 iron?

The Empty Suit

Dave

Andrew was sharing with us the secrets of his success. Devoid of scruples, unrepentant, and unaware of the impression he was creating, Andrew shared with us stories of strong-arming customers, breaking rules, and pushing out employees who wouldn’t play his games. He is invincible. He is the future of retail.

If ignorance truly is bliss, then I was sitting two seats away from the happiest guy in Beachwood.

My father was a retail jeweler. He served as a store manager and supervisor most of his adult life. I grew up in those stores. I witnessed his professionalism. He respected his customers and they loved him. They trusted “Mr. Jerry” to take care of their jewelry needs. I have carried the lessons I learned from watching him throughout my working life.

My father wouldn’t be hired in today’s retail environment. Neither would I.

Walking through the mall is like visiting a carnival. Unwilling to wait for customers to enter the store or express interest, the sales clerks are forced to stand on the lease-line, barker style, and intercept mall patrons. The guys at the cell phone kiosks beg to ask you a question. Dodge them and you may bump into the sample girls from the skin product stand. And the chain stores will have their people do anything for another credit application.

This unpleasantness is available at any mall. Even these deserts of rudeness have an oasis or two. Beachwood Place has a Nordstrom. It is possible to find a positive, motivated salesperson at Saks, Dillard’s, or even at one of the kiosks, but the shopping experience is consistently excellent on all three floors of my favorite store.

Andrew is not a future Nordstrom store manager, but that’s not his goal. He has no need to leave his current employer, yet. For now he is satisfied with being transferred from an irrelevant C level strip plaza to a B level mall. The big time, a major mall store, is in his sights. He is indistinguishable from a pack of twenty-five to thirty-five year old single males who manage the stores of his employer and main competitors. Equally forgettable. Equally replaceable. Sometimes you have to look twice to determine which is which.

Having an audience, especially one that didn’t punch in first, thrilled Andrew and he made the most of his opportunity. His embellishments became more apparent the longer he spoke. Though we felt badly for his customers, our real concern was reserved for his employees who desperately need their jobs.

And one day Andrew will be gone, replaced by another empty suit.

There Is No Cure For H.C.S.

Dave

H.C.S. can affect even the youngest of girls. The condition has been known to impact some women their entire adult lives. I was talking to one of my friends who is afflicted with H.C.S., Hot Chick Syndrome. Actually, afflicted isn’t the right word. It only takes little bit of effort (and product) to maintain the condition, but yes, since you asked, she would like a drink.

Nell may protest, but she has a classic case of H.C.S. She is tall, thin, blonde, a veritable Shiksa Goddess. And like her Dudley Do Right namesake, she is always a damsel in distress. That may be the constant. H.C.S. causes a continuous need for something. Women with H.C.S. must need something, otherwise they wouldn’t be calling.

There is no reason to discuss the perils Nell was facing today. I resolved some and side-stepped a few others. Much like feeding a stray cat, the excessive desire to help a woman with H.C.S. guarantees that you’ll never be lonely at dinner time.

How does an attractive, potentially self-sufficient woman contract H.C.S.? It may be inherited from her mother. Dad, who she kept wrapped around her finger during her formative years, might also be at fault. The culprit may be a teacher or other family member. Or, her H.C.S. may be the result of years and years of getting anything she wanted from her male peers. No matter the cause, the results are the same. H.C.S. doesn’t cause women to act irresponsibly or selfishly. No, stuff just keeps happening and thank G-d you were able to help. And yes, a drink would be nice.

And an appetizer. They do serve appetizers here, don’t they?

Scenes Witnessed or Experienced In The Last Year

Dave

I

They were made for each other. He was capable of romanticizing the way a waitress touched his hand while returning his change. She calculated potential property settlements during a first kiss. Yes, in a dystopian parallel universe kind of way where the trains crash on schedule, they were made for each other.

II

Overheard at Corky’s…

“Here’s the deal. I knew where I was, where we were, and most importantly, where they were on this issue. The problem isn’t that they weren’t prepared two years ago. The problem is that two years later, they are still unprepared.”

“So why are they still in office?”

III

Work then home. Work then home. Sometimes he broke up his pattern and had dinner with his mother. Then he would go home. “Cleveland’s a terrible place to be single”, he told a co-worker. Work then home. There is no life insurance coverage for the terminally single.

IV

He believed in Intelligent Design. He created his universe. He was the Lord and Master. He was bathed in light and warmth. But his universe was shrinking. The wife moved out years ago. The kids were hanging around till the checks stopped. The eclipse is imminent.

V

We complain when people are silent and accept things as they are. We complain when people protest and make a scene. We don’t like it when the politicians veer too much to the left and are scared when they take the big turn to the right. So we live in our own version of the moderate middle, alone, and wondering why no one else sees our truth.

We are not so different. David Ackles was right. “They suffer least who suffer what they choose”.

The Politics of Blogging

Dave

Bismarck noted that politics is the art of the possible. Everything is political. This is the politics of blogging.

Even something as free-form and spontaneous as blogging has its own internal logic, rules, and regulations. This is particularly true for Again? Really? There is an unwritten style book. There are reoccurring characters. There are facts that are fungible and facts that are sacrosanct. Feelings may be explored and expanded, but they can never be faked. And I never, ever, throw the first punch.

Thankfully, I have an entire cadre of volunteers to keep me on the straight and narrow.

Sally is my #1 sounding board and the person assigned to protect me from myself. Since I tend to write these at home, in long hand, while enjoying a cigar, she is normally a couple of feet away watching TV and waiting for me to get some idea on paper. I prefer to have my stuff read aloud. If they ever create a “Blogs on Tape”, I would rush to be one of the firsts. A look from Sally can quickly kill a post.

My daughter Jennifer has also served as editor-in-chief. She is far too busy to fulfill that role now, but I value her input when given. She is about to launch her own blog, Jensfoodadventures.wordpress.com. The initial posts are terrific.

Jeff, my business partner, and Felicia, our secretary, are the last two members of the home team. Both are very good at letting me know if a little more detail or clarification is needed.

I expect Sally, Jeff, or Felicia to understand the cultural references and to appreciate the humor. If I am too obtuse or fail to entertain any of them, it is time to rework the post.

Since many of my characters are drawn from real life, some of my readers search each post for a reference to them. A couple are capable of finding themselves whether I meant for them to be there or not. This usually sparks a lively exchange of emails and private messages on Facebook. Others, like Beth Bryan, know that just mentioning them by name improves any of my posts.

I am also blessed with kibitzers. Captain Grammar checks me for typos, word usage errors, and other failings. She is very fast. Some of her emails have resulted in immediate changes before any one else has had a chance to notice my mistakes. There are those who might consider having someone standing over their shoulder a nuisance. Not me. I find having an extra editor invaluable. I also appreciate Sergeant Spell-Check. His only problem is that he is sometimes wrong. He is always entertaining, just not always right.

Putting together Again? Really? and Health Insurance Issues With Dave takes a lot of time. All of these posts have numerous links. Having readers suggest topics and issues helps tremendously. The feedback, nudging, and comments, even those that are kept private, significantly contribute to the final product.

Today’s post is designed to thank the people who help bring you Again? Really? and Health Insurance Issues With Dave. I couldn’t do it without them.

Just Breathe

Dave

Not Veronica, but Betty.
Mary Ann not Ginger.

I was not fooled by the different last name, the changed hair style, or even the fuzziness of the Facebook picture. I recognized her immediately. And I smiled.

She hadn’t been beautiful or glamorous. She was pretty. She was cute. She was smart and she was ditzy. It was a combination that I have always found irresistible. But she was totally inaccessible. It would be years before I would date a non-Jewish girl and I knew nothing of conversions. So we became friends. I didn’t have an agenda or ulterior motives. I was completely safe. I listened to her and I could make her laugh.

There were days that I lived for that laugh.

And now, thirty plus years later, we were having lunch. Still incredibly cute, still smart, and somehow even ditzier, she was still inaccessible. The smile was unchanged, the laugh still endearing.

Back at my office she tried to recall a song she had heard earlier in the day. “Her name was Anna. Her last name had something to do with a hammer. Nail, nail something.”

I offered to look up Anna N. on Google.

“It was a great song. I couldn’t write it down. I was still on the turnpike. New song. Breathe.”

I had already walked to my desk and begun the search. “Breathe isn’t new, but it is a great song. This should be easy.” I clicked on a link. She leaned over my shoulder to read the lyrics.

I clicked on another link and a pretty young woman stared into the camera, and into us, as she began to sing. The words meant something to me. I’m certain they meant something to my friend. Not every silence is awkward, but this one was. I turned as she retreated to where we had been sitting.

It had been a moment of great intensity and intimacy. But we aren’t destined to share such moments. We weren’t in 1972 or ’73. We aren’t now. I returned to my seat and did what I did best.

I made her laugh.

R.I.P. My Magnavox

Dave

The end came suddenly this past Wednesday. The 27 inch Magnavox that I had mentioned a few months ago, the one that I had walked home over nineteen years ago, went out with a whimper, not a bang. Actually, it was more of a FZZZT. I was listening to the news while reading the Plain Dealer. I heard a brief hissing sound and then nothing. I looked up and saw a blank screen. It was gone. My television had succumbed to old age. It died peacefully. There was no struggle.

There are some people who rush to the breeder or Animal Protection League to adopt a puppy the day after they are forced to put a pet down. I never did that. But I have this beautiful solid cherry entertainment center in my living room and leaving it empty hardly seemed like a good idea. I have other televisions in the bedrooms and my breakfast room. I decided to close the doors of the cabinet and wait an acceptable period of time before replacing the Magnavox. I sat Shiva for two days before I hit the stores.

The Business Vegetarian

Dave

Sandi is a business vegetarian. She knows everything about sizzle, but has never tasted steak.

The woman sitting across from me is a content marketer. She had called about a week ago and I hadn’t, at that moment, the time nor the patience to deal with her. I thought that she represented a Beachwood Chamber of Commerce member. As the immediate past president, I make time for all of our members. I agreed to an appointment and now she is here.

What is a content marketer? Her poorly written email, sent to whet my appetite for our meeting, had been filled with promises of success through buzzwords. Clearly, she wasn’t a writer. Yet, that’s what she is selling.

I knew that I was in trouble as soon as I learned that neither she nor her new employer were chamber members. Worse, for some reason she felt compelled to try to convince me of the virtues of COSE. She wasn’t listening, wasn’t processing what she was hearing, or was simply unable to let go of her preconceived notions. It was at this point that I realized that she could no longer tell the difference between reality and the BS she and her company produced.

Puff pieces. Sandi sells puff pieces. She and a crack team of faux journalists create articles and bogus interviews for one of our area’s many business magazines. You can find these publications in offices and waiting rooms all over town. The subscriptions are forever and the price is popular, free. Flip through the pages and you will see lots of smiling executives and news stories brimming with success and happiness. This is fine as long as you realize that you aren’t reading a real magazine while you are waiting for Doctor Coldhands.

My first experience with fake journalism was about eleven years ago. I had a chance to be in a special advertising section of the Sun Papers. If I bought a big enough ad, the Sun Papers would publish a nice story about me. How nice? It was great. There was a quarter page article extolling my virtues as an agent and member of the community. I wrote it. My mother was very proud.

Does anyone believe this stuff? Would you read or trust any publication with “Smart” or “True” in its name? You wouldn’t, but someone, other than the subjects’ mothers and the magazines’ staffs, must be buying the BS.

Or maybe not.

Does it matter if anyone opens these magazines or really reads the stories? The advertisers get certified audit reports that prove the distribution and educated guesses as to how many people were stuck in those waiting rooms. The news is always positive. The subjects of the articles and interviews are always happy with the product. Marketing executives and public relations specialists have a reliable partner, an outlet eager to spread a particular version of the truth. The only loser is the unsuspecting reader.

As our meeting ended, Sandi gave me her card but expressed doubts that I would remember our conversation. She speculated that I would throw out her card before she got to her car. Wrong again. I’m a steak guy. I will keep her business card. It is a permanent reminder about the dangers of getting caught up in the sizzle.

True To My Word

Dave

Windsor, Ontario
Thanksgiving Weekend
One ex ago

The Asian district looked like the China Town of any major North American city. Restaurant. Restaurant. Grocery store. Restaurant. Gift shop. Restaurant. We randomly selected a place for dinner and hoped for the best.

We were aiming for Chinese, familiar and safe. What we got was a Vietnamese Karaoke bar and restaurant. The owner’s daughter, one of the few women visible and the only person willing to attempt English, seated us at a table and handed us menus. Even if there had been any light, we still would not have been able to decipher our choices. I looked her in the eye and said, “Three courses. No heads. Surprise me”. She repeated my order. I smiled. The ex looked worried.

Ernest young men sang Vietnamese songs of love and loss. Some of their choices had English subtitles. The words and pictures flashed across a large screen that filled almost an entire wall. Dinner, most of it unrecognizable, was delightful. We appeared to be good sports, so they asked me to sing. I told them that I would sing Locomotive Breath from Jethro Tull. They offered Locomotion. I politely declined.

Why Locomotive Breath? Who knows? But for over ten years I have stuck to that offer. If Locomotive Breath would ever be an option, I would perform Karaoke. Needless to say, I have avoided public humiliation for years.

There have been close calls. The Beachwood Chamber of Commerce has sponsored a community pancake breakfast for years. Larry Weissman, the self-anointed Karaoke King, was one of our featured attractions. Knowing that as president I participated in everything, Larry approached me about performing. I promised, at a Board of Directors meeting, to sing. Luckily, he never added the song to his system.

I like Karaoke. Sally and I have been asked to judge competitions. I simply respect my audience too much to inflict my singing on them.

My streak ended Tuesday evening. Dreams Punta Cana has nightly entertainment. Tuesday’s was billed as “Dreams Got Talent”. This sounded like a perfectly harmless guest talent show. We figured that they had rounded up performers during the day much the way this had been organized on the cruise ship. Nope, it was Karaoke.

The first few singers had more moxie than talent. Then Evie took the stage. A polished performer who sang in French, her talents and ego were wasted on a show that had no judges or prizes. She wowed the crowd and chased away some of the more casual participants. The staff worked the audience looking for performers. They asked me if I would sing. I offered to look at the book, secure in the knowledge that my song wouldn’t be there and that I was still safe.

The book was HUGE. I could sense danger. There were over a half dozen Jethro Tull songs. Did I really want to sing Locomotive Breath? What about Cross-eyed Mary? Check and mate.

A day and a half in the sun, a couple of cigars, and G-d knows how many rum runners had already taken their toll on my voice. It was 10 PM and I was drinking coffee. It didn’t matter. If I didn’t do this, if I didn’t get up there on that stage in front of a couple hundred strangers and sing Locomotive Breath, then I had been lying for over ten years. I wrote my selection on the blue paper and handed my choice, and my dignity, to a young woman wearing a Super Girl costume.

There were no judges. There were no awards. I neither finished first nor last. The stage was massive. Tie lighting, intense. All I could see was the monitor in front of me. I grabbed the microphone and apologized to Ian Anderson.

Some of the performers were caught unawares as their songs started abruptly. I smiled as the album version, with its long piano introduction, began to play. I had enough time to gather myself.

The audience didn’t know the song. I was dressed conservatively. As the quiet piano played, they may have thought that I was about to sing another Sinatra-like song of the early 60’s. I thanked them for coming and joked as if I was about to leave the stage. As the intro switched tempo and grew in power, I ordered “louder” to the DJ. I couldn’t sing if I had wanted to. Instead, I growled a sing-song dramatic reading. Caught by surprise, the crowd gasped at the intensity. The MC made a point of thanking me as I returned to my seat after my performance.

What took the most courage this vacation? Was it swimming with nurse sharks and giant sting rays? Hell no. I had done that before. What took the most courage was to keep my word.

Freedom

Dave

Freedom.
When thinking about breakfast, it is important to remember that the chicken is involved, but the pig is committed.

The government in Tunisia has fallen. Hosni Mubarak’s reign of Egypt has abruptly ended. Forty-two years of Colonel Muammar el-Qaddafi’s dictatorial control of Libya may have ended by the time you read this. Bahrain is in play. Other Arab dictators and kingdoms are in jeopardy. Freedom is in the air. The Arabs are demanding honest voting and real representational government.

The last two months have taught us the meaning of commitment. The people in Cairo were committed. They took to the streets, peacefully, and protested for change. Mubarak’s secret police, riding horses and camels(!) and wielding clubs and swords, charged into the crowds. The people stood their ground. The government was toppled.

The people of Bahrain are committed. They may not, however, know the first rule of dictatorships. A couple of days ago, a group of protestors, when approached by the army, took off their shirts, fell to their knees, and dared the military to shoot them. Here’s the rule: Don’t dare a guy with a gun to shoot you! The people of Bahrain are committed. They are willing to risk their lives to be free.

We don’t bother to vote. We don’t bother to even register to vote. We in the U.S. are free enough to not give a damn.

We may not over-achieve in the pursuit and maintenance of our own freedom, but we, the U.S., believes that we are the arbiters of who is free as well as who can or can not handle democracy.

We are thrilled to see Qaddafi overthrown. We exercised our G-d given authority to decide right and wrong and took out Saddam Hussein. But the repressive regime next door to Saddam, headed by the Saudi royal family, is our BAFF (Best Arab Friend Forever).

I am always amazed to hear people speculate as to whether the Arabs or Muslims can handle democracy. Who can? The cradles of democracy are Italy and Greece. Their last two thousand years have had many high and low points. Democracy has always been in the eye of the beholder. Remember, we had to pass the Voting Rights Act of 1965. We had to. A sizeable portion of our current population would not have experienced democracy without it.

Thanks to the Voting Rights Act of 1965, minorities now have the right to ignore Tuesdays in November the way the rest of us do.

We’re involved, but we are not committed.