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DAVE
When Is The Right Time To Destroy Medicaid?
3 months ago
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Standards? What Standards?
My child has excellent attendance at Charles Dickens
I was stuck behind an ancient Dodge Caravan at a traffic light on Cedar Road. Bored, and positive that I was going to be here for at least one more cycle, I stared at the bumper sticker in front of me. There had to be a reason to put this message on that minivan. It wasn’t placed there to hide a dent or scratch. It would have taken a lot more than one bumper sticker to do that. The plainly worded unadorned vinyl wasn’t attached to the vehicle to enhance its appearance.
It must have been the message. The owner of this vehicle was proud that his/her child had excellent attendance at, presumably, an elementary school.
We have all seen the clear window stickers proclaiming a child’s attendance at a particular university. An elementary school aged child making the honor roll may generate the need for a parent to share his/her pride with the world via a bumper sticker. I can even imagine announcing perfect attendance.
This isn’t perfection. This is simply very good. Have we really given up? Are we really willing to be mired in good enough?
There was an award for perfect attendance at my elementary school. It was a prize beyond my grasp. I knew that I would miss a couple of days each school year for Jewish holidays. I also knew that a sick day or two was very possible. I didn’t ask that the rules be changed for me. I didn’t think that I, or my classmates, should receive an award if we go close. Perfection was rewarded.
Today we reward effort. We have convinced ourselves that our subjective judgments of other’s efforts can be as exactly measured as their actual achievement.
This silliness began in the late 60’s or early 70’s. I remember coming home with a report card replete with A’s, but only 2’s for effort. I was admonished for not giving my all. At one point I remarked that the report card was inaccurate. One teacher was so ineffectual that I really should have had my A for the course work and a 3 for effort in her class.
This culture of rewarding mediocrity, of applauding those who merely show up, has invaded the job-site. I just visited a longtime client. His office manager has the flu, possibly strep throat. He is wondering how many days she will miss due to this illness. His guess is three to five.
The owner of the van finally turned left, as did I. I hope to be behind the proud parents of honor roll students form Charles Dickens. I hope to see a Kent State sticker on that same car. I hoop that the children of Charles Dickens Elementary aspire to more than just showing up most of the time.
Monday, February 1, 2010
A Human Recession
“One in five American men aged 25 to 54 are unemployed”, announced Larry Summers at the annual meeting of the World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland. He went on to put our whole economic disaster into perspective when he said that the United States is experiencing a “statistical recovery and a human recession”.
Unemployed? Under-employed? You are not alone. Is help on the way? I’m not so sure.
I’ve seen economic devastation. I lived and worked in Youngstown, Ohio in the late 70’s and early 80’s. The steel mills closed. Downtown Youngstown was gutted. But no matter how bad it got, we all felt that neither Youngstown nor its inhabitants were doomed to failure. There was no reason to give up.
Our current economic downturn feels different.
I keep eleven names in my appointment book. This list grows daily. These are the names of people who are unemployed. These are not unskilled workers. They are not semi-skilled. They are professionals, people who have worked in their fields for twenty- plus years. Office managers. Computer specialists. An attorney. Make that twelve. I just got off the phone with a pharmacist. One guy was a territorial sales rep for the same company for over twenty-five years. These people are experienced and highly qualified. They are dying to work. They are willing to settle for less. They just want a job. They want to go back to work.
Last week I talked with a former business owner who is hoping to land a job as a $15 an hour secretary / receptionist. The combination of the housing bust and the internet killed her industry. She has no complaints. There isn’t a drop of self-pity. She simply needs a job.
I connected one of my computer specialists to a possible employer on Friday. Can I scratch him off my list? Not yet.
Many of us are defined, in part, by what we do for a living. I certainly am. Unemployed, these friends and clients are adrift. It’s not just the money, though that is certainly important. Their jobs are how they see themselves and how they contribute to the general good.
We can’t wait for Washington. We can’t wait for Columbus. How about You? Can you help someone land a job?
DAVE
Unemployed? Under-employed? You are not alone. Is help on the way? I’m not so sure.
I’ve seen economic devastation. I lived and worked in Youngstown, Ohio in the late 70’s and early 80’s. The steel mills closed. Downtown Youngstown was gutted. But no matter how bad it got, we all felt that neither Youngstown nor its inhabitants were doomed to failure. There was no reason to give up.
Our current economic downturn feels different.
I keep eleven names in my appointment book. This list grows daily. These are the names of people who are unemployed. These are not unskilled workers. They are not semi-skilled. They are professionals, people who have worked in their fields for twenty- plus years. Office managers. Computer specialists. An attorney. Make that twelve. I just got off the phone with a pharmacist. One guy was a territorial sales rep for the same company for over twenty-five years. These people are experienced and highly qualified. They are dying to work. They are willing to settle for less. They just want a job. They want to go back to work.
Last week I talked with a former business owner who is hoping to land a job as a $15 an hour secretary / receptionist. The combination of the housing bust and the internet killed her industry. She has no complaints. There isn’t a drop of self-pity. She simply needs a job.
I connected one of my computer specialists to a possible employer on Friday. Can I scratch him off my list? Not yet.
Many of us are defined, in part, by what we do for a living. I certainly am. Unemployed, these friends and clients are adrift. It’s not just the money, though that is certainly important. Their jobs are how they see themselves and how they contribute to the general good.
We can’t wait for Washington. We can’t wait for Columbus. How about You? Can you help someone land a job?
DAVE
Friday, January 22, 2010
From a Safe Distance
Two views of the same incident.
He threw himself at her. She adroitly side-stepped the falling body. There was no reason for her to be hurt trying to break his fall.
He wore his heart on his sleeve. She was armed with a machete. She aimed for his fingertips and caught him just above the elbow.
Me? I was at a nearby table, drinking coffee from Nordstrom's, far less violently killing time.
He threw himself at her. She adroitly side-stepped the falling body. There was no reason for her to be hurt trying to break his fall.
He wore his heart on his sleeve. She was armed with a machete. She aimed for his fingertips and caught him just above the elbow.
Me? I was at a nearby table, drinking coffee from Nordstrom's, far less violently killing time.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
We Need To Talk
A moment of raw emotion and honesty. I just lost my largest client. I’m in a bit of shock.
I saw it coming. This wasn’t a surprise. I have been on borrowed time for over two years. Still, I’m sitting in my office at 8:30 at night, staring at my keyboard, numb.
I have, or at least try to have, a very personal relationship with my clients. I structured this business to focus principally on small businesses and the self-employed. Most of my clients have ten employees or fewer. They need more attention. One day I am helping to design a logo, the next a compensation package. People come in to my office to talk about religion and politics. It is all very relaxed.
I was referred to a suburban business eight years ago. The company was a start-up within a larger multi-state operation. There were five employees assigned to the new company. I set up their health policy. No big deal. There are clients who may go months between calls. This wasn’t that type of group. They had questions. Lot’s of questions. And if they didn’t like the answer, they would simply re-ask the question. One of the owners was positive that Ohio regulations applied to everyone but him. That’s OK. It kept me on my toes.
Then they took off. Huge. Incredible growth. By 2007 they had over 50 employees. Now, over 100. If they were referred to me today, I wouldn’t even take them. They are too big for me. Their needs too different from the daily requests of my other clients. But, up until today, they were mine. And I worked hard to meet their every request.
But in the end I couldn’t.
Their new agent will give them employee surveys and bring people in to teach CPR. I’m not equipped to teach CPR to 125 people and I always thought those surveys were bullshit. My apologies to HR professionals everywhere.
I won’t lie. It is a big hit on my income, but I won’t miss any meals. I think the bigger shock is that it is the end of a relationship. If you have read the other posts on this blog, you know that I am no stranger to terminating relationships. None of us are. But this is different. For my female readers, no this does not end with a half gallon of chocolate ice cream and two spoons. And for my male readers, no, you don’t get fixed up.
Can you mourn the death of a business relationship? Can you find honest emotion buried inside applications and claim forms. I think so. As with so many things that have lived well and passed on, I think I will sit here for a few moments and remember the best of those times and what made me happy.
And then I will move on.
I saw it coming. This wasn’t a surprise. I have been on borrowed time for over two years. Still, I’m sitting in my office at 8:30 at night, staring at my keyboard, numb.
I have, or at least try to have, a very personal relationship with my clients. I structured this business to focus principally on small businesses and the self-employed. Most of my clients have ten employees or fewer. They need more attention. One day I am helping to design a logo, the next a compensation package. People come in to my office to talk about religion and politics. It is all very relaxed.
I was referred to a suburban business eight years ago. The company was a start-up within a larger multi-state operation. There were five employees assigned to the new company. I set up their health policy. No big deal. There are clients who may go months between calls. This wasn’t that type of group. They had questions. Lot’s of questions. And if they didn’t like the answer, they would simply re-ask the question. One of the owners was positive that Ohio regulations applied to everyone but him. That’s OK. It kept me on my toes.
Then they took off. Huge. Incredible growth. By 2007 they had over 50 employees. Now, over 100. If they were referred to me today, I wouldn’t even take them. They are too big for me. Their needs too different from the daily requests of my other clients. But, up until today, they were mine. And I worked hard to meet their every request.
But in the end I couldn’t.
Their new agent will give them employee surveys and bring people in to teach CPR. I’m not equipped to teach CPR to 125 people and I always thought those surveys were bullshit. My apologies to HR professionals everywhere.
I won’t lie. It is a big hit on my income, but I won’t miss any meals. I think the bigger shock is that it is the end of a relationship. If you have read the other posts on this blog, you know that I am no stranger to terminating relationships. None of us are. But this is different. For my female readers, no this does not end with a half gallon of chocolate ice cream and two spoons. And for my male readers, no, you don’t get fixed up.
Can you mourn the death of a business relationship? Can you find honest emotion buried inside applications and claim forms. I think so. As with so many things that have lived well and passed on, I think I will sit here for a few moments and remember the best of those times and what made me happy.
And then I will move on.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
AUFVIEDERSEN
September 1995 - If You Won't Leave Me, I'll Find Someone Who Will.
Ok Mr. Cunix. TAKE THREE.
I quit.
CUT. That’s a rap.
No. No. No. There’s more to this than that. I can’t end a relationship of over five years with simply two words. It’s not right, and I’m far too verbose.
This is my third pass at writing this column. I hope that this is my final attempt and that it meets with your approval.
My first try was a disaster. Not only did I blame the end on artistic differences, but I took time to delineate some of them. I showed the article to three friends and all of them hated it.
Take two. My second attempt was even worse. After sixty columns of brutal honesty where I never pulled a punch (even though many were self-directed), I laid down my gloves and “wussed out”. Faithful readers know that I’m not a “turn the other cheek” kind of guy. I quickly tore it up.
So that leaves us with this attempt. I’m searching for the middle ground, the in-between.
The time has come to leave. There have been times when I have had two and three columns written in advance. There have been months where my deadline has felt as threatening as April 15th. All writers experience that, but lately I have been less and less comfortable with this venue.
I will miss this opportunity for us to talk each month. I will miss your phone calls and letters. So for those of you who remember the Sound Of Music, let us not say good-bye just….
Ok Mr. Cunix. TAKE THREE.
I quit.
CUT. That’s a rap.
No. No. No. There’s more to this than that. I can’t end a relationship of over five years with simply two words. It’s not right, and I’m far too verbose.
This is my third pass at writing this column. I hope that this is my final attempt and that it meets with your approval.
My first try was a disaster. Not only did I blame the end on artistic differences, but I took time to delineate some of them. I showed the article to three friends and all of them hated it.
Take two. My second attempt was even worse. After sixty columns of brutal honesty where I never pulled a punch (even though many were self-directed), I laid down my gloves and “wussed out”. Faithful readers know that I’m not a “turn the other cheek” kind of guy. I quickly tore it up.
So that leaves us with this attempt. I’m searching for the middle ground, the in-between.
The time has come to leave. There have been times when I have had two and three columns written in advance. There have been months where my deadline has felt as threatening as April 15th. All writers experience that, but lately I have been less and less comfortable with this venue.
I will miss this opportunity for us to talk each month. I will miss your phone calls and letters. So for those of you who remember the Sound Of Music, let us not say good-bye just….
Transitions
July 1995 - If You Won't Leave Me, I'll Find Someone Who Will.
Life is not stagnant. Change, for good or bad, is inevitable. And change occurs whether we are prepared or not.
My son Phillip is seventeen today. So much is different than it was twenty-three years ago when I reached that august age. It as taken awhile, but I am adjusting, or was.
I have answered the phone at 7AM and 11:30 PM to hear the voice of a young lady asking to speak to Phil. Girls, or at least nice girls, didn’t call boys when I was in school. I’m not saying that that was good, or that this change is necessarily bad. It did take time for me to appreciate the difference.
Now it is Jennifer’s turn. Fourteen and about to enter ninth grade, she is ready for all the benefits of high school. But is dad ready?
When I got home from work today, Jenny asked if she could go to the movies tonight. She said that her buddy Steve and his friend Felix were also going. Did she need money for dinner? No, Steve is paying. He owes her a few bucks.
Steve’s mom arrived promptly at 6PM. Out from the car popped a standard issue fourteen year old boy. With his baseball cap reversed on his head, thin, and wearing a Nirvana T-shirt, I hardly recognized Steve.
As Jenny ran to the door exclaimed, “I know you!” She opened the door and he gave her a hug.
She looked over her shoulder at me and by the way of introduction said, “Me dadoo.”
He looked up, took a half a step back and said, “Hi Dad.”
My first impulse was to say something on the order of “TAKE YOUR HANDS OFF MY DAUGHTER!” Instead, I opted for “HI.”
Jenny went to look for her key, while I confirmed that the kids had a ride home. Soon she was bounding down the front steps and getting into the back seat next to Steve.
So much is changing in our lives. I really appreciated that dozens of my readers called with suggestions for my new home. Every suburb from North Olmsted to Concord was recommended. Well, we found the house we really want, and it is in Shaker. We move in as soon as we can sell my house in South Euclid.
In January of 1994, Michelle Messina got tired of listening to her friend Alissa Kaleal bitch about being alone. She forced Alissa to place a personal ad. She forced her to answer the two people who responded. And Michelle made Alissa show up at the Arabica in Shaker Square to meet one of the guys.
Two weeks ago Alissa asked me to marry her. She didn’t need Michelle’s prompting this time. But Michelle will be at the ceremony otherwise limited to family. By the way, I said yes.
We are all in transition.
Life is not stagnant. Change, for good or bad, is inevitable. And change occurs whether we are prepared or not.
My son Phillip is seventeen today. So much is different than it was twenty-three years ago when I reached that august age. It as taken awhile, but I am adjusting, or was.
I have answered the phone at 7AM and 11:30 PM to hear the voice of a young lady asking to speak to Phil. Girls, or at least nice girls, didn’t call boys when I was in school. I’m not saying that that was good, or that this change is necessarily bad. It did take time for me to appreciate the difference.
Now it is Jennifer’s turn. Fourteen and about to enter ninth grade, she is ready for all the benefits of high school. But is dad ready?
When I got home from work today, Jenny asked if she could go to the movies tonight. She said that her buddy Steve and his friend Felix were also going. Did she need money for dinner? No, Steve is paying. He owes her a few bucks.
Steve’s mom arrived promptly at 6PM. Out from the car popped a standard issue fourteen year old boy. With his baseball cap reversed on his head, thin, and wearing a Nirvana T-shirt, I hardly recognized Steve.
As Jenny ran to the door exclaimed, “I know you!” She opened the door and he gave her a hug.
She looked over her shoulder at me and by the way of introduction said, “Me dadoo.”
He looked up, took a half a step back and said, “Hi Dad.”
My first impulse was to say something on the order of “TAKE YOUR HANDS OFF MY DAUGHTER!” Instead, I opted for “HI.”
Jenny went to look for her key, while I confirmed that the kids had a ride home. Soon she was bounding down the front steps and getting into the back seat next to Steve.
So much is changing in our lives. I really appreciated that dozens of my readers called with suggestions for my new home. Every suburb from North Olmsted to Concord was recommended. Well, we found the house we really want, and it is in Shaker. We move in as soon as we can sell my house in South Euclid.
In January of 1994, Michelle Messina got tired of listening to her friend Alissa Kaleal bitch about being alone. She forced Alissa to place a personal ad. She forced her to answer the two people who responded. And Michelle made Alissa show up at the Arabica in Shaker Square to meet one of the guys.
Two weeks ago Alissa asked me to marry her. She didn’t need Michelle’s prompting this time. But Michelle will be at the ceremony otherwise limited to family. By the way, I said yes.
We are all in transition.
Ghost Stories
June 1995 - If You Won't Leave Me, I'll Find Someone Who Will.
I never really cared for ghost stories. The idea of telling spooky stories while sitting around a campfire seemed silly to me. Either the story would be weak or badly told and, therefore, of little consequence, or the tale would scare the crap out of you. The former, a waste of time. The later, extremely unpleasant. So where was I? I was sitting on a log while R.J. told a ghost story.
R.J. is Alissa’s eight year old and this was his first Cub Scout overnight. He was given the opportunity to pick anyone to accompany him. Surprisingly, he chose me.
I hadn’t expected R.J. to ask me to go with him because, frankly, I’m not the camping type. My idea of roughing it is staying at a Holiday Inn. His father, however, had been an Eagle Scout. Alissa’s dad had been through this with both of her brothers. Both Alissa’s ex and her father were far more qualified. But, R.J. asked me and I had quickly accepted.
Though R.J. was amongst the youngest of the Cubs, he was the first to tell a story. R.J. then sat on my lap as one by one the rest of the Scouts took a turn. There wasn’t a shiver or even a cringe until Ben, one of the dads, took a turn. With a serious voice he spun a tale of snakes, dogs, abandoned houses and, well, you know, all the stuff that makes for a scary story. He managed to spook several of the boys and succeeded in proving my point.
As I reassured R.J. and another Cub that Ben had made up his story, I realized how many ghosts were sitting on these logs with our dozen scouts. They were the ghosts of missing fathers. Four of our boys had been accompanied by their mothers. R.J. and Louis were with neither birth parent. These boys had been holding back. Many of them could tell stories that could make grown men shake in broad daylight. And their stories would be true.
The boys were too tired to worry about ghosts. Thanks to a half a mile hike from the parking lot to the cabin, we had each walked over ten miles this day. Our basketball games also contributed to their exhaustion and two of the boys had had hockey earlier in the day. By 10:30 they were ready to climb into their cots.
Anyone who has children knows that just because the boys were ready to go to bed doesn’t mean that they were ready to go to sleep. It only took about a half an hour to get everyone’s teeth brushed and sleeping bags zipped up. We tucked our boys in and then escaped to the serenity of the campfire.
The sun and the boys all rose about two hours earlier than necessary. By 10:30 we had packed our cars, cleaned the cabin and were ready to leave. R.J. and his friend, Nicholas, were still discussing the ghost stories. By now they had decided that Ben’s story wasn’t real. But that was okay. Their only complaint was that we had stayed for just one night.
I never really cared for ghost stories. The idea of telling spooky stories while sitting around a campfire seemed silly to me. Either the story would be weak or badly told and, therefore, of little consequence, or the tale would scare the crap out of you. The former, a waste of time. The later, extremely unpleasant. So where was I? I was sitting on a log while R.J. told a ghost story.
R.J. is Alissa’s eight year old and this was his first Cub Scout overnight. He was given the opportunity to pick anyone to accompany him. Surprisingly, he chose me.
I hadn’t expected R.J. to ask me to go with him because, frankly, I’m not the camping type. My idea of roughing it is staying at a Holiday Inn. His father, however, had been an Eagle Scout. Alissa’s dad had been through this with both of her brothers. Both Alissa’s ex and her father were far more qualified. But, R.J. asked me and I had quickly accepted.
Though R.J. was amongst the youngest of the Cubs, he was the first to tell a story. R.J. then sat on my lap as one by one the rest of the Scouts took a turn. There wasn’t a shiver or even a cringe until Ben, one of the dads, took a turn. With a serious voice he spun a tale of snakes, dogs, abandoned houses and, well, you know, all the stuff that makes for a scary story. He managed to spook several of the boys and succeeded in proving my point.
As I reassured R.J. and another Cub that Ben had made up his story, I realized how many ghosts were sitting on these logs with our dozen scouts. They were the ghosts of missing fathers. Four of our boys had been accompanied by their mothers. R.J. and Louis were with neither birth parent. These boys had been holding back. Many of them could tell stories that could make grown men shake in broad daylight. And their stories would be true.
The boys were too tired to worry about ghosts. Thanks to a half a mile hike from the parking lot to the cabin, we had each walked over ten miles this day. Our basketball games also contributed to their exhaustion and two of the boys had had hockey earlier in the day. By 10:30 they were ready to climb into their cots.
Anyone who has children knows that just because the boys were ready to go to bed doesn’t mean that they were ready to go to sleep. It only took about a half an hour to get everyone’s teeth brushed and sleeping bags zipped up. We tucked our boys in and then escaped to the serenity of the campfire.
The sun and the boys all rose about two hours earlier than necessary. By 10:30 we had packed our cars, cleaned the cabin and were ready to leave. R.J. and his friend, Nicholas, were still discussing the ghost stories. By now they had decided that Ben’s story wasn’t real. But that was okay. Their only complaint was that we had stayed for just one night.
The Predator
May 1995 - If You Won't Leave Me, I'll Find Someone Who Will.
The object? Please, there was only ONE object. ONE goal. The means? Stealth. Cunning. Flattery. Surprise. The time? NOW!
Howard caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror that paneled one of the elevator’s walls. Quick inventory. Height-five foot nine, tall for his family. Weight- about twenty over, maybe twenty-five. Hair-what was left had long since turned gray. No beard. No mustache. His nose betrayed his heritage. His dark suit pants matched his dark jacket. His paisley tie went nicely with his striped shirt. He appeared to be exactly what he was, a forty-seven year old accountant from the suburbs. He liked what he saw.
What didn’t show, what wasn’t reflected in the mirror, was Howard’s personality. Howard was a sexual predator. Exuding a confidence that was more felt than either seen or heard, Howard chose his conquests instinctively. He couldn’t define why a woman caught his attention. He just knew. And once a potential bed-partner had his attention, it was only a matter of time.
Neither Ruth, his first wife, nor Diane, his second, tolerated his womanizing. Of course, neither could believe it at first. Howard? Short, fat, balding Howard? Both Ruth and Diane forgave him countless times. Both thought that Howard was simply going through a phase or mid-life crisis. He wasn’t. Both were surprised when he divorced them.
The three signs of middle age on a man are a sports car (preferably red), an earring and a ponytail. Howard drove a late model Buick and wouldn’t have been caught dead with either an earring or a ‘tail. He wasn’t really that much different now than he was at thirty-seven or even twenty-seven. He was a hunter. He enjoyed the entire process from the moment he selected his prey till his first triumphant orgasm. It was the ultimate challenge.
Howard stole another look in the mirror. Through it he could see the woman to his left. Becky was the new in-house bookkeeper for the law firm Howard was visiting. The firm had been a client of his for years. Even though Becky couldn’t have been a day under fifty-one, she had to be described as cute. Thin, perky, just a bit over five-two, Becky had short, dark hair. She was wearing a red sweater and a black skort, one of those short/skirt things that were once called culottes.
Howard asked Becky how she liked the job so far. He quickly checked for rings. None. The hunt was on! They engaged in small talk as the elevator climbed to the fifteenth floor. Becky touched Howard’s arm as she made a point. Howard wondered briefly whether he was the hunter or the hunted. It didn’t matter now.
Nor did it matter later that night.
For the moment, nothing moved. Then Lissa turned and started running, and suddenly the enormous puma materialized as if from nowhere and came hurtling through the air. In two bounds she was on Lissa. Down they went, with Ruby’s mighty paws clutching Lissa around the body and her dagger-like eyeteeth very close to Lissa’s head. All this was accomplished in absolute silence.The Tribe of Tiger by Elizabeth M. Thomas
The object? Please, there was only ONE object. ONE goal. The means? Stealth. Cunning. Flattery. Surprise. The time? NOW!
Howard caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror that paneled one of the elevator’s walls. Quick inventory. Height-five foot nine, tall for his family. Weight- about twenty over, maybe twenty-five. Hair-what was left had long since turned gray. No beard. No mustache. His nose betrayed his heritage. His dark suit pants matched his dark jacket. His paisley tie went nicely with his striped shirt. He appeared to be exactly what he was, a forty-seven year old accountant from the suburbs. He liked what he saw.
What didn’t show, what wasn’t reflected in the mirror, was Howard’s personality. Howard was a sexual predator. Exuding a confidence that was more felt than either seen or heard, Howard chose his conquests instinctively. He couldn’t define why a woman caught his attention. He just knew. And once a potential bed-partner had his attention, it was only a matter of time.
Neither Ruth, his first wife, nor Diane, his second, tolerated his womanizing. Of course, neither could believe it at first. Howard? Short, fat, balding Howard? Both Ruth and Diane forgave him countless times. Both thought that Howard was simply going through a phase or mid-life crisis. He wasn’t. Both were surprised when he divorced them.
The three signs of middle age on a man are a sports car (preferably red), an earring and a ponytail. Howard drove a late model Buick and wouldn’t have been caught dead with either an earring or a ‘tail. He wasn’t really that much different now than he was at thirty-seven or even twenty-seven. He was a hunter. He enjoyed the entire process from the moment he selected his prey till his first triumphant orgasm. It was the ultimate challenge.
Howard stole another look in the mirror. Through it he could see the woman to his left. Becky was the new in-house bookkeeper for the law firm Howard was visiting. The firm had been a client of his for years. Even though Becky couldn’t have been a day under fifty-one, she had to be described as cute. Thin, perky, just a bit over five-two, Becky had short, dark hair. She was wearing a red sweater and a black skort, one of those short/skirt things that were once called culottes.
Howard asked Becky how she liked the job so far. He quickly checked for rings. None. The hunt was on! They engaged in small talk as the elevator climbed to the fifteenth floor. Becky touched Howard’s arm as she made a point. Howard wondered briefly whether he was the hunter or the hunted. It didn’t matter now.
Nor did it matter later that night.
From Hot Tuna To The Red Hot Chili Peppers
April 1995 - If You Won't Leave Me, I'll Find Someone Who Will.
Connie eased the gray limousine onto the freeway. Alone now, the gray leather interior seemed to stretch out in front of me as far as the road itself. I had only been in a limo one time previously, and that was as part of a somber procession. This was far different. I stared out the tinted windows at buildings I passed daily, but as a driver could never appreciate and settled into the padded seat.
A month ago, give or take a day, I was on this same freeway driving to my 10 AM appointment. Channel surfing. I hot the third button on my car stereo for WMMS. Brian and Joe were having an auction. There were movie posters and sport tickets up for grabs. The proceeds were to go to Toys for Tots, a charity that I’ve worked with in the past. This is great radio.
The auction items started to get more valuable. A loge was up for bids. I began to think how I would have missed this a year ago when Don Imus was still on WWWE. Alissa was the big Brian and Joe fan. She listened to them when they were on WENZ and she followed them to MMS. I normally just channel surf for interesting music.
My musing was interrupted by Joe’s announcement of $125 bid for a special lunch with Brian and Joe. Joe often refers to Brian and Joe as if their partnership is a separate entity. Anyway, the lunch included being picked up in a chauffeured limousine. Liz Herman of WUAB would also attend.
I didn’t hesitate. It was the right charity and I knew Alissa would be thrilled. I got through on the second call. The next thing I knew I was on the air talking to Brian and Joe while cruising through the morning traffic. My winning bid of $225 helped them raise over $3000.
The limo carrying Joe and Brian (Yes, their names can be reversed) arrived promptly at 11 AM. We talked about radio and music on the way to Alissa’s job. Nugget, Alissa’s golden retriever, met us at the door. Both men seemed to relax as they played with her dog. Before we got back into the limo, we had Connie take the group photo we had promised our kids.
Lunch was at Cleveland PM. The two DJ’s are from greater Cleveland and the fifteen minute ride from Alissa’s job to the restaurant brought back numerous memories for both of them. We passed the church where Joe’s brother had been married and we passed the time talking about children and work.
Vivacious is probably the best way to describe Liz Herman. She and Cheryl Z., Brian and Joe’s production assistant, joined us at the restaurant. We had a leisurely lunch of salads, calamari and veal. We talked about television news, families and the difference between the East and West sides of town. We were given some lovely parting prizes before we left. There were T-shirts and tapes and an autographed picture for each of the kids.
Cheryl gave Brian and Joe a ride back to the station. Alissa and I had the limo to ourselves. I dropped her off at work and now had a half an hour alone in the car. Not always, but there are times when you do the right thing for the right reason and things work out great. This was one of those times.
Connie eased the gray limousine onto the freeway. Alone now, the gray leather interior seemed to stretch out in front of me as far as the road itself. I had only been in a limo one time previously, and that was as part of a somber procession. This was far different. I stared out the tinted windows at buildings I passed daily, but as a driver could never appreciate and settled into the padded seat.
A month ago, give or take a day, I was on this same freeway driving to my 10 AM appointment. Channel surfing. I hot the third button on my car stereo for WMMS. Brian and Joe were having an auction. There were movie posters and sport tickets up for grabs. The proceeds were to go to Toys for Tots, a charity that I’ve worked with in the past. This is great radio.
The auction items started to get more valuable. A loge was up for bids. I began to think how I would have missed this a year ago when Don Imus was still on WWWE. Alissa was the big Brian and Joe fan. She listened to them when they were on WENZ and she followed them to MMS. I normally just channel surf for interesting music.
My musing was interrupted by Joe’s announcement of $125 bid for a special lunch with Brian and Joe. Joe often refers to Brian and Joe as if their partnership is a separate entity. Anyway, the lunch included being picked up in a chauffeured limousine. Liz Herman of WUAB would also attend.
I didn’t hesitate. It was the right charity and I knew Alissa would be thrilled. I got through on the second call. The next thing I knew I was on the air talking to Brian and Joe while cruising through the morning traffic. My winning bid of $225 helped them raise over $3000.
The limo carrying Joe and Brian (Yes, their names can be reversed) arrived promptly at 11 AM. We talked about radio and music on the way to Alissa’s job. Nugget, Alissa’s golden retriever, met us at the door. Both men seemed to relax as they played with her dog. Before we got back into the limo, we had Connie take the group photo we had promised our kids.
Lunch was at Cleveland PM. The two DJ’s are from greater Cleveland and the fifteen minute ride from Alissa’s job to the restaurant brought back numerous memories for both of them. We passed the church where Joe’s brother had been married and we passed the time talking about children and work.
Vivacious is probably the best way to describe Liz Herman. She and Cheryl Z., Brian and Joe’s production assistant, joined us at the restaurant. We had a leisurely lunch of salads, calamari and veal. We talked about television news, families and the difference between the East and West sides of town. We were given some lovely parting prizes before we left. There were T-shirts and tapes and an autographed picture for each of the kids.
Cheryl gave Brian and Joe a ride back to the station. Alissa and I had the limo to ourselves. I dropped her off at work and now had a half an hour alone in the car. Not always, but there are times when you do the right thing for the right reason and things work out great. This was one of those times.
Thirty-Ten
February 1995 - If You Won't Leave Me, I'll Find Someone Who Will.
By the time this paper hits the streets or the internet I will have turned forty. The big Four O! Somewhere I read or somebody told me that we all mellow as we get older. Fat chance. Sometimes I think I’m still the same angry young man, fighting with the same “take no prisoners” mind-set, that I was at twenty-five.
This week was exceptionally trying. Our offices are being painted and the place is a mess. My files are scattered and only G-d and my office partner, Bill, know where half my stuff is. Neither one is talking.
Getting my house ready for sale is equally disruptive. Nothing major needs repaired or fixed, but it is amazing how many flaws can be stored in 2000 square feet.
Three totally unneeded sources of aggravation invaded my turbulent week. My first was a disagreement with the shop where Phillip had rented a tux. We had a quiet chat. I chatted. The manager was quiet. Case closed.
The second conflict was over my computer. It took two visits to their facility this week but I think (I hope) that my system is finally fixed. My 486SX is less than thirteen months old. It has had the motherboard replaced four times. A variety of other parts have either been repaired or replaced after gentle prodding on my part. With any kind of luck it will still be working the day you read this column.
My last source of aggravation was the most indefensible. Buying a house is the financial equivalent of driving to work naked. Totally exposed, you wait for complete strangers to grudgingly accept you.
My credit report came in the mail Thursday. I was sitting at my desk Friday morning, enjoying coffee and a cinnamon roll, when an entry caught my eye. There was a collection entry for $26 from University Dermatologists. I couldn’t believe it.
In the spring of 1992 I made an appointment to see Dr. Craig Elmets about a small growth on my left arm. He rescheduled our first appointment and then kept me waiting for an hour and a half the day we finally got together. Had we not shaken hands, Dr. Elmets would have never been within three feet of me during our brief encounter. He saw the growth, said that it was not cancerous and that insurance wouldn’t pay for its removal, and he left.
I received a statement from my insurance company a few weeks later. The usual, customary, and reasonable charge for the office visit was $39. That amount was credited to my deductible. Dr. Elmets’s charge was $65, nearly double the accepted rate. I copied the form and sent a note and a check for $39. That should have been the end of this story.
First came the threatening notes. Then came the harassing phone calls. The care given by University Dermatologists hadn’t been worth a dime. Elemets and crew certainly didn’t deserve $65.
Bill and I have done medical collections in the past. We followed the basic rules: no nasty calls, terminate any small claims (under $200) where service was questioned, and no legal pursuit of any claim under $500. I was staring at a $26 entry.
The mortgage banker was very understanding. He told me that my five pages of perfect credit meant nothing as long as this entry was unsettled. Pay the doctor or forget the house. I was lucky. Elmets overcharged me only $26. It could have been $126.
In essence, University Dermatologists was holding me hostage. I called the office. They referred me to a “billing office” located elsewhere in the building. I asked the billing office to justify the charges and they referred me back to the other office. Nobody’s accountable. They just do what they’re told. Responsibility diffused.
I gave up. Friday afternoon I went to Elmet’s office and gave them hell and $26. Yes, I could have simply sent the money and hoped that they eventually corrected my credit report, but how many more people would they rip off? The only way to protect ourselves in situations like this is to make the experience unpleasant for them, too. Maybe they will think twice before they pursue excess charges again.
The French know how to deal with people who take hostages. They shoot them. Here we pay them exorbitant fees and call them doctor.
By the time this paper hits the streets or the internet I will have turned forty. The big Four O! Somewhere I read or somebody told me that we all mellow as we get older. Fat chance. Sometimes I think I’m still the same angry young man, fighting with the same “take no prisoners” mind-set, that I was at twenty-five.
This week was exceptionally trying. Our offices are being painted and the place is a mess. My files are scattered and only G-d and my office partner, Bill, know where half my stuff is. Neither one is talking.
Getting my house ready for sale is equally disruptive. Nothing major needs repaired or fixed, but it is amazing how many flaws can be stored in 2000 square feet.
Three totally unneeded sources of aggravation invaded my turbulent week. My first was a disagreement with the shop where Phillip had rented a tux. We had a quiet chat. I chatted. The manager was quiet. Case closed.
The second conflict was over my computer. It took two visits to their facility this week but I think (I hope) that my system is finally fixed. My 486SX is less than thirteen months old. It has had the motherboard replaced four times. A variety of other parts have either been repaired or replaced after gentle prodding on my part. With any kind of luck it will still be working the day you read this column.
My last source of aggravation was the most indefensible. Buying a house is the financial equivalent of driving to work naked. Totally exposed, you wait for complete strangers to grudgingly accept you.
My credit report came in the mail Thursday. I was sitting at my desk Friday morning, enjoying coffee and a cinnamon roll, when an entry caught my eye. There was a collection entry for $26 from University Dermatologists. I couldn’t believe it.
In the spring of 1992 I made an appointment to see Dr. Craig Elmets about a small growth on my left arm. He rescheduled our first appointment and then kept me waiting for an hour and a half the day we finally got together. Had we not shaken hands, Dr. Elmets would have never been within three feet of me during our brief encounter. He saw the growth, said that it was not cancerous and that insurance wouldn’t pay for its removal, and he left.
I received a statement from my insurance company a few weeks later. The usual, customary, and reasonable charge for the office visit was $39. That amount was credited to my deductible. Dr. Elmets’s charge was $65, nearly double the accepted rate. I copied the form and sent a note and a check for $39. That should have been the end of this story.
First came the threatening notes. Then came the harassing phone calls. The care given by University Dermatologists hadn’t been worth a dime. Elemets and crew certainly didn’t deserve $65.
Bill and I have done medical collections in the past. We followed the basic rules: no nasty calls, terminate any small claims (under $200) where service was questioned, and no legal pursuit of any claim under $500. I was staring at a $26 entry.
The mortgage banker was very understanding. He told me that my five pages of perfect credit meant nothing as long as this entry was unsettled. Pay the doctor or forget the house. I was lucky. Elmets overcharged me only $26. It could have been $126.
In essence, University Dermatologists was holding me hostage. I called the office. They referred me to a “billing office” located elsewhere in the building. I asked the billing office to justify the charges and they referred me back to the other office. Nobody’s accountable. They just do what they’re told. Responsibility diffused.
I gave up. Friday afternoon I went to Elmet’s office and gave them hell and $26. Yes, I could have simply sent the money and hoped that they eventually corrected my credit report, but how many more people would they rip off? The only way to protect ourselves in situations like this is to make the experience unpleasant for them, too. Maybe they will think twice before they pursue excess charges again.
The French know how to deal with people who take hostages. They shoot them. Here we pay them exorbitant fees and call them doctor.
Have Family, Need Hearth
January 1995 - If You Won't Leave Me, I'll Find Someone Who Will.
The first threatening letter arrived in yesterday’s mail. It wasn’t unexpected. Dr. Mark Freeman, the Shaker Heights school superintendent, advised parents of the severe consequences of last month’s defeat. Yes, that is the same Mark Freeman that once taught shop class at Woodbury Junior High. And with all of the subtlety of an eighth grade boy fashioning a peg board, Dr. Mark hammered the tax-weary parents of Shaker.
I don’t usually monitor the school program termination threats in Shaker Heights. Phillip and Jennifer attend the South Euclid-Lyndhurst Schools; a district that has enjoyed a fair amount of success is passing reasonable property tax levies. But change, at least in my life, is inevitable.
Alissa and I are looking for a home. No we are not getting married. We are forming a domestic partnership. Regular readers are well aware of my limited success in marriage. (How’s that for charitable?) So we decided to try something different. My house in South Euclid would not be comfortable for the six of us and I really believe that Phil, Jen and I need a change of scenery. A good part of each week-end is now spent trekking through houses.
Our first question was “Where?” R.J. and Meredith, Alissa’s two children attend the Shaker Schools. The system, minus the threats, is excellent. The houses are made of brick, stone, and plaster. We have friends in Shaker.
We have lived in South Euclid for nine years. I don’t want to “damn with faint praise”, but our schools, services and housing stock are good. In every category you can find someplace that is better and lots of cities that are much worse.
An up-and-coming area is Solon. Everybody hates Solon until they move there, then they become cheerleaders. It is a remarkable phenomenon. Our friends offer to show us around and call us every time a house comes on the market. The schools are very good. The problem is that the only houses we have seen in Solon that we like are over $300,000. It costs that much to make Solon look like Shaker.
But Shaker has its problems. The taxes appear to be about 50% higher. More importantly, after the last levy failed, School Board Member Marvin McMickle told the Plain Dealer that the culprits were “Republicans and people with axes to grind.” Somehow he felt that parents having to organize to rid their schools of ineffectual principals, a school board that refused to be held accountable for its actions and a district that budgeted nearly $10,000 for office donuts and gift baskets could all be overlooked. Now the threatening letters and bullying have begun. I know that it has given us second thoughts about Shaker.
So, we’re back to where we began. We want to move at the end of this school year. Shaker? South Euclid? Solon? I told Alissa that this would be a whole lot easier if it was ten years later and the kids were out of school. This isn’t something that I wish for. I’m in no rush to see the kids grow up any faster that they will. But once a month we’re allowed one wishful moment.
The first threatening letter arrived in yesterday’s mail. It wasn’t unexpected. Dr. Mark Freeman, the Shaker Heights school superintendent, advised parents of the severe consequences of last month’s defeat. Yes, that is the same Mark Freeman that once taught shop class at Woodbury Junior High. And with all of the subtlety of an eighth grade boy fashioning a peg board, Dr. Mark hammered the tax-weary parents of Shaker.
I don’t usually monitor the school program termination threats in Shaker Heights. Phillip and Jennifer attend the South Euclid-Lyndhurst Schools; a district that has enjoyed a fair amount of success is passing reasonable property tax levies. But change, at least in my life, is inevitable.
Alissa and I are looking for a home. No we are not getting married. We are forming a domestic partnership. Regular readers are well aware of my limited success in marriage. (How’s that for charitable?) So we decided to try something different. My house in South Euclid would not be comfortable for the six of us and I really believe that Phil, Jen and I need a change of scenery. A good part of each week-end is now spent trekking through houses.
Our first question was “Where?” R.J. and Meredith, Alissa’s two children attend the Shaker Schools. The system, minus the threats, is excellent. The houses are made of brick, stone, and plaster. We have friends in Shaker.
We have lived in South Euclid for nine years. I don’t want to “damn with faint praise”, but our schools, services and housing stock are good. In every category you can find someplace that is better and lots of cities that are much worse.
An up-and-coming area is Solon. Everybody hates Solon until they move there, then they become cheerleaders. It is a remarkable phenomenon. Our friends offer to show us around and call us every time a house comes on the market. The schools are very good. The problem is that the only houses we have seen in Solon that we like are over $300,000. It costs that much to make Solon look like Shaker.
But Shaker has its problems. The taxes appear to be about 50% higher. More importantly, after the last levy failed, School Board Member Marvin McMickle told the Plain Dealer that the culprits were “Republicans and people with axes to grind.” Somehow he felt that parents having to organize to rid their schools of ineffectual principals, a school board that refused to be held accountable for its actions and a district that budgeted nearly $10,000 for office donuts and gift baskets could all be overlooked. Now the threatening letters and bullying have begun. I know that it has given us second thoughts about Shaker.
So, we’re back to where we began. We want to move at the end of this school year. Shaker? South Euclid? Solon? I told Alissa that this would be a whole lot easier if it was ten years later and the kids were out of school. This isn’t something that I wish for. I’m in no rush to see the kids grow up any faster that they will. But once a month we’re allowed one wishful moment.
Happy Days Are Here Again?
December 1994 - If You Won't Leave Me, I'll Find Someone Who Will.
The elections are over. The hideous television ads have ended. Now, the hideous analysis and spin doctoring begins. Allow me to be one of the first.
The Beach Boys: The tsunami came in and white male Republicans from around the country mounted electoral surf boards and hung ten like champions. Watching the various networks, I observed that several candidates had campaigned in plaid flannel shirts. It is amazing how similar Mike DeWine, George Pataki, and Dan Quayle look. I’d hate to have to pick out one of them from a line up.
Coat Tails: A week before the election I had an interesting conversation with James Foster, the executive director of the City Club. He asked my opinion about the Kucinich-Sinagra race. I mentioned that Governor Voinovich was campaigning hard for Tony Sinagra, but that it would be for naught. George Voinovich is not a leader, he’s a manager. Strong leaders have coat tails. Managers don’t. Voinovich appeared daily in television and radio commercials for John Fink and Jeff Ambruster. He made the Sinagra election a personal crusade. All three lost.
The End of an Era: The Republicans control the House of Representatives for the first time in forty years. There will be some who see this as a change of biblical proportions. There are pundits (George Will, for one) who view this as a permanent shift to the right. I don’t think so.
History has taught us that societies shift their priorities in cycles. These cycles form a well-defined pattern. It was time. In fact, this change began fourteen years ago. Some time ten, fifteen, twenty years from now, we will shift back. It won’t happen tomorrow and no, the right wing, or for that matter even the Republicans as a whole, won’t be in control forever.
There are issues that have not been addressed. There are constituencies that feel that they have been ignored. These perceptions drive political activity. Well, they’re in and two years from now they will probably elect a president. How long the Republicans govern will be directly attributable to how few groups of constituencies they alienate. This is how our government works.
I’ve never hidden my political beliefs. I am an unashamed Democrat. I was thrilled with Oliver North’s defeat. I cheered Diane Feinstein’s’ victory in California. I was saddened by Eric Fingerhut’s loss. But life, and the Republic, go on.
The elections are over. The hideous television ads have ended. Now, the hideous analysis and spin doctoring begins. Allow me to be one of the first.
The Beach Boys: The tsunami came in and white male Republicans from around the country mounted electoral surf boards and hung ten like champions. Watching the various networks, I observed that several candidates had campaigned in plaid flannel shirts. It is amazing how similar Mike DeWine, George Pataki, and Dan Quayle look. I’d hate to have to pick out one of them from a line up.
Coat Tails: A week before the election I had an interesting conversation with James Foster, the executive director of the City Club. He asked my opinion about the Kucinich-Sinagra race. I mentioned that Governor Voinovich was campaigning hard for Tony Sinagra, but that it would be for naught. George Voinovich is not a leader, he’s a manager. Strong leaders have coat tails. Managers don’t. Voinovich appeared daily in television and radio commercials for John Fink and Jeff Ambruster. He made the Sinagra election a personal crusade. All three lost.
The End of an Era: The Republicans control the House of Representatives for the first time in forty years. There will be some who see this as a change of biblical proportions. There are pundits (George Will, for one) who view this as a permanent shift to the right. I don’t think so.
History has taught us that societies shift their priorities in cycles. These cycles form a well-defined pattern. It was time. In fact, this change began fourteen years ago. Some time ten, fifteen, twenty years from now, we will shift back. It won’t happen tomorrow and no, the right wing, or for that matter even the Republicans as a whole, won’t be in control forever.
There are issues that have not been addressed. There are constituencies that feel that they have been ignored. These perceptions drive political activity. Well, they’re in and two years from now they will probably elect a president. How long the Republicans govern will be directly attributable to how few groups of constituencies they alienate. This is how our government works.
I’ve never hidden my political beliefs. I am an unashamed Democrat. I was thrilled with Oliver North’s defeat. I cheered Diane Feinstein’s’ victory in California. I was saddened by Eric Fingerhut’s loss. But life, and the Republic, go on.
Chained To The House
October 1994 - If you Won't Leave Me, I'll Find Someone Who Will.
“This is Peter. What’s your problem Mr. Cooonix?”
My problem, Peter, is that I’m lonely. Its 11:30 Wednesday morning and I’m all alone. YOUR REPAIRMAN’S NOT HERE.
“You’re scheduled for service some time today.”
No, Peter. After your guys failed to show up last Saturday, I was scheduled to be the first one seen today. There’s no one here. I don’t mind Peter. I’d much rather stay home and do laundry that go to my office and run my business.
“Well, there’s nothing I can do about it.”
You could get someone over here. NOW.
“I can’t do that. It’s not my job.”
I called the repair number and asked for the person responsible and they gave me you. Did they screw up Peter?
“I have it right here. You were to be serviced first thing Wednesday morning.”
Gee Peter, when the technician called ten minutes ago he said that he didn’t know I was to be first.
“Well, I don’t know who your technician is.”
Larry. Larry P.
“Oh yeah. I’ll call him.”
Right. He’s going to leave in the middle of a job. Get someone here now!
“Why are you yelling at me?”
Because my business is closed while I’m waiting for your guy. This is your fourth scheduled visit.
“I’ll call the technician, then I’ll call you back.”
It has been forty-five minutes. Obviously, my mistake was in calling Sears to repair one of their refrigerators.
This all started in July. I noticed a problem with my twelve year old refrigerator. There was water dripping on to the shelves and my “no-frost” freezer was filled with frost. I called Sears.
The first repairman came on Saturday, July 9th. He diagnosed a problem with the door and gasket. Ten minutes and $84 later, he told me that the freezer will be fine in time or I can defrost it and it will be back to normal immediately. Empting a filled freezer and watching the meat thaw and the ice cream melt was more than I cared to do. So we let mature take its course.
My mid-September, it became apparent that the fridge was still a problem. There were little puddles inside and outside the machine. I defrosted the freezer and things got worse. A second visit was scheduled for September 24th, another Saturday morning.
We got another repairman on the 24th. Larry diagnosed the problem in seconds. We needed a new divider. The part was only $30 but he didn’t have one with him. He would have to order it. Someone would be out in three weeks. An appointment was made for Saturday, October 15. The machine would have to be off, empty and defrosted before the technician arrived
The call came at 9 a.m. “This is Sears. We can’t come out today. We had some emergencies come up today. We’ll call back later.” Alissa answered the phone and told them that we expected the refrigerator repaired today. The dispatcher called three hours later. Even if one of the repairmen finished early, my machine could not be fixed today. They had already returned the divider.
I’ll admit that I lost my temper. A house full of people and no refrigerator! The dispatcher promised that a technician would be at my house first thing Wednesday morning to repair my refrigerator. I was assured that the problem would be handled and that I would only be charged for the part. We plugged it back in and resumed our lives.
That brings you up to speed. The fourth load is about to come out of the dryer. I’ve talked to a couple of clients, made a tape for my car and gotten thoroughly aggravated.
A Sears technician arrived at 12:30. Not Larry. He walked in with the divider and while in the middle of my kitchen asked me where the refrigerator was! I left the room quickly.
It took an hour and a half to install the divider. I walked in to the kitchen and nearly slipped on the wet floor and debris. The repairman tried to add insult to injury by handing me a bill for over $170. I told him that I was to only pay for the part. He didn’t know anything about that. I had had enough. I told him to send me a corrected statement and showed him the door.
I’ll still shop for refrigerators, washers, and dryers from Sears. I’ll just never call them again for service.
“This is Peter. What’s your problem Mr. Cooonix?”
My problem, Peter, is that I’m lonely. Its 11:30 Wednesday morning and I’m all alone. YOUR REPAIRMAN’S NOT HERE.
“You’re scheduled for service some time today.”
No, Peter. After your guys failed to show up last Saturday, I was scheduled to be the first one seen today. There’s no one here. I don’t mind Peter. I’d much rather stay home and do laundry that go to my office and run my business.
“Well, there’s nothing I can do about it.”
You could get someone over here. NOW.
“I can’t do that. It’s not my job.”
I called the repair number and asked for the person responsible and they gave me you. Did they screw up Peter?
“I have it right here. You were to be serviced first thing Wednesday morning.”
Gee Peter, when the technician called ten minutes ago he said that he didn’t know I was to be first.
“Well, I don’t know who your technician is.”
Larry. Larry P.
“Oh yeah. I’ll call him.”
Right. He’s going to leave in the middle of a job. Get someone here now!
“Why are you yelling at me?”
Because my business is closed while I’m waiting for your guy. This is your fourth scheduled visit.
“I’ll call the technician, then I’ll call you back.”
It has been forty-five minutes. Obviously, my mistake was in calling Sears to repair one of their refrigerators.
This all started in July. I noticed a problem with my twelve year old refrigerator. There was water dripping on to the shelves and my “no-frost” freezer was filled with frost. I called Sears.
The first repairman came on Saturday, July 9th. He diagnosed a problem with the door and gasket. Ten minutes and $84 later, he told me that the freezer will be fine in time or I can defrost it and it will be back to normal immediately. Empting a filled freezer and watching the meat thaw and the ice cream melt was more than I cared to do. So we let mature take its course.
My mid-September, it became apparent that the fridge was still a problem. There were little puddles inside and outside the machine. I defrosted the freezer and things got worse. A second visit was scheduled for September 24th, another Saturday morning.
We got another repairman on the 24th. Larry diagnosed the problem in seconds. We needed a new divider. The part was only $30 but he didn’t have one with him. He would have to order it. Someone would be out in three weeks. An appointment was made for Saturday, October 15. The machine would have to be off, empty and defrosted before the technician arrived
The call came at 9 a.m. “This is Sears. We can’t come out today. We had some emergencies come up today. We’ll call back later.” Alissa answered the phone and told them that we expected the refrigerator repaired today. The dispatcher called three hours later. Even if one of the repairmen finished early, my machine could not be fixed today. They had already returned the divider.
I’ll admit that I lost my temper. A house full of people and no refrigerator! The dispatcher promised that a technician would be at my house first thing Wednesday morning to repair my refrigerator. I was assured that the problem would be handled and that I would only be charged for the part. We plugged it back in and resumed our lives.
That brings you up to speed. The fourth load is about to come out of the dryer. I’ve talked to a couple of clients, made a tape for my car and gotten thoroughly aggravated.
A Sears technician arrived at 12:30. Not Larry. He walked in with the divider and while in the middle of my kitchen asked me where the refrigerator was! I left the room quickly.
It took an hour and a half to install the divider. I walked in to the kitchen and nearly slipped on the wet floor and debris. The repairman tried to add insult to injury by handing me a bill for over $170. I told him that I was to only pay for the part. He didn’t know anything about that. I had had enough. I told him to send me a corrected statement and showed him the door.
I’ll still shop for refrigerators, washers, and dryers from Sears. I’ll just never call them again for service.
The Final Visit
September 1994 - If You Won't Leave Me, I'll Find Someone Who Will.
I remember the last time I saw my grandfather. He was lying in a hospital bed. Cold and hot simultaneously. The flimsy hospital gown betrayed him. He was too weak to cover his nakedness as his family entered the room. I was shocked at how frail he appeared. He was about to die and this terrible secret was not a secret to anyone-not his daughters, not his son-in-law, not even his eight year old grandchild. How painful it has been to retain that vision of that once strong man defeated by cancer as my most dominant picture of my grandfather. It is a memory that I cannot shake.
My father is sixty-eight years old; about the same age as my grandfather was when he died. Dad is also in the final lap of a race that he cannot win. His cancer has overtaken him and the checkered flag is about to be waved. Alissa and I will fly in this Friday, July 22nd, for one final visit.
This isn’t our first final visit. A week before Jenny’s Bat Mitzvah in April we made the long drive to the east coast. Not only was it doubtful that he would be able to attend the service, there was a question as to whether he would even be alive. Somehow he recovered and flew in with my mother and brother, Rob.
I guess the first final visit was in March of 1989. The doctors had found lung cancer. Surgery was required. They rushed him in and removed one of his ribs on the way to taking the top third of his right lung. Over the years I have been there for the removal of his spleen, his duels with Chemo and Radiation, and other assorted hospital pit stops. Each time the doctors are successful at keeping my father alive. Each time the doctors fail more miserably at retaining my father’s life.
My father completely understood his role as provider/head of household. He went to work. He came home. There were no stops in between. His job was to earn a living. His perks were dinner when he returned each evening, a clean home, and a minimal amount of hassle. His duties included cooking breakfast on Sundays, occasionally disciplining the children, and one week of vacation each summer whether he needed it or not.
My father led an orderly life. He wore crisply starched long-sleeve white shirts under his suit jacket each day to work. On Sundays he wore crisply starched short sleeve white shirts around the house. I must have been ten or twelve before I ever saw him wear a sport shirt. For years he ate the same breakfast (coffee and Special K), sent out daily for a sandwich from the same restaurant, and in every way imaginable repeated the same patterns at work and at home.
It was always a special treat for me to visit my father at work. Because it was at work, behind a diamond counter, that Jerry Cunix came alive. He was a delight to watch. Joking, smoking his little unfiltered Pall-Malls, slowly taking the couple in front of him to the sale he wanted to make. He once sold one of his customers a refrigerator. After the sale was completed, he ran down the street to a wholesaler, ordered the unit and arranged for its delivery! Every day was a new performance.
The performance stopped suddenly after the lung surgery. The man who expected to be carried out of his store was too weak to work. He was unable to spend thirty to thirty-five hours per week in a retail store, much less the fort-eight to fifty-five hours he was so accustomed to.
Each surgery, each succeeding discovery of another cancer, followed by another treatment, robbed him further of his strength. For a while he could work twenty-five hours and then it was only twenty. Soon he was limited to sixteen. There were weeks when he could not leave the house or hospital. The economy intervened. Jerry Cunix became a luxury that no retailer could afford. Yes, he could sell, but he couldn’t put in enough time to make a difference.
Now there are no more performances. There is just an old man who used to be 5’11 ½” but now appears to be no taller than 5’8”. A thin man whose body has served as the battlefield in the war between cancer and modern medicine. In a short while a new battlefield will be found and this one will be laid to rest.
I am not bringing my children with me this Friday. The picture that they will carry in their minds for years to come will not be of a frail old man moments from death. It is not fair to them to do that. It would no be fair to do that to my father.
I remember the last time I saw my grandfather. He was lying in a hospital bed. Cold and hot simultaneously. The flimsy hospital gown betrayed him. He was too weak to cover his nakedness as his family entered the room. I was shocked at how frail he appeared. He was about to die and this terrible secret was not a secret to anyone-not his daughters, not his son-in-law, not even his eight year old grandchild. How painful it has been to retain that vision of that once strong man defeated by cancer as my most dominant picture of my grandfather. It is a memory that I cannot shake.
My father is sixty-eight years old; about the same age as my grandfather was when he died. Dad is also in the final lap of a race that he cannot win. His cancer has overtaken him and the checkered flag is about to be waved. Alissa and I will fly in this Friday, July 22nd, for one final visit.
This isn’t our first final visit. A week before Jenny’s Bat Mitzvah in April we made the long drive to the east coast. Not only was it doubtful that he would be able to attend the service, there was a question as to whether he would even be alive. Somehow he recovered and flew in with my mother and brother, Rob.
I guess the first final visit was in March of 1989. The doctors had found lung cancer. Surgery was required. They rushed him in and removed one of his ribs on the way to taking the top third of his right lung. Over the years I have been there for the removal of his spleen, his duels with Chemo and Radiation, and other assorted hospital pit stops. Each time the doctors are successful at keeping my father alive. Each time the doctors fail more miserably at retaining my father’s life.
My father completely understood his role as provider/head of household. He went to work. He came home. There were no stops in between. His job was to earn a living. His perks were dinner when he returned each evening, a clean home, and a minimal amount of hassle. His duties included cooking breakfast on Sundays, occasionally disciplining the children, and one week of vacation each summer whether he needed it or not.
My father led an orderly life. He wore crisply starched long-sleeve white shirts under his suit jacket each day to work. On Sundays he wore crisply starched short sleeve white shirts around the house. I must have been ten or twelve before I ever saw him wear a sport shirt. For years he ate the same breakfast (coffee and Special K), sent out daily for a sandwich from the same restaurant, and in every way imaginable repeated the same patterns at work and at home.
It was always a special treat for me to visit my father at work. Because it was at work, behind a diamond counter, that Jerry Cunix came alive. He was a delight to watch. Joking, smoking his little unfiltered Pall-Malls, slowly taking the couple in front of him to the sale he wanted to make. He once sold one of his customers a refrigerator. After the sale was completed, he ran down the street to a wholesaler, ordered the unit and arranged for its delivery! Every day was a new performance.
The performance stopped suddenly after the lung surgery. The man who expected to be carried out of his store was too weak to work. He was unable to spend thirty to thirty-five hours per week in a retail store, much less the fort-eight to fifty-five hours he was so accustomed to.
Each surgery, each succeeding discovery of another cancer, followed by another treatment, robbed him further of his strength. For a while he could work twenty-five hours and then it was only twenty. Soon he was limited to sixteen. There were weeks when he could not leave the house or hospital. The economy intervened. Jerry Cunix became a luxury that no retailer could afford. Yes, he could sell, but he couldn’t put in enough time to make a difference.
Now there are no more performances. There is just an old man who used to be 5’11 ½” but now appears to be no taller than 5’8”. A thin man whose body has served as the battlefield in the war between cancer and modern medicine. In a short while a new battlefield will be found and this one will be laid to rest.
I am not bringing my children with me this Friday. The picture that they will carry in their minds for years to come will not be of a frail old man moments from death. It is not fair to them to do that. It would no be fair to do that to my father.
June 6, 1996 D-Day plus 50
July 1994 - If You Won't Leave Me, I'll Find Someone Who Will.
I could no more avoid the media coverage of D-Day this last month than I could have participated in the historic assault fifty years ago. Both were impossible. At thirty-nine I am too young to have been on the beaches of Normandy. And the coverage of D-Day has permeated the T.V., radio, and Plain Dealer.
This celebration was made for television. Cameras recorded the amazing septuagenarians parachuting on to free French soil. There were interviews with the children of fallen soldiers. And there were the endless pictures of the French and English countryside.
But the best interviews, the best pictures, were of the men. They told stories of individual bravery and ingenuity. They talked about their buddies, the friends who never left Omaha Beach. And, they put a human face to the heroics of D-Day.
Another soldier was being interviewed. My friend Jim and I were watching this on the news as our kids ate hot dogs and potato salad outside at the wooden picnic table.
The soldier was describing Eisenhower’s activities in the last few days prior to the invasion. We were shown the woods where the general slept in a tent. We were then told about the General’s visit to the paratroopers prior to their deployment.
Did you hear that, Jim?
Yeah.
Eisenhower crying. They never told us that. We never knew.
No. Never.
That changes everything.
We grew up on a steady diet of John Wayne and Gregory Peck. Even George C. Scott’s Patton smacked his cowards. We were given a World War II where all of the American soldiers were brave, heroic, and ready to die for this country. Fear? Hell no! Doubt? Of course not! They were Americans. The image was so strong that Ronald Reagan, who spent the war in Hollywood, started to believe that he had been a real soldier.
We were never told that these men had been afraid. We weren’t told about the English hospitals that were filled with soldiers suffering from self-inflicted wounds. We were never told that Eisenhower cried.
Did all of this matter? Of course it did. We grew up in the shadow of the Vietnam War. We didn’t know why we were there in the jungles of South-East Asia and we were afraid to go. We had no point of reference. As far as we knew, everyone wanted to fight for this country. Everyone but us.
Our fathers volunteered for the Army or Navy during World War II. They didn’t talk about it. This was something they had to do.
Popular culture, the movies and T.V. showed valiant men stoically conquering evil. There was no fear, doubt, or tears. Now, in 1994, we learn that Eisenhower knew that he was sending these boys to their death, but that he had to. This is how wars are fought. We were never allowed to know what he had thought about it.
There were real heroes in World War II. There were men and women who risked their lives in hope that their efforts might help their leaders build a better world. They made real sacrifices. And many, many of them died in battle.
The world is a very different place today. A great deal of the credit belongs to the men who planned and executed D-Day fifty years ago today. A great deal of the blame goes to the ongoing propaganda machine that never let us know that Eisenhower cried.
I could no more avoid the media coverage of D-Day this last month than I could have participated in the historic assault fifty years ago. Both were impossible. At thirty-nine I am too young to have been on the beaches of Normandy. And the coverage of D-Day has permeated the T.V., radio, and Plain Dealer.
This celebration was made for television. Cameras recorded the amazing septuagenarians parachuting on to free French soil. There were interviews with the children of fallen soldiers. And there were the endless pictures of the French and English countryside.
But the best interviews, the best pictures, were of the men. They told stories of individual bravery and ingenuity. They talked about their buddies, the friends who never left Omaha Beach. And, they put a human face to the heroics of D-Day.
Another soldier was being interviewed. My friend Jim and I were watching this on the news as our kids ate hot dogs and potato salad outside at the wooden picnic table.
The soldier was describing Eisenhower’s activities in the last few days prior to the invasion. We were shown the woods where the general slept in a tent. We were then told about the General’s visit to the paratroopers prior to their deployment.
“He cheered the paratroopers on. He was there to see them off. He knew that many of them would be killed. As the planes took off, the four stars on each shoulder must have been a terrible weight. He turned around. His shoulders were stooped. There were tears streaming from his eyes.”
Did you hear that, Jim?
Yeah.
Eisenhower crying. They never told us that. We never knew.
No. Never.
That changes everything.
We grew up on a steady diet of John Wayne and Gregory Peck. Even George C. Scott’s Patton smacked his cowards. We were given a World War II where all of the American soldiers were brave, heroic, and ready to die for this country. Fear? Hell no! Doubt? Of course not! They were Americans. The image was so strong that Ronald Reagan, who spent the war in Hollywood, started to believe that he had been a real soldier.
We were never told that these men had been afraid. We weren’t told about the English hospitals that were filled with soldiers suffering from self-inflicted wounds. We were never told that Eisenhower cried.
Did all of this matter? Of course it did. We grew up in the shadow of the Vietnam War. We didn’t know why we were there in the jungles of South-East Asia and we were afraid to go. We had no point of reference. As far as we knew, everyone wanted to fight for this country. Everyone but us.
Our fathers volunteered for the Army or Navy during World War II. They didn’t talk about it. This was something they had to do.
Popular culture, the movies and T.V. showed valiant men stoically conquering evil. There was no fear, doubt, or tears. Now, in 1994, we learn that Eisenhower knew that he was sending these boys to their death, but that he had to. This is how wars are fought. We were never allowed to know what he had thought about it.
There were real heroes in World War II. There were men and women who risked their lives in hope that their efforts might help their leaders build a better world. They made real sacrifices. And many, many of them died in battle.
The world is a very different place today. A great deal of the credit belongs to the men who planned and executed D-Day fifty years ago today. A great deal of the blame goes to the ongoing propaganda machine that never let us know that Eisenhower cried.
Service / Disservice
May 1994 - If You Won't Leave Me, I'll Find Someone Who Will.
Six o’clock. The construction on Mayfield had taken an additional twenty minutes of my time. I had an hour and a half left to get dinner for Jenny and I, set up her new TV/VCR, and make the final preparations for an invasion of nine thirteen year olds coming for a sleepover party. I was standing in line at the Dairy Queen waiting to pick up a cake.
The clerk brought over the cake, verified that it was properly decorated and asked me for $11.25. I reached into my pocket and realized that I only had seven dollars on me. No sweat. I’ll write a check.
Dairy Queen doesn’t take checks. Dairy Queen doesn’t accept Visa or for that matter, any other plastic. Crap. I figured that I would have to run to the bank and fight the construction again. No, the clerk told me to take the cake and drop off payment at my convenience. I was shocked. “You’d rather give me the cake and hope for payment then accept my check?”
“Yes”
“We have too many checks bounce” another clerk added. “People come back.”
I grabbed the box and left. Neither clerk’s name tag identified them as part of the management team, yet they were empowered to make decisions involving service and money. I was impressed.
On Saturday afternoon we dropped off the money at Dairy Queen on our way to Sun TV. One of Jenny’s friends had generously given her a radio/cassette player. The problem was that Jenny already owned one just like it and also had another one that even plays C.D.’S. We had planned to exchange the gift for a couple of C.D.’S.
I have purchased several things from Sun in the last year or so. A T.V. A boom box/CD player for Phillip. A vacuum. Some phones. You get the idea. My office partner, Bill, and I have even shopped at Sun for our new computers. I know the stores well.
Since the radio was a gift, we did not have a receipt. The box had never been opened and a portion of the price tag was clearly visible showing that this had come from Sun T.V.
The assistant manager checked the box carefully. He told us that he would have to pay for the radio if there was anything missing. The tone of his voice implied that it had happened before.
Jennifer searched for the two C.D.’S she wanted while I handled the paperwork. Only one was available. No problem. The radio was twenty-seven dollars. The C.D. thirteen. We’d take the one Sun had and run to the mall for Billy Joel’s “River of Dreams”. Well, I thought it would be no problem.
The service desk clerk informed me that I would have to accept a due bill for the fourteen dollars. A due bill for $14? I asked for the manager. Twenty minutes later the manager finally decided to come to the desk.
The manager didn’t care that the radio/cassette player had been a gift. He didn’t care that it didn’t make any sense to give a thirteen year old girl a $14 due bill to an appliance store. He told me that it wasn’t his decision. It’s not his decision? The manager of a Sun T.V. store can’t make a $14 decision.
The way I see it, if you can’t trust your manager to make a $14 decision, you should hire better people. And if he had the authority and simply screwed this up, you really should hire better people.
After an extensive search we found an acceptable alternate C.D. and left the store. Jennifer, completely aggravated, asked me why we had been hassled like that. Why didn’t he just give her her fourteen dollars?
“I guess the problem,” I told her “is that Dairy Queen doesn’t sell boom boxes.”
Six o’clock. The construction on Mayfield had taken an additional twenty minutes of my time. I had an hour and a half left to get dinner for Jenny and I, set up her new TV/VCR, and make the final preparations for an invasion of nine thirteen year olds coming for a sleepover party. I was standing in line at the Dairy Queen waiting to pick up a cake.
The clerk brought over the cake, verified that it was properly decorated and asked me for $11.25. I reached into my pocket and realized that I only had seven dollars on me. No sweat. I’ll write a check.
Dairy Queen doesn’t take checks. Dairy Queen doesn’t accept Visa or for that matter, any other plastic. Crap. I figured that I would have to run to the bank and fight the construction again. No, the clerk told me to take the cake and drop off payment at my convenience. I was shocked. “You’d rather give me the cake and hope for payment then accept my check?”
“Yes”
“We have too many checks bounce” another clerk added. “People come back.”
I grabbed the box and left. Neither clerk’s name tag identified them as part of the management team, yet they were empowered to make decisions involving service and money. I was impressed.
On Saturday afternoon we dropped off the money at Dairy Queen on our way to Sun TV. One of Jenny’s friends had generously given her a radio/cassette player. The problem was that Jenny already owned one just like it and also had another one that even plays C.D.’S. We had planned to exchange the gift for a couple of C.D.’S.
I have purchased several things from Sun in the last year or so. A T.V. A boom box/CD player for Phillip. A vacuum. Some phones. You get the idea. My office partner, Bill, and I have even shopped at Sun for our new computers. I know the stores well.
Since the radio was a gift, we did not have a receipt. The box had never been opened and a portion of the price tag was clearly visible showing that this had come from Sun T.V.
The assistant manager checked the box carefully. He told us that he would have to pay for the radio if there was anything missing. The tone of his voice implied that it had happened before.
Jennifer searched for the two C.D.’S she wanted while I handled the paperwork. Only one was available. No problem. The radio was twenty-seven dollars. The C.D. thirteen. We’d take the one Sun had and run to the mall for Billy Joel’s “River of Dreams”. Well, I thought it would be no problem.
The service desk clerk informed me that I would have to accept a due bill for the fourteen dollars. A due bill for $14? I asked for the manager. Twenty minutes later the manager finally decided to come to the desk.
The manager didn’t care that the radio/cassette player had been a gift. He didn’t care that it didn’t make any sense to give a thirteen year old girl a $14 due bill to an appliance store. He told me that it wasn’t his decision. It’s not his decision? The manager of a Sun T.V. store can’t make a $14 decision.
The way I see it, if you can’t trust your manager to make a $14 decision, you should hire better people. And if he had the authority and simply screwed this up, you really should hire better people.
After an extensive search we found an acceptable alternate C.D. and left the store. Jennifer, completely aggravated, asked me why we had been hassled like that. Why didn’t he just give her her fourteen dollars?
“I guess the problem,” I told her “is that Dairy Queen doesn’t sell boom boxes.”
Welcome To The 90's
May 1994 - If You Won't Leave Me, I'll Find Someone Who Will.
OK, here’s my dilemma. I caught one of my closest friends in a lie. Wait, not only did he lie to me, he also betrayed my confidences, sought to besmirch my reputation, and then “no showed” a Passover Seder that I hosted last week without so much as a phone call.
If this had happened twenty years ago, the cad would, once confronted, hang his head in shame and beg for forgiveness. Mutual friends, aware of the transgressions, would rush to intervene or mediate. The issue would be resolved quickly.
But today is March 30, 1994. Mutual friends run from the risk of involvement and the establishment of guilt. There are no consequences in the post-Reagan 90’s. There is no shame. Remorse? Hell, he feels wronged! He claims to be a victim of the high standards I set for his behavior. I owe him an apology.
Welcome to the 90’s, a time where being wrong is OK and being right can get you a law suit. Oh, it’s just not this. This failure to accept responsibility for one’s behavior has become all too common.
There is a teacher shortage in Cleveland. I have been substituting at an afternoon Hebrew School. It was a lot of fun teaching fifth, sixth, and seventh graders Bible and Prayer. Some of the children even learned something in my classes. Of course there were behavior problems. Most of the kids didn’t want to tangle with someone 6’4”/220 pounds. They tested. I made it clear where the lines were. They behaved. But, each class had one or two that would not. Why? These children had learned that they were “untouchables.” Let me till you about two sixth graders.
The first is a fat, obnoxious child that has yet to have an original thought. He disrupts the class by copying the bad behavior of others, but doesn’t do it until after everyone else has stopped. His major problem is that he is also a terrible liar. When he handed in his homework, I noticed that half was done by him (all caps, misspelled words and sloppy) and half was done by someone else (properly spelled and neat). I started laughing when he claimed that he had done it all. Do you want to guess who his mother is? That’s right, a teacher in the same school. His mother claims that the differences are because he did some of the work in the car.
Our second little boy is the youngest of several demons. Loud and out of control, his mother claims that he is simply bored. I’ll never forget the day that he brought Chicken Nuggets to class! Non-Kosher food in a Conservative Synagogue. His mother? After years of terrorizing the Synagogue’s School Director, the mother is about to become an officer of the Synagogue.
There are no consequences for these children’s misbehavior. As long as Mom or Dad can bail them out, or make a big enough fuss, these children will continue to disrupt every class they are in and making learning almost impossible for the other students.
Where does it end? One day they will cross a line and their employer, the government, their spouse, their friend or whoever it is that they have hurt or offended will have had enough. There will be no quick forgiveness. There will be no easy escape. There will be punishment and retribution. It will probably be awhile till that day dawns for the two sixth graders. But its 12 noon for my friend.
OK, here’s my dilemma. I caught one of my closest friends in a lie. Wait, not only did he lie to me, he also betrayed my confidences, sought to besmirch my reputation, and then “no showed” a Passover Seder that I hosted last week without so much as a phone call.
If this had happened twenty years ago, the cad would, once confronted, hang his head in shame and beg for forgiveness. Mutual friends, aware of the transgressions, would rush to intervene or mediate. The issue would be resolved quickly.
But today is March 30, 1994. Mutual friends run from the risk of involvement and the establishment of guilt. There are no consequences in the post-Reagan 90’s. There is no shame. Remorse? Hell, he feels wronged! He claims to be a victim of the high standards I set for his behavior. I owe him an apology.
Welcome to the 90’s, a time where being wrong is OK and being right can get you a law suit. Oh, it’s just not this. This failure to accept responsibility for one’s behavior has become all too common.
There is a teacher shortage in Cleveland. I have been substituting at an afternoon Hebrew School. It was a lot of fun teaching fifth, sixth, and seventh graders Bible and Prayer. Some of the children even learned something in my classes. Of course there were behavior problems. Most of the kids didn’t want to tangle with someone 6’4”/220 pounds. They tested. I made it clear where the lines were. They behaved. But, each class had one or two that would not. Why? These children had learned that they were “untouchables.” Let me till you about two sixth graders.
The first is a fat, obnoxious child that has yet to have an original thought. He disrupts the class by copying the bad behavior of others, but doesn’t do it until after everyone else has stopped. His major problem is that he is also a terrible liar. When he handed in his homework, I noticed that half was done by him (all caps, misspelled words and sloppy) and half was done by someone else (properly spelled and neat). I started laughing when he claimed that he had done it all. Do you want to guess who his mother is? That’s right, a teacher in the same school. His mother claims that the differences are because he did some of the work in the car.
Our second little boy is the youngest of several demons. Loud and out of control, his mother claims that he is simply bored. I’ll never forget the day that he brought Chicken Nuggets to class! Non-Kosher food in a Conservative Synagogue. His mother? After years of terrorizing the Synagogue’s School Director, the mother is about to become an officer of the Synagogue.
There are no consequences for these children’s misbehavior. As long as Mom or Dad can bail them out, or make a big enough fuss, these children will continue to disrupt every class they are in and making learning almost impossible for the other students.
Where does it end? One day they will cross a line and their employer, the government, their spouse, their friend or whoever it is that they have hurt or offended will have had enough. There will be no quick forgiveness. There will be no easy escape. There will be punishment and retribution. It will probably be awhile till that day dawns for the two sixth graders. But its 12 noon for my friend.
A View Of The Rooms
March 1994 - If You Won't Leave Me, I'll Find Someone Who Will.
The ice storms have passed and the temperature has reached forty. Let the thaw begin! The gutters frozen and clogged are of little use. The water has to go someplace. Why not under the shingles? Water drips from the ceiling of my bedroom. The glass light fixture had to be emptied twice. The front windows are fogged up the way my car windows used to get when I was in high school. I didn’t mind then.
When my house really frustrates me I try to think of the things that make it my home. The following is a view of the rooms.
I
Lot’s of people have collections. Phillip has baseball cards. Stamps and coins are popular items. My twelve year old has started to collect towels. There is no larceny involved in this. She isn’t taking the towels from the hotels and motels we visit. No, these are the towels Jennifer uses when she showers.
I have eight bath towels for the two kids. I noticed that the linen closet was empty and ran downstairs to do a load. There were only three in the hamper. Up in Jen’s room I waded through dirty socks and clean turtlenecks strewn upon her floor. The five missing towels were forming a pyramid by her papasan chair. One solution would be to buy more towels, but I don’t know how many her room could hold.
II
Peace had descended upon the living room. Jen was playing Nintendo in the basement. Phil had yet to return from his youth group overnight. Alissa’s children, R.J. and Meredith, were with their father. Adult time.
I poured two large mugs of cinnamon flavored coffee and lowered the volume to “Sunday Morning on CBS.” She curled up next to me on the couch as we finished our breakfast of lox and cream cheese on bagels. After Charles Kuralt ended his show with the sound of Norwegian birds perched in trees above the Olympic crowds, I put on some music. I was reading the editorials. Alissa had the Metro section.
It is hard to read with your eyes closed, your arms wrapped around the woman you love. Hours were spent on the same page. Kenny Loggins’ C D, Leap of Faith, played all the way through four times.
I have faith. I am ready to leap.
III
Jennifer lit the Sabbath candles. Phillip led us in the blessing over the wine and recited the Kiddush. We were having a traditional Friday evening dinner. It was not unusual for us to celebrate the Sabbath. It just seemed so odd because it was the first time in over a week that Phil, Jen and I were eating dinner together.
We used to eat dinner together every night. But Phillip is in a play at Brush, and Jennifer has flute and babysitting, and I have meetings and appointments, so now…
Sometimes I make three different dinners at three different times. Sometimes they are my children. Sometimes they are my two red-headed roommates.
I am ready for them to grow up. I just wasn’t ready for the dining room to be so empty.
The ice storms have passed and the temperature has reached forty. Let the thaw begin! The gutters frozen and clogged are of little use. The water has to go someplace. Why not under the shingles? Water drips from the ceiling of my bedroom. The glass light fixture had to be emptied twice. The front windows are fogged up the way my car windows used to get when I was in high school. I didn’t mind then.
When my house really frustrates me I try to think of the things that make it my home. The following is a view of the rooms.
I
Lot’s of people have collections. Phillip has baseball cards. Stamps and coins are popular items. My twelve year old has started to collect towels. There is no larceny involved in this. She isn’t taking the towels from the hotels and motels we visit. No, these are the towels Jennifer uses when she showers.
I have eight bath towels for the two kids. I noticed that the linen closet was empty and ran downstairs to do a load. There were only three in the hamper. Up in Jen’s room I waded through dirty socks and clean turtlenecks strewn upon her floor. The five missing towels were forming a pyramid by her papasan chair. One solution would be to buy more towels, but I don’t know how many her room could hold.
II
Peace had descended upon the living room. Jen was playing Nintendo in the basement. Phil had yet to return from his youth group overnight. Alissa’s children, R.J. and Meredith, were with their father. Adult time.
I poured two large mugs of cinnamon flavored coffee and lowered the volume to “Sunday Morning on CBS.” She curled up next to me on the couch as we finished our breakfast of lox and cream cheese on bagels. After Charles Kuralt ended his show with the sound of Norwegian birds perched in trees above the Olympic crowds, I put on some music. I was reading the editorials. Alissa had the Metro section.
It is hard to read with your eyes closed, your arms wrapped around the woman you love. Hours were spent on the same page. Kenny Loggins’ C D, Leap of Faith, played all the way through four times.
I have faith. I am ready to leap.
III
Jennifer lit the Sabbath candles. Phillip led us in the blessing over the wine and recited the Kiddush. We were having a traditional Friday evening dinner. It was not unusual for us to celebrate the Sabbath. It just seemed so odd because it was the first time in over a week that Phil, Jen and I were eating dinner together.
We used to eat dinner together every night. But Phillip is in a play at Brush, and Jennifer has flute and babysitting, and I have meetings and appointments, so now…
Sometimes I make three different dinners at three different times. Sometimes they are my children. Sometimes they are my two red-headed roommates.
I am ready for them to grow up. I just wasn’t ready for the dining room to be so empty.
Post Mortem
February 1994 - If You Won't Leave Me, I'll Find Someone Who Will.
We begin with the end
Hot tea, warm bookstore
Shake hands, part friends
I never promised
Neither did I
And yet I wanted so badly to make it work
The symbols all dance
The flowers, the card
The first kiss, your breasts
It all meant something
But not enough
And yet I wanted so badly to make it work
So we end with beginnings
New partners, new places
New memories, new dreams
Shuffle the deck
Deal ‘em right
And yet I wanted so badly to make it work.
David L. Cunix
1/12/94
Damn, it was like being seventeen again. The doubt. The signals. Mixed signals. He had owned a 1965 Buick Century back when he was seventeen. Sometimes it ran. Sometimes it didn’t. He never knew each morning when he turned the key whether that Buick would start or not. He never knew when he telephoned Carol whether this would be his last call, or not. He was definitely too old for this, but she was special, and he wasn’t ready to give up.
The good news was that they had only recently begun seeing each other. Three weeks. When the end came, as if something that never really started could have an end, it came painlessly. She was honest. She was positive that she could never love Jim. And since love was the only thing Jim wanted from Carol, there was little point in continuing.
Jim and I had breakfast the next morning. Over toasted cinnamon raisin bagels and cream cheese at Broadway Bagels he told me how he had kept the doors open. He didn’t love Carol. Never lost emotional control. Nagging doubts had held him back. But he was so close. Closer than he knew.
Their first kiss had been at the stroke of midnight at a New Year’s Eve Party. Their second was a few hours later when he confessed that he didn’t want to wait a year to kiss her again. He was romantic. Carol was receptive. Jim brought her flowers. She had forgotten how nice it was to have someone truly care.
But there was something wrong. Jim was not the most sensitive guy in Cleveland and yet he could tell, he could feel, that Carol was holding back. Maybe she wasn’t ready? Perhaps there were issues? No chemistry? Who knows? She wasn’t prepared to show her cards, so I had told Jim to hang in and be himself.
Jim and I are salesmen. We live to hear the word “Yes”. We die little deaths with every “No”. But the word that hurts us the most is “Maybe”. Maybe means that if you try a little harder and work a little more we will succeed. Jim, a black or white - yes or no kind of guy, hated the indecision Carol was feeling. Moments of passion followed by days of indifference were taking a toll on him.
The end came quietly. A soft voice admitting that there was no future. Half expected, Jim was able to choose his words carefully. No anger. Surprisingly, no pain. But Jim was disappointed. He really had liked her. He really did think she was beautiful. He really had wanted badly to make it work.
We begin with the end
Hot tea, warm bookstore
Shake hands, part friends
I never promised
Neither did I
And yet I wanted so badly to make it work
The symbols all dance
The flowers, the card
The first kiss, your breasts
It all meant something
But not enough
And yet I wanted so badly to make it work
So we end with beginnings
New partners, new places
New memories, new dreams
Shuffle the deck
Deal ‘em right
And yet I wanted so badly to make it work.
David L. Cunix
1/12/94
Damn, it was like being seventeen again. The doubt. The signals. Mixed signals. He had owned a 1965 Buick Century back when he was seventeen. Sometimes it ran. Sometimes it didn’t. He never knew each morning when he turned the key whether that Buick would start or not. He never knew when he telephoned Carol whether this would be his last call, or not. He was definitely too old for this, but she was special, and he wasn’t ready to give up.
The good news was that they had only recently begun seeing each other. Three weeks. When the end came, as if something that never really started could have an end, it came painlessly. She was honest. She was positive that she could never love Jim. And since love was the only thing Jim wanted from Carol, there was little point in continuing.
Jim and I had breakfast the next morning. Over toasted cinnamon raisin bagels and cream cheese at Broadway Bagels he told me how he had kept the doors open. He didn’t love Carol. Never lost emotional control. Nagging doubts had held him back. But he was so close. Closer than he knew.
Their first kiss had been at the stroke of midnight at a New Year’s Eve Party. Their second was a few hours later when he confessed that he didn’t want to wait a year to kiss her again. He was romantic. Carol was receptive. Jim brought her flowers. She had forgotten how nice it was to have someone truly care.
But there was something wrong. Jim was not the most sensitive guy in Cleveland and yet he could tell, he could feel, that Carol was holding back. Maybe she wasn’t ready? Perhaps there were issues? No chemistry? Who knows? She wasn’t prepared to show her cards, so I had told Jim to hang in and be himself.
Jim and I are salesmen. We live to hear the word “Yes”. We die little deaths with every “No”. But the word that hurts us the most is “Maybe”. Maybe means that if you try a little harder and work a little more we will succeed. Jim, a black or white - yes or no kind of guy, hated the indecision Carol was feeling. Moments of passion followed by days of indifference were taking a toll on him.
The end came quietly. A soft voice admitting that there was no future. Half expected, Jim was able to choose his words carefully. No anger. Surprisingly, no pain. But Jim was disappointed. He really had liked her. He really did think she was beautiful. He really had wanted badly to make it work.
A Shot In The Dark
January 1994 - If You Won't Leave Me, I'll Find Someone Who Will.
And she said “we must get together”
But I knew it’d never be arranged
And she hands me $20 for a two-fifty fare
And she said “Harry keep the change”
Well another man might have been angry
And another man might have been hurt
But another man never would have let her go
I stashed the bill in my shirt.
-Harry Chapin
It has been over twenty years since I first heard those words. I remember where I was. It was the night of the big dance and my long awaited date with Rabbi Goren’s daughter, Fern. She wore a short, electric blue dress. She was beautiful. But the most memorable part of that cold November evening was hearing Harry Chapin for the first time and how we stayed in the car, silently, until the song ended.
Regular readers of this column know that I have great respect and appreciation for strong emotions painted with words. And yes I do enjoy reading all of the usual suspects, but it is the intense joy, or sorrow, or pain found unexpectedly that has the most impact on me.
Cleveland has been blessed with many great writers and, more importantly, many writers who have done great work. I grab the FREE TIMES each week, just as I had the CLEVELAND EDITION, to read Doug Clarke. Telling us who won and who lost is easy. Mr. Clarke knows why we care. Dick Feagler’s tirades would be easy to dismiss were it not for his ability to grab us with the simple honesty of his emotions. You may disagree with him, but you don’t question his motives.
This column marks my fourth anniversary with Ohio’s Finest Singles. Originally a ten month experiment, A Shot In The Dark has now appeared 44 times. I never expected this to be so much fun. A special thanks to Joyce and Kelly and the rest of the O.F.S. family,
The best part of writing this column has been you, the readers. I thoroughly enjoy your letters and phone calls. I think it is great to have complete strangers stop me on the street or in an office building to discuss a particular column. It can’t get much better than that.
I wanted to publish the first four year’s of A Shot IN The Dark a book titled If YOU Won’t Leave Me, I’ll Find Someone Who Will. The truth is that I’m not a self-help expert (real or imagined) and I sincerely doubt that I could land a book deal. This column has been my take on my life, the people around me, and the major issues of the day. It is cathartic for me and therapeutic for many of you.
So the Hell with the book. By the time the publisher and everyone else took their cut it would cost $20 and even I wouldn’t buy it. And yet, I do get a lot of requests for back columns, especially The Tides and Comfortably Numb. I have a solution. For $5 I will send you a complete set of copies of all forty-four articles. The price includes postage. Such a deal!
I don’t believe that twenty years from now any of you will remember where you were when you read one of my columns (any of them, even this one). But your letters talk of clipping and saving these articles. I just want you to have good copies.
And she said “we must get together”
But I knew it’d never be arranged
And she hands me $20 for a two-fifty fare
And she said “Harry keep the change”
Well another man might have been angry
And another man might have been hurt
But another man never would have let her go
I stashed the bill in my shirt.
-Harry Chapin
It has been over twenty years since I first heard those words. I remember where I was. It was the night of the big dance and my long awaited date with Rabbi Goren’s daughter, Fern. She wore a short, electric blue dress. She was beautiful. But the most memorable part of that cold November evening was hearing Harry Chapin for the first time and how we stayed in the car, silently, until the song ended.
Regular readers of this column know that I have great respect and appreciation for strong emotions painted with words. And yes I do enjoy reading all of the usual suspects, but it is the intense joy, or sorrow, or pain found unexpectedly that has the most impact on me.
Cleveland has been blessed with many great writers and, more importantly, many writers who have done great work. I grab the FREE TIMES each week, just as I had the CLEVELAND EDITION, to read Doug Clarke. Telling us who won and who lost is easy. Mr. Clarke knows why we care. Dick Feagler’s tirades would be easy to dismiss were it not for his ability to grab us with the simple honesty of his emotions. You may disagree with him, but you don’t question his motives.
This column marks my fourth anniversary with Ohio’s Finest Singles. Originally a ten month experiment, A Shot In The Dark has now appeared 44 times. I never expected this to be so much fun. A special thanks to Joyce and Kelly and the rest of the O.F.S. family,
The best part of writing this column has been you, the readers. I thoroughly enjoy your letters and phone calls. I think it is great to have complete strangers stop me on the street or in an office building to discuss a particular column. It can’t get much better than that.
I wanted to publish the first four year’s of A Shot IN The Dark a book titled If YOU Won’t Leave Me, I’ll Find Someone Who Will. The truth is that I’m not a self-help expert (real or imagined) and I sincerely doubt that I could land a book deal. This column has been my take on my life, the people around me, and the major issues of the day. It is cathartic for me and therapeutic for many of you.
So the Hell with the book. By the time the publisher and everyone else took their cut it would cost $20 and even I wouldn’t buy it. And yet, I do get a lot of requests for back columns, especially The Tides and Comfortably Numb. I have a solution. For $5 I will send you a complete set of copies of all forty-four articles. The price includes postage. Such a deal!
I don’t believe that twenty years from now any of you will remember where you were when you read one of my columns (any of them, even this one). But your letters talk of clipping and saving these articles. I just want you to have good copies.
The Other Me
November 1993 - If You Won't Leave Me, I'll Find Someone Who Will.
And I know that she is the only girl for me.
And you know that if I could split in two
The other me would hold you tight.
The other me would stay all night.
The other me would be
The only one for you.
Joe Jackson
Her love dangled before him like a piñata. The choice was Frank’s. Strike it with a bat, or embrace it, and her, forever. Armed with a decision. Armed and dangerous.
Frank was so comfortable with Joan. His feelings for her were a mile wide and three inches deep. It was a river he could not cross, but in whose waters he could not drown. And he wanted to. Well, he at least wanted to get more than his ankles wet.
They had met at a party at Bill’s house. Bill and Joan were wrapping up a six month relationship. Neither knew it at the time, but they had only one week left as a couple. Frank did not spare any of the gory details as he spent the evening describing his current debacle with Sally, his soon to be ex-wife. The rest of us, veterans of Frank’s performances, quickly tired of the show. But Joan, a relative newcomer to the group, was enthralled. She listened intently, first with her head, but quickly also with her heart.
Joan’s phone call to Frank at his office really surprised him. The break-up with Bill had caught her off guard and it had taken her a week or so to even think of anyone else. But now she was ready to force herself to look outward and one of the first things that had come to her mind was Frank and his situation. She was concerned. She wanted to know how he was doing. She had no agenda. She just wanted to focus on someone else’s pain so that she could forget her own for awhile.
It was all so innocent. He bitched. She listened. He wallowed in self-pity. She agreed with his perceptions of his situation and then offered solutions and hope. He was so preoccupied with his problems that he never had any time for hers. And thus she could avoid talking or dealing with all of them. He needed her and she loved to be needed.
They quickly became a couple. Shoulders to cry on are easily converted to shoulders to kiss. And in this day of instant gratification, emotional intimacy and physical intimacy are as close as wood burning fireplace, a comfortable chair and a CD of soft music.
There was only one small problem. Sally. Sally, who had thrown Frank out of their home; who had made Frank happier than any other woman and hurt him in ways that he didn’t think possible; who had been in and out of his life for the last ten years; wanted him back. Sally was not above using their daughter, Mindy, as bait. Casting visitation time in front of him, she reeled Frank in for a family dinner. Once alone it was only a matter of time before the old feelings and warmth surfaced. Frank had breakfast with Mindy the next morning.
And now Frank was forced to make a decision. He knew that a life with Joan would be comfortable and easy. But there was no fire, and he missed the intensity that Sally had to offer. Sally was a terror, but she was his terror. Ten years of fighting and loving had given him an appreciation for the passion of their relationship. He wished he could have the oasis of calm Joan provided. He wanted to delay his choice.
We can never complain about the time we are given to make such decisions. We should just consider ourselves lucky when the choice is ours.
And I know that she is the only girl for me.
And you know that if I could split in two
The other me would hold you tight.
The other me would stay all night.
The other me would be
The only one for you.
Joe Jackson
Her love dangled before him like a piñata. The choice was Frank’s. Strike it with a bat, or embrace it, and her, forever. Armed with a decision. Armed and dangerous.
Frank was so comfortable with Joan. His feelings for her were a mile wide and three inches deep. It was a river he could not cross, but in whose waters he could not drown. And he wanted to. Well, he at least wanted to get more than his ankles wet.
They had met at a party at Bill’s house. Bill and Joan were wrapping up a six month relationship. Neither knew it at the time, but they had only one week left as a couple. Frank did not spare any of the gory details as he spent the evening describing his current debacle with Sally, his soon to be ex-wife. The rest of us, veterans of Frank’s performances, quickly tired of the show. But Joan, a relative newcomer to the group, was enthralled. She listened intently, first with her head, but quickly also with her heart.
Joan’s phone call to Frank at his office really surprised him. The break-up with Bill had caught her off guard and it had taken her a week or so to even think of anyone else. But now she was ready to force herself to look outward and one of the first things that had come to her mind was Frank and his situation. She was concerned. She wanted to know how he was doing. She had no agenda. She just wanted to focus on someone else’s pain so that she could forget her own for awhile.
It was all so innocent. He bitched. She listened. He wallowed in self-pity. She agreed with his perceptions of his situation and then offered solutions and hope. He was so preoccupied with his problems that he never had any time for hers. And thus she could avoid talking or dealing with all of them. He needed her and she loved to be needed.
They quickly became a couple. Shoulders to cry on are easily converted to shoulders to kiss. And in this day of instant gratification, emotional intimacy and physical intimacy are as close as wood burning fireplace, a comfortable chair and a CD of soft music.
There was only one small problem. Sally. Sally, who had thrown Frank out of their home; who had made Frank happier than any other woman and hurt him in ways that he didn’t think possible; who had been in and out of his life for the last ten years; wanted him back. Sally was not above using their daughter, Mindy, as bait. Casting visitation time in front of him, she reeled Frank in for a family dinner. Once alone it was only a matter of time before the old feelings and warmth surfaced. Frank had breakfast with Mindy the next morning.
And now Frank was forced to make a decision. He knew that a life with Joan would be comfortable and easy. But there was no fire, and he missed the intensity that Sally had to offer. Sally was a terror, but she was his terror. Ten years of fighting and loving had given him an appreciation for the passion of their relationship. He wished he could have the oasis of calm Joan provided. He wanted to delay his choice.
We can never complain about the time we are given to make such decisions. We should just consider ourselves lucky when the choice is ours.
Traveling
September 1993 - If You Won't Leave Me, I'll Find Someone Who Will.
I spent this summer on the road. Some of my trips, like my visit to the Ann Arbor Artfest with Darcy, were wonderful. Some of my trips were to places I would just as soon not visit again. But you never know what, or who you’ll see when you leave your home. The following are short takes on how I spent my summer vacation.
I
Of all the people sentenced to spend their final years at Unhappy Acres, Barbara and Scott were the hardest to visit.
Call me a glutton for punishment. Call me a masochist. It doesn’t matter. Two, three, sometimes four times a year I pop into “The Home” and visit some people who used to live in the neighborhood. The last week-end in July was one such journey.
It is funny the way character flaws are magnified with age. A middle-aged complainer becomes a world class whiner at 67. Someone who is merely over-solicitous in his fifties can be a real nudge at 75. I, for one, will be an overly judgmental S.O.B. if I live to be 70.
II
The fog lifted at about eight o’clock, one hour into the trip. Nine hours left. Just me and the ghosts driving to Massachusetts.
Phil and Jen were visiting my parents. I was making the long drive to pick them up. Thankfully I wasn’t alone. H.M., A.O., S.S., and even M.S. of my most recent past filled the car with memories of what was and the thoughts of what could have been, but won’t. Good thing I’ve got a Caravan. We all couldn’t have fit in my old Honda.
I’m not complaining. The ghosts are good traveling companions. They never ask me to stop the car for food or rest rooms. They let me drive as fast as I like. But, there is a price for their company.
What could I have done differently? What could we have changed? What should we have not done at all? One by one, each takes her turn in the front seat to discuss her era.
Who gets to be first? M.S. pushes her way to the front. She usually does. She is young and impulsive and in her shy, soft-spoken way always succeeded at demanding my attention. Normally I try to make her wait her turn. Procrastinating, I want to deal with the most painful last. But today’s journey is over five hundred miles, long enough to give her all the time she is due.
III
The insurance business has given me the opportunity to meet, and become friends with, many artists. Over the years I have come to know musicians of every style, writers, sculptors, and painters. I found Greg, a master with watercolors, to be the most expressive. The depth and honesty of Greg’s painting is arresting. I remember the first time I entered his home/studio. I stopped and stared at the canvas leaning against the wall. We discussed that picture for over fifteen minutes. One of my prized possessions is the book from a Butler American Museum of Art show that he gave me that day. That was three years ago. I remember that day for one other reason. That was the day I met Kyra, the woman who was soon to be his bride.
Darcy and I were walking along State Street. We were determined to view every single booth at this year’s Ann Arbor Artfest. The street was packed. I didn’t see the artist’s name until we were already in the booth and out of the hot sun. There was Kyra holding a cold drink. It was Greg’s unit. Greg made us feel welcome and we looked around. I hadn’t seen his new work. Not really. Not enough in one place so that I could really gauge how marriage had changed him. We talked, but a painter’s true emotions are only displayed by his brush.
Greg’s style was unchanged. The colors were still strong. His whole approach was confident. The honesty was apparent. But the subject matter was different. The darkness was gone. Yes, he had told me over the last three years how happy he was and how much he loved his wife. It took a trip to Michigan, however, to see the truth in those words.
I spent this summer on the road. Some of my trips, like my visit to the Ann Arbor Artfest with Darcy, were wonderful. Some of my trips were to places I would just as soon not visit again. But you never know what, or who you’ll see when you leave your home. The following are short takes on how I spent my summer vacation.
I
Of all the people sentenced to spend their final years at Unhappy Acres, Barbara and Scott were the hardest to visit.
Call me a glutton for punishment. Call me a masochist. It doesn’t matter. Two, three, sometimes four times a year I pop into “The Home” and visit some people who used to live in the neighborhood. The last week-end in July was one such journey.
It is funny the way character flaws are magnified with age. A middle-aged complainer becomes a world class whiner at 67. Someone who is merely over-solicitous in his fifties can be a real nudge at 75. I, for one, will be an overly judgmental S.O.B. if I live to be 70.
II
The fog lifted at about eight o’clock, one hour into the trip. Nine hours left. Just me and the ghosts driving to Massachusetts.
Phil and Jen were visiting my parents. I was making the long drive to pick them up. Thankfully I wasn’t alone. H.M., A.O., S.S., and even M.S. of my most recent past filled the car with memories of what was and the thoughts of what could have been, but won’t. Good thing I’ve got a Caravan. We all couldn’t have fit in my old Honda.
I’m not complaining. The ghosts are good traveling companions. They never ask me to stop the car for food or rest rooms. They let me drive as fast as I like. But, there is a price for their company.
What could I have done differently? What could we have changed? What should we have not done at all? One by one, each takes her turn in the front seat to discuss her era.
Who gets to be first? M.S. pushes her way to the front. She usually does. She is young and impulsive and in her shy, soft-spoken way always succeeded at demanding my attention. Normally I try to make her wait her turn. Procrastinating, I want to deal with the most painful last. But today’s journey is over five hundred miles, long enough to give her all the time she is due.
III
The insurance business has given me the opportunity to meet, and become friends with, many artists. Over the years I have come to know musicians of every style, writers, sculptors, and painters. I found Greg, a master with watercolors, to be the most expressive. The depth and honesty of Greg’s painting is arresting. I remember the first time I entered his home/studio. I stopped and stared at the canvas leaning against the wall. We discussed that picture for over fifteen minutes. One of my prized possessions is the book from a Butler American Museum of Art show that he gave me that day. That was three years ago. I remember that day for one other reason. That was the day I met Kyra, the woman who was soon to be his bride.
Darcy and I were walking along State Street. We were determined to view every single booth at this year’s Ann Arbor Artfest. The street was packed. I didn’t see the artist’s name until we were already in the booth and out of the hot sun. There was Kyra holding a cold drink. It was Greg’s unit. Greg made us feel welcome and we looked around. I hadn’t seen his new work. Not really. Not enough in one place so that I could really gauge how marriage had changed him. We talked, but a painter’s true emotions are only displayed by his brush.
Greg’s style was unchanged. The colors were still strong. His whole approach was confident. The honesty was apparent. But the subject matter was different. The darkness was gone. Yes, he had told me over the last three years how happy he was and how much he loved his wife. It took a trip to Michigan, however, to see the truth in those words.
If You Won't Leave Me, I'll Find Someone Who Will
August 1993 - If You Won't Leave Me, I'll Find Someone Who Will.
I’d like to leave you with something positive, but I can’t think of anything. Will you accept two negatives?
Woody Allen
I had been mourning the abrupt death of a brief, but intense, relationship for about two weeks. I had gone through all the stages; shock, grief, the uncontrollable urge to write an article… You know, the whole process. It was time to get on with my life.
There are people who do nothing but sit and kvetch (bitch). They never take the time or make the effort to analyze their situation or to create a plan to solve their plight. They expend all of their energy complaining. Not me.
It was the end of May. As I’m watching the Today Show I realize that there are three movies coming out this summer that I really want to see. Dave, Much Ado About Nothing, and Sleepless In Seattle all sounded great. All three are well crafted romantic comedies. I then realized that I didn’t have a clue as to who I would take to see any of them.
It is one thing to go to an intense movie like The Crying Game alone or with a friend, but a romantic comedy should be a shared experience. Kenneth Branaugh’s production of Much Ado wouldn’t be the same viewed with my kids or by myself.
So I jumped into action. It only took one Saturday night alone with the laundry to convince me that I needed to expand my options. I answered a personal ad from the back of this paper.
Ok, I admit it. The first one was a unique experience. We never met. We talked twice over the phone and exchanged letters over a four week period. Nice girl. Not my type, but nice girl. More importantly, once I made the initial phone call, I was ready to fully participate.
I answered several ads. I placed ads in two publications. I developed a game plan. In other words, I stopped waiting for someone to find me and began the earnest search to find someone. And not just anyone. The task at hand was to find someone more compatible, someone I would more likely want to be with five, ten, twenty years from now. (Note to regular readers: notice that I said nothing about marriage.)
Within two weeks I received several responses to my ads and had talked to a few of the women who had placed ads. My first reaction was surprise. I’m not sure what I expected but it wasn’t the wonderfully educated, intelligent, articulate women I found. I was truly surprised by the number of health care professionals, attorneys, and educators. These were genuinely interesting people. The task now became to check for true compatibility.
One by one we met at Borders, Arabica, and the Art Walk. Neutral territory. Non-threatening. The first week I met with four different women. They were lovely, wonderful women who, for whatever reason, were meant for someone else.
I wasn’t bothered by the fact that I had no plans for Saturday night. I had been out a lot that week and though the results weren’t great the process was working.
Saturday’s mail brought two responses. The one that really caught my eye was written on mauve stationary. The tone was friendly. The words and writing revealed someone who was both confident and intelligent. I called. We met that night at Arabica. We have been seeing each other since.
By the time this column appears I hope we will have had the opportunity to have seen all three of those movies. And maybe, just maybe, we will have established some new goals for the months ahead.
I’d like to leave you with something positive, but I can’t think of anything. Will you accept two negatives?
Woody Allen
I had been mourning the abrupt death of a brief, but intense, relationship for about two weeks. I had gone through all the stages; shock, grief, the uncontrollable urge to write an article… You know, the whole process. It was time to get on with my life.
There are people who do nothing but sit and kvetch (bitch). They never take the time or make the effort to analyze their situation or to create a plan to solve their plight. They expend all of their energy complaining. Not me.
It was the end of May. As I’m watching the Today Show I realize that there are three movies coming out this summer that I really want to see. Dave, Much Ado About Nothing, and Sleepless In Seattle all sounded great. All three are well crafted romantic comedies. I then realized that I didn’t have a clue as to who I would take to see any of them.
It is one thing to go to an intense movie like The Crying Game alone or with a friend, but a romantic comedy should be a shared experience. Kenneth Branaugh’s production of Much Ado wouldn’t be the same viewed with my kids or by myself.
So I jumped into action. It only took one Saturday night alone with the laundry to convince me that I needed to expand my options. I answered a personal ad from the back of this paper.
Ok, I admit it. The first one was a unique experience. We never met. We talked twice over the phone and exchanged letters over a four week period. Nice girl. Not my type, but nice girl. More importantly, once I made the initial phone call, I was ready to fully participate.
I answered several ads. I placed ads in two publications. I developed a game plan. In other words, I stopped waiting for someone to find me and began the earnest search to find someone. And not just anyone. The task at hand was to find someone more compatible, someone I would more likely want to be with five, ten, twenty years from now. (Note to regular readers: notice that I said nothing about marriage.)
Within two weeks I received several responses to my ads and had talked to a few of the women who had placed ads. My first reaction was surprise. I’m not sure what I expected but it wasn’t the wonderfully educated, intelligent, articulate women I found. I was truly surprised by the number of health care professionals, attorneys, and educators. These were genuinely interesting people. The task now became to check for true compatibility.
One by one we met at Borders, Arabica, and the Art Walk. Neutral territory. Non-threatening. The first week I met with four different women. They were lovely, wonderful women who, for whatever reason, were meant for someone else.
I wasn’t bothered by the fact that I had no plans for Saturday night. I had been out a lot that week and though the results weren’t great the process was working.
Saturday’s mail brought two responses. The one that really caught my eye was written on mauve stationary. The tone was friendly. The words and writing revealed someone who was both confident and intelligent. I called. We met that night at Arabica. We have been seeing each other since.
By the time this column appears I hope we will have had the opportunity to have seen all three of those movies. And maybe, just maybe, we will have established some new goals for the months ahead.
Blood On The Alter
July 1993 - If You Won't Leave Me, I'll Find Someone Who Will.
Hello ruby in the dust
Has your band begun to rust
After all the sin we had
I was hoping that we’d turn bad
Neil Young
Ok, it wasn’t the perfect relationship. Sometimes he expected more openness than she was ready to reveal. But he was intense, and loving, and when he talked to her she could hear the way his voice changed and softened. And when he kissed her shoulders, her knees still buckled the same way as they had that first time…
No, it wasn’t the perfect relationship, but it was damn good. They had crossed the first big hurdle with surprising ease. Shayna wanted to wait for her wedding night to share that most intimate of experiences with Gato. Was she really that pure? He didn’t need to know. He loved and respected her. This was important to Shayna. That made it important to Gato.
But it was over now. Ambushed just as their love was about to take flight, Shayna and Gato stood next to her Ford Escort in the mall parking lot and held each other one last time. He couldn’t believe that he was willingly walking away from the most exciting woman he had ever known. She never expected it to end this way.
Both Shayna and Gato had grown up in the shadow of the Catholic Church. While Shayna had strayed over the years, Gato had completely abandoned the faith. His first marriage, an unfortunate experience for all involved, ended in divorce. His second…well even his closest friends don’t know all the details of that mess. Now, at the age of thirty-six, he found himself dueling with the Church and a parent for the love of a beautiful woman. He was not prepared.
Shayna’s mother, condemned to a loveless marriage, had devoutly dedicated her life to the Church. She couldn’t tolerate her daughter married to a divorced man. Wielding Father Lisinski like a blunt instrument, she pummeled her daughter with a faith whose core was LOVE. The choice was clear. Gato and HELL or her home, her faith, her family and salvation.
Shayna and Gato met in their usual booth in the Arby’s in the mall. Slowly she explained her dilemma to Gato. She was torn. She couldn’t decide. He could hear her say that she wanted to choose him while her eyes revealed her terror of losing her family and her Church. Gato wanted her to have it all. He spoke of peaceful coexistence. But after what her mother and the Priest had said, Shayna couldn’t believe that she could keep the Church, her mother, and Gato.
And now it was time to go. Gato knew that she could not make this choice. No matter what Shayna did, she lost. He told her that some people say “I love you” with flowers. Some recite poetry. But he, Gato, would show her today that he really loved her with all of his heart and soul. He would do this by saying “good-bye”. He drew her close, kissed her on the forehead, then the lips. And then he turned to find his car. He fought back the tears and the urge to return to his beloved.
So it hadn’t been a perfect relationship. But it had been a long time since they were perfect.
Hello ruby in the dust
Has your band begun to rust
After all the sin we had
I was hoping that we’d turn bad
Neil Young
Ok, it wasn’t the perfect relationship. Sometimes he expected more openness than she was ready to reveal. But he was intense, and loving, and when he talked to her she could hear the way his voice changed and softened. And when he kissed her shoulders, her knees still buckled the same way as they had that first time…
No, it wasn’t the perfect relationship, but it was damn good. They had crossed the first big hurdle with surprising ease. Shayna wanted to wait for her wedding night to share that most intimate of experiences with Gato. Was she really that pure? He didn’t need to know. He loved and respected her. This was important to Shayna. That made it important to Gato.
But it was over now. Ambushed just as their love was about to take flight, Shayna and Gato stood next to her Ford Escort in the mall parking lot and held each other one last time. He couldn’t believe that he was willingly walking away from the most exciting woman he had ever known. She never expected it to end this way.
Both Shayna and Gato had grown up in the shadow of the Catholic Church. While Shayna had strayed over the years, Gato had completely abandoned the faith. His first marriage, an unfortunate experience for all involved, ended in divorce. His second…well even his closest friends don’t know all the details of that mess. Now, at the age of thirty-six, he found himself dueling with the Church and a parent for the love of a beautiful woman. He was not prepared.
Shayna’s mother, condemned to a loveless marriage, had devoutly dedicated her life to the Church. She couldn’t tolerate her daughter married to a divorced man. Wielding Father Lisinski like a blunt instrument, she pummeled her daughter with a faith whose core was LOVE. The choice was clear. Gato and HELL or her home, her faith, her family and salvation.
Shayna and Gato met in their usual booth in the Arby’s in the mall. Slowly she explained her dilemma to Gato. She was torn. She couldn’t decide. He could hear her say that she wanted to choose him while her eyes revealed her terror of losing her family and her Church. Gato wanted her to have it all. He spoke of peaceful coexistence. But after what her mother and the Priest had said, Shayna couldn’t believe that she could keep the Church, her mother, and Gato.
And now it was time to go. Gato knew that she could not make this choice. No matter what Shayna did, she lost. He told her that some people say “I love you” with flowers. Some recite poetry. But he, Gato, would show her today that he really loved her with all of his heart and soul. He would do this by saying “good-bye”. He drew her close, kissed her on the forehead, then the lips. And then he turned to find his car. He fought back the tears and the urge to return to his beloved.
So it hadn’t been a perfect relationship. But it had been a long time since they were perfect.
O.P.P.
June 1993 - If You Won't Leave Me, I'll Find Someone Who Will.
That’s it. I’ve had enough. I’ve reached my limit of O.P. P. Now I’m not talking about the recent hit song by Naughty by Nature. That song is about Other Peoples’ “Property.” No. My O.P.P. stands for Other People’s Problems or more specifically, Other People’s Progeny.
Kids! First of all, my children live with me. Regular readers of this column know that I don’t have to tie sandbags around Phillip and Jenny’s ankles to keep them from floating off to heaven. They aren’t perfect. Not even close.
In the last eight years I have been involved with three women and their six children. Four of these children, all girls, were step kids for a time. These six children filled the scale from precocious at one extreme to the kid who is the poster child for Planned Parenthood at the other. One dragged her own personal black cloud with her wherever she went. And the other three were just kids from broken homes who had more baggage than they could sometimes carry.
All six of these children have had some effect on Phil, Jenny, and I. Now this wasn’t all negative. Not by a long shot. But the bad is beginning to outweigh the good.
When I divorced Jen & Phil’s mother in 1985, I told my friends David and Jack that any future relationship I had would include more children. This was my logic:
I. If I got involved with a woman it would lead to marriage.
II. I already had two kids and was not going to father anymore.
III. The woman was going to be a step-mother.
IV. Either she already had kids or she would only have Phil & Jenny for children.
V. It was probably easier to find a woman with strong maternal instincts in her thirties who already had children than it would be to find one satisfied with experiencing motherhood as a step-parent.
As you can see, LOGICAL. There is nothing quite like the analytical male mind. Nothing, including reality. Just because something works in theory does not guarantee that it will work in the real world.
One of the problems I never anticipated was that I would have any trouble loving, much less liking, any of the children I acquired. Through all my years of volunteer work in the public schools as a teacher and coach as well as my experience with the children of relatives and friends, I got along famously with all of the kids. Children tend to be comfortable with someone who is straightforward, who sets guidelines, and who isn’t afraid to laugh at himself.
But the last eight years have been difficult. So many different agendas. So much baggage dumped on our doorstep. Just when Phil, Jen and I think that we have dug ourselves out from beneath the load, a forklift drops another on us.
New relationships don’t bring a woman into our lives. No, a new relationship is the equivalent of an invasion by a full battalion. We get the woman (who is unfortunately seldom the commanding officer of the horde), the children (who often are the real control), the ex-husband, ex-boyfriends, close girlfriends, parents and siblings. As with all invading armies, their first action is to overrun the countryside, declare victory, and then try to convince you that you invited them into your home.
By the time you sort out all of the players (G-d I wish they’d wear name tags) you are two or three months into the relationship. You are already committed, or ready to be. But the real source of conflict still seems to be the children and the parent’s relationship with them. If the children refuse to allow the peaceful union of the adults, the relationship fails. Period.
Well, I’ve walled off the house and fortress Cunix won’t be invaded again for awhile. For the moment, at least, I’m looking for a woman who rides alone.
That’s it. I’ve had enough. I’ve reached my limit of O.P. P. Now I’m not talking about the recent hit song by Naughty by Nature. That song is about Other Peoples’ “Property.” No. My O.P.P. stands for Other People’s Problems or more specifically, Other People’s Progeny.
Kids! First of all, my children live with me. Regular readers of this column know that I don’t have to tie sandbags around Phillip and Jenny’s ankles to keep them from floating off to heaven. They aren’t perfect. Not even close.
In the last eight years I have been involved with three women and their six children. Four of these children, all girls, were step kids for a time. These six children filled the scale from precocious at one extreme to the kid who is the poster child for Planned Parenthood at the other. One dragged her own personal black cloud with her wherever she went. And the other three were just kids from broken homes who had more baggage than they could sometimes carry.
All six of these children have had some effect on Phil, Jenny, and I. Now this wasn’t all negative. Not by a long shot. But the bad is beginning to outweigh the good.
When I divorced Jen & Phil’s mother in 1985, I told my friends David and Jack that any future relationship I had would include more children. This was my logic:
I. If I got involved with a woman it would lead to marriage.
II. I already had two kids and was not going to father anymore.
III. The woman was going to be a step-mother.
IV. Either she already had kids or she would only have Phil & Jenny for children.
V. It was probably easier to find a woman with strong maternal instincts in her thirties who already had children than it would be to find one satisfied with experiencing motherhood as a step-parent.
As you can see, LOGICAL. There is nothing quite like the analytical male mind. Nothing, including reality. Just because something works in theory does not guarantee that it will work in the real world.
One of the problems I never anticipated was that I would have any trouble loving, much less liking, any of the children I acquired. Through all my years of volunteer work in the public schools as a teacher and coach as well as my experience with the children of relatives and friends, I got along famously with all of the kids. Children tend to be comfortable with someone who is straightforward, who sets guidelines, and who isn’t afraid to laugh at himself.
But the last eight years have been difficult. So many different agendas. So much baggage dumped on our doorstep. Just when Phil, Jen and I think that we have dug ourselves out from beneath the load, a forklift drops another on us.
New relationships don’t bring a woman into our lives. No, a new relationship is the equivalent of an invasion by a full battalion. We get the woman (who is unfortunately seldom the commanding officer of the horde), the children (who often are the real control), the ex-husband, ex-boyfriends, close girlfriends, parents and siblings. As with all invading armies, their first action is to overrun the countryside, declare victory, and then try to convince you that you invited them into your home.
By the time you sort out all of the players (G-d I wish they’d wear name tags) you are two or three months into the relationship. You are already committed, or ready to be. But the real source of conflict still seems to be the children and the parent’s relationship with them. If the children refuse to allow the peaceful union of the adults, the relationship fails. Period.
Well, I’ve walled off the house and fortress Cunix won’t be invaded again for awhile. For the moment, at least, I’m looking for a woman who rides alone.
It's Contest Time
May 1993 - If You Won't Leave Me, I'll Find Someone Who Will.
Well, it’s May and even I am sick of reading about me. My most recent columns have been very serious. It is time for some fun. It is time for another contest.
Let’s do album names. The following are the names of twenty music albums released in the last twenty-five years. There are some freebies (check out #2) and some are really hard. Name the performer or group for each one.
Send your entry to MUSIC CONTEST 673 E. 185th STREET EUCLID, OHIO 44119. All entries must be received by June 1, 1993. The Winners and correct answers will appear in our July edition.
PRIZES:
FIRST PRIZE is an Image Consultation and Hair Style ($50 value) at Chaz Hair.
SECOND PRIZE is a Limited Edition BEATLES Poster from the movie HELP! This is being donated by Platter Puss Records.
ALL CONTESTANTS will receive a FREE PERSONAL AD in Ohio’s Finest Singles. Only one entry per person.
Don’t worry about not knowing all of the answers. No one got all of the answers the last time (Aug 91) and I sincerely doubt that anyone will sweep this contest.
Good Luck and Have Fun.
1) You’re Never Alone With A Schizophrenic
2) The Rise And Fall of Ziggy Stardust And The Spiders From Mars
3) A Wink Is As Good As A Nod To A Blind Horse
4) Got Any Gum
5) Everyone Knows This Is Nowhere
6) Meaty Beaty Big And Bouncy
7) Little Earthquakes
8) Dad Loves His Work
9) Brain Salad Surgery
10) Running On Empty
11) Mona Bone Jakon
12) In Search Of The Lost Chord
13) The Southern Harmony And Musical Companion
14) If I could Only Remember My Name
15) Sticky Fingers
16) Too Old To Rock And Roll Too Young To Die
17) Runt
18) The Low Spark Of High Heeled Boys
19) Cheap Thrills
20) Hello, I Must Be Going
BONUS
Identify the group responsible for this comedy album and receive two points.
Don’t Crush That Dwarf Hand Me The Pliers
Well, it’s May and even I am sick of reading about me. My most recent columns have been very serious. It is time for some fun. It is time for another contest.
Let’s do album names. The following are the names of twenty music albums released in the last twenty-five years. There are some freebies (check out #2) and some are really hard. Name the performer or group for each one.
Send your entry to MUSIC CONTEST 673 E. 185th STREET EUCLID, OHIO 44119. All entries must be received by June 1, 1993. The Winners and correct answers will appear in our July edition.
PRIZES:
FIRST PRIZE is an Image Consultation and Hair Style ($50 value) at Chaz Hair.
SECOND PRIZE is a Limited Edition BEATLES Poster from the movie HELP! This is being donated by Platter Puss Records.
ALL CONTESTANTS will receive a FREE PERSONAL AD in Ohio’s Finest Singles. Only one entry per person.
Don’t worry about not knowing all of the answers. No one got all of the answers the last time (Aug 91) and I sincerely doubt that anyone will sweep this contest.
Good Luck and Have Fun.
1) You’re Never Alone With A Schizophrenic
2) The Rise And Fall of Ziggy Stardust And The Spiders From Mars
3) A Wink Is As Good As A Nod To A Blind Horse
4) Got Any Gum
5) Everyone Knows This Is Nowhere
6) Meaty Beaty Big And Bouncy
7) Little Earthquakes
8) Dad Loves His Work
9) Brain Salad Surgery
10) Running On Empty
11) Mona Bone Jakon
12) In Search Of The Lost Chord
13) The Southern Harmony And Musical Companion
14) If I could Only Remember My Name
15) Sticky Fingers
16) Too Old To Rock And Roll Too Young To Die
17) Runt
18) The Low Spark Of High Heeled Boys
19) Cheap Thrills
20) Hello, I Must Be Going
BONUS
Identify the group responsible for this comedy album and receive two points.
Don’t Crush That Dwarf Hand Me The Pliers
Making A Wish
April 1993 - If You Won't Leave Me, I'll Find Someone Who Will.
The inscription on the jar caught my eye. I stepped over the clutter of the antique store to get a closer look. I needed something for the end table and this would do just fine.
As I removed a layer of dust and such from the jar, it began to shake. A cloud of red-blue smoke escaped from the jar and as it began to take shape, a voice filled the room.
WHAT IS YOUR PLEASURE, MASTER?
Master?
MASTER! I AM THE GENIE THAT HAS BEEN LOCKED WITHIN THAT VESSEL FOR A THOUSAND YEARS.
Come on. What’s a good Jewish boy like me doing in an old Arabic tale?
IT IS NOT WITHIN MY POWER TO DISCRIMINATE, MASTER. WHAT DO YOU DESIRE ABOVE ALL ELSE? ORDER IT AND IT SHALL BE YOURS.
Really? I would like my children to have a happy and healthy childhood.
AS YOU WISH, SO SHALL IT BE DONE. WHAT DO YOU DESIRE FOR YOURSELF?
For me? Hmmm. I would like a mutually fulfilling permanent relationship with a woman.
TELL ME SOMEHTING I DON’T KNOW. EVEN ONE CONFINED FOR A THOUSAND YEARS IS AWARE OF MY MASTER’S STORIED PAST.
Good news travels fast.
YOUR LAST ADVENTURE WAS A RIVETING TALE. DESCRIBE THE WOMAN YOU TRULY SEEK.
Let’s see. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Soft features. A warm smile…
STOP, I PRAY OF YOU. YOUR DESCRIPTION IS COMMON KNOWLEGDE. DO NOT WASTE A MOMENT SHAPING THE VESSEL. WHAT OF THE CONTENTS? WHAT OF THE SOUL?
What do I really want? I want to be loved.
DO YOU BELIEVE THAT THAT IS UNIQUE IN ANY WAY?
No. I’ll get the hang of this. I want to be loved by someone that I can respect and value so that her love will be of real value to me.
IN OTHER WORDS, IF YOU DON’T RESPECT AND ADMIRE HER, IT DOESN’T MATTER WHETHER SHE LOVES YOU OR NOT?
Yes. That makes sense. An equal. A partner. A co-conspirator.
YES. YES. YES. PLEASE CONTINUE WITH YOUR DESCRIPTION.
I have always been attracted by vulnerability. I have a lot of empathy.
YES MASTER. AND THEIR DEPENDENCY CHASED YOU AWAY ONCE YOU WERE MARRIED.
That is true, but I know that I am vulnerable yet capable of being self-sufficient and organized. Am I that unusual? Is this combination available in a woman?
I CAN NOT SPEAK AS TO HOW USUAL OR UNUSUAL MY MASTER MAY BE. AS TO FEMALE AVAILABILITY, I NEED MORE INFORMATION.
I would like a woman who can function perfectly well without me, but even better with me. I want to enhance her life, not be it. And of course, visa-versa.
CONTINUE MASTER. SHE BEGINS TO TAKE SHAPE.
I want a woman who will love my children, and if she can’t, keep it a secret. I want a woman who will compete with me at Jeopardy!, but not take it personally. I want a woman who excites and stimulates me emotionally and mentally, instead of just sexually.
YES MASTER. FORTUNE MAY SMILE UPON YOU AT LAST.
Great. Now, can you fit all of that into a size 9/10?
The inscription on the jar caught my eye. I stepped over the clutter of the antique store to get a closer look. I needed something for the end table and this would do just fine.
As I removed a layer of dust and such from the jar, it began to shake. A cloud of red-blue smoke escaped from the jar and as it began to take shape, a voice filled the room.
WHAT IS YOUR PLEASURE, MASTER?
Master?
MASTER! I AM THE GENIE THAT HAS BEEN LOCKED WITHIN THAT VESSEL FOR A THOUSAND YEARS.
Come on. What’s a good Jewish boy like me doing in an old Arabic tale?
IT IS NOT WITHIN MY POWER TO DISCRIMINATE, MASTER. WHAT DO YOU DESIRE ABOVE ALL ELSE? ORDER IT AND IT SHALL BE YOURS.
Really? I would like my children to have a happy and healthy childhood.
AS YOU WISH, SO SHALL IT BE DONE. WHAT DO YOU DESIRE FOR YOURSELF?
For me? Hmmm. I would like a mutually fulfilling permanent relationship with a woman.
TELL ME SOMEHTING I DON’T KNOW. EVEN ONE CONFINED FOR A THOUSAND YEARS IS AWARE OF MY MASTER’S STORIED PAST.
Good news travels fast.
YOUR LAST ADVENTURE WAS A RIVETING TALE. DESCRIBE THE WOMAN YOU TRULY SEEK.
Let’s see. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Soft features. A warm smile…
STOP, I PRAY OF YOU. YOUR DESCRIPTION IS COMMON KNOWLEGDE. DO NOT WASTE A MOMENT SHAPING THE VESSEL. WHAT OF THE CONTENTS? WHAT OF THE SOUL?
What do I really want? I want to be loved.
DO YOU BELIEVE THAT THAT IS UNIQUE IN ANY WAY?
No. I’ll get the hang of this. I want to be loved by someone that I can respect and value so that her love will be of real value to me.
IN OTHER WORDS, IF YOU DON’T RESPECT AND ADMIRE HER, IT DOESN’T MATTER WHETHER SHE LOVES YOU OR NOT?
Yes. That makes sense. An equal. A partner. A co-conspirator.
YES. YES. YES. PLEASE CONTINUE WITH YOUR DESCRIPTION.
I have always been attracted by vulnerability. I have a lot of empathy.
YES MASTER. AND THEIR DEPENDENCY CHASED YOU AWAY ONCE YOU WERE MARRIED.
That is true, but I know that I am vulnerable yet capable of being self-sufficient and organized. Am I that unusual? Is this combination available in a woman?
I CAN NOT SPEAK AS TO HOW USUAL OR UNUSUAL MY MASTER MAY BE. AS TO FEMALE AVAILABILITY, I NEED MORE INFORMATION.
I would like a woman who can function perfectly well without me, but even better with me. I want to enhance her life, not be it. And of course, visa-versa.
CONTINUE MASTER. SHE BEGINS TO TAKE SHAPE.
I want a woman who will love my children, and if she can’t, keep it a secret. I want a woman who will compete with me at Jeopardy!, but not take it personally. I want a woman who excites and stimulates me emotionally and mentally, instead of just sexually.
YES MASTER. FORTUNE MAY SMILE UPON YOU AT LAST.
Great. Now, can you fit all of that into a size 9/10?
A Midnight Rambler
March 1993 - If You Won't Leave Me, I'll Find Someone Who Will.
You must remember this
A kiss is just a kiss
Casablanca
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?
You must remember this
A kiss is just a kiss
Casablanca
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?
Of Vice and Men
February 1993 - If You Won't Leave Me, I'll Find Someone Who Will.
I quit smoking in the fall of 1981. About six weeks later my employees, some of the cheapest (and unfortunately laziest) people I have ever known, purchased a fancy cigarette case and lighter for me. They spent almost one hundred dollars. I guess that I had become a real bear and they decided that the only way to get back their old boss was to get me to start smoking again. I wasn’t ready to quit smoking and it showed.
Jerry, my friend David’s step-father, was admitted into the hospital in December of 1883. The doctors thought that he had pneumonia. That was Monday. On Tuesday the x-rays revealed that his lungs were gone. He died of cancer that Saturday. That was enough for me. I quit smoking January 1, 1984. Two packs a day, cigars, and my pipe…to nothing. Cold Turkey. It wasn’t easy. But once I was ready, it was doable.
In the summer of 1991 I wrote a column for this paper dealing with my decision to give up my last remaining vice, matrimony. The article was The Tides. In a couple of hundred words I detailed my most recent marriage and proclaimed my resolve to remain single.
One year later I experienced an unfortunate episode of backsliding. You may have read about it. (If At First You Don’t Succeed Aug 92) NOW I’M READY!
Goodness the last six months have been unbelievably awful. There was absolutely no reason for this marriage to succeed. None.
Those of you familiar with the gory details may have an opinion as to what, specifically, killed this relationship. Some of you may point to the twelve year old step-daughter, her faked kidnapping, suicide threats, and depression. Some of you may point to the fact that I traveled, like Jacob, to a far away place thinking that I was marrying Rachel, only to find that I was wed to Leah. Some of you may point to the fact that Anna and I failed to communicate on the same level and never understood what the other thought to be important. And others…well everyone has a guess as to why this marriage was doomed from the start. I, however, know the real reason.
The truth is that I am incapable of choosing a woman to marry that I can be happy with permanently. The truth is that many of the very qualities that I find attractive in the women I date I find to be annoying in the women once I have married them. And the truth, as I wrote a year ago, is that I can’t seem to see the entire woman when I am dating. Failing to see the flaws, I tragically wed women that are totally incompatible with me.
I am not alone at this. Yes, it is shocking to discover at 30.000 feet that your co-pilot has never flown before and is afraid of heights. But why is she there in the first place?
You don’t get married in a vacuum. These women all knew what I am like and what I expected of them. Yet, they still keep telling me what I want to hear. They still keep volunteering to walk down the aisle. And they still keep looking shocked when I tell them that enough is enough.
And we are not alone. Many of you, my faithful readers, have called or written with similar stories. Is there something in our water? Or, do we simply expect more than our parents and grandparents did from marriage? I can’t answer that and I promised my parents that I would leave them out of this column.
The bottom line is that I really think that I am ready to quit this time. Phillip, Jennifer, and I will get along just fine, thank you. No twelve step programs. No fancy clinics. No hassle. You just have to be ready.
I quit smoking in the fall of 1981. About six weeks later my employees, some of the cheapest (and unfortunately laziest) people I have ever known, purchased a fancy cigarette case and lighter for me. They spent almost one hundred dollars. I guess that I had become a real bear and they decided that the only way to get back their old boss was to get me to start smoking again. I wasn’t ready to quit smoking and it showed.
Jerry, my friend David’s step-father, was admitted into the hospital in December of 1883. The doctors thought that he had pneumonia. That was Monday. On Tuesday the x-rays revealed that his lungs were gone. He died of cancer that Saturday. That was enough for me. I quit smoking January 1, 1984. Two packs a day, cigars, and my pipe…to nothing. Cold Turkey. It wasn’t easy. But once I was ready, it was doable.
In the summer of 1991 I wrote a column for this paper dealing with my decision to give up my last remaining vice, matrimony. The article was The Tides. In a couple of hundred words I detailed my most recent marriage and proclaimed my resolve to remain single.
One year later I experienced an unfortunate episode of backsliding. You may have read about it. (If At First You Don’t Succeed Aug 92) NOW I’M READY!
Goodness the last six months have been unbelievably awful. There was absolutely no reason for this marriage to succeed. None.
Those of you familiar with the gory details may have an opinion as to what, specifically, killed this relationship. Some of you may point to the twelve year old step-daughter, her faked kidnapping, suicide threats, and depression. Some of you may point to the fact that I traveled, like Jacob, to a far away place thinking that I was marrying Rachel, only to find that I was wed to Leah. Some of you may point to the fact that Anna and I failed to communicate on the same level and never understood what the other thought to be important. And others…well everyone has a guess as to why this marriage was doomed from the start. I, however, know the real reason.
The truth is that I am incapable of choosing a woman to marry that I can be happy with permanently. The truth is that many of the very qualities that I find attractive in the women I date I find to be annoying in the women once I have married them. And the truth, as I wrote a year ago, is that I can’t seem to see the entire woman when I am dating. Failing to see the flaws, I tragically wed women that are totally incompatible with me.
I am not alone at this. Yes, it is shocking to discover at 30.000 feet that your co-pilot has never flown before and is afraid of heights. But why is she there in the first place?
You don’t get married in a vacuum. These women all knew what I am like and what I expected of them. Yet, they still keep telling me what I want to hear. They still keep volunteering to walk down the aisle. And they still keep looking shocked when I tell them that enough is enough.
And we are not alone. Many of you, my faithful readers, have called or written with similar stories. Is there something in our water? Or, do we simply expect more than our parents and grandparents did from marriage? I can’t answer that and I promised my parents that I would leave them out of this column.
The bottom line is that I really think that I am ready to quit this time. Phillip, Jennifer, and I will get along just fine, thank you. No twelve step programs. No fancy clinics. No hassle. You just have to be ready.
Bit By Byte
January 1993 - If You Won't Leave Me, I'll Find Someone Who Will.
“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.
“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.
One More Election Wrap-Up
December 1992 - If You Won't Leave Me, I'll Find Someone Who Will.
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.
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.
It's A Boy
November 1992 - If You Won't Leave Me, I'll Find Someone Who Will.
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.
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.
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