"Eyes Wide Closed"

For people, especially those who come from where I come from, the Hawaiian Islands are like one big, tropical garden. Kauai distinguishes itself from its neighbors by labeling itself, “The Garden Isle.”

What it’s saying is, ”You think those other Hawaiian islands are gardens? This place is even, as Pee Wee Herman would say, gardenier.”

And they’re right. Kauai is breathtakingly beautiful. (And also, Pee Wee Herman would say “gardenier.”)

Years ago, I went to Kauai. I was supposed to go with somebody, but things didn’t work out, and I went by myself. Going to a romantically gorgeous spot like Kauai by yourself is like going to a “date movie” alone. The question, “What’s the point?” leaps prominently to mind.

Well, SIGH, I guess some things are meant to happen, and some things are meant not to. Wow, look how philosophical I am. And it only took me thirty-five years to get there. Though, to be honest, I’m not all the way there even now.

Okay, so I went to Kauai by myself. I had reserved a rented car for the visit. But that was when I thought I was going with somebody else. And they were going to drive.

Now, I have to drive. In a place I have never been before. During torrential rainstorms. (You don’t get to be “The Garden Isle” without being the recipients of some serious amounts of rain.) The Kauai “Speed Limit” is fifty miles an hour, and the street signs are too little for me to read. Suffice it to say, my driving sorely tested the local residents’ “Hang Loose” spirit.

A miracle happened on that trip. I wrote about it before, so I’ll give you the short version.

Only one of my eyes – my right one – is really good for seeing, and I wear a contact lens in it. Once, in the middle of “Nowhere, Kauai”, I stopped at one of the designated “scenic sites”, and, when I raised up my camera to take a picture, I knocked the contact lens out of my eye.

There I was, standing alone by the side of the road, no cars coming by – this was before cell phones where you could call for assistance –

And I can’t see a thing.

With few other options at my disposal, none, in fact, that came to my panicky mind, I knelt down in the roadbed, which I assumed was black gravel but was probably lava, and I blindly felt around through the uneven rubble for my missing, and desperately needed, contact lens.

And I found it!

I love that story.

Anyway, I took a lot of pictures on that trip, though I was now scrupulously careful, holding the camera up to my eye. I knew it was only “one miracle per holiday.” And I’d already used mine up.

I snapped pictures of everything: Exotic flowers, brightly colored birds, multiple rainbows. I took a helicopter tour, clicking away through the window, as we hovered over a giant land fissure known as, “The Grand Canyon of the Pacific.” Everything was amazing and new, tropical wonders, to my untraveled Canadian eyes. I kept a photographic journal of everything with, what I am sure, was not much of a camera. But it didn’t have to be. My magnificent subjects did all the work.

For some reason, what particularly caught my enthusiasm were these bottlebrush trees, with sprouts of plasma-red flowers brightening their branches. I was mesmerized by these trees, as only someone can be, for whom oak, pine, birch and maple are the highlights on their arboreal resume.

I took “full tree” pictures. I composed “branch” pictures, featuring numerous dottings of bottlebrush clusters. Then I got real close –no “Zoom” on this camera – zeroing in on a single flower. I was absolutely smitten. If you could date botany, we might easily have gone out.

I had never seen anything like it before.

The day after I got home, I rushed to the nearest Fotomat to get my pictures developed. “Getting pictures developed.” They don’t do that anymore. I am now required to explain how it works, like the rotary telephone.

You took pictures on film, Children, and you could not see those pictures until after they were developed. Which usually took a few days! Now, you can look in your viewfinder, and see what the picture will look like before you take it, or, at worst with some cameras, immediately after you click. Then, you can print them up on your computer right away. We had to wait.

And I’ll tell you something. The waiting was, maybe, the best part. The anticipation while you waited. The excitement of sliding the pictures from the envelope and seeing how they turned out. And the delight, when a surprising number of them surpassed your loftiest expectations.

It was the Christmas morning of photographic revelation. This new stuff doesn’t even come close.

Okay, you expected that from me. And I delivered. Moving on.

It’s not likely that I ran to the Fotomat with my undeveloped film. I don’t usually run anywhere. But with the adrenalin rush I felt, I could have. And made impressively good time.

Except for one thing. Which made me slow down along the way. And then finally stop.

When I noticed that, lining the street my apartment building was on was a flourishing and block-long planting of

Bottlebrush trees.

That’s right, Kiddies. The trees that had sent me into rapturous delight on Kauai were growing all over my neighborhood. There were hundreds of them. Everywhere.

And I had never noticed them before.

"Summer Times - Program Breaks"

During the summer, the camp routine was strategically interrupted by two-day unit-wide (only one unit participating) and three-day camp-wide (the entire camp participating) programs, which were basically “color war” competitions, except that, since my camp was “socially conscious”, the programs were organized around meaningful themes in which “The Voice of the People” was powerfully heard.

Hence, the Senior Unit’s “Hungarian Revolution” program of 1958.

“Breaking a program” concerned the way, invariably a dramatic way, a program was introduced. In the case of the Hungarian Revolution program – commemorating the Hungarian Revolution of 1956 – campers were roused from their beds at midnight, told to don bathrobes and slippers and herded, under strict instructions not to speak, hurriedly down to the beach.

As we stood by the lakeshore, shivering in our pajamas, we caught sight of a small plane circling overhead. Scanning the skies, we watched a parachutist jump out of the plane, float down, and splash into the ink-black water below. The camp motorboat immediately sped out, picked him up, and rushed the downed parachutist back to shore.

After docking, the parachutist stood up in the motorboat, to address the assembled campers. Unfortunately, nothing emerged from his mouth, except nervous mumbling. It was almost as if he’d forgotten what it was he was supposed to announce.

A counselor – the counselors were, of course, in on “break” – took the initiative of moving things along.

“Has the Hungarian Revolution begun?” he inquired.

“I think so,” replied the tongue-tied parachutist.

And with that, a two-day unit-wide program was introduced, during which, instead of representing vying “colors” – blue, green, red and yellow – the opposing teams included the workers, the students, the farmers and the doctors. Though no matter who we were, we were still required to capture a greased watermelon, and carry it up to the dock.

In later years, when I was a counselor, I actually participated in the “break” of a “unit-wide” program. This time, it was an “Indian” program, inspired to instill a heightened awareness of Native Canadian heritage and culture in our youngest campers, aged six, seven and eight.

The “break” called for me, “a dying old Indian”, dressed in the traditional headdress, and wrapped in a blanket, to be brought into camp, lying on a travois, a makeshift litter constructed of a blanket stretched across two long poles, suspended from, and drawn by, a horse.

The plan was that the little kids would gather around to see the “Indian”, I would make some speech about how, like me, the Indian tradition was dying, and would soon disappear, unless, of course, “People remembered.” And with that, the two-day “Indian” program would be on.

We set up about a hundred yards down the road into camp. The final step was for me to climb aboard the travois. I turned around, and carefully lowered myself down. This was a delicate proposition for a rather awkward non-Indian, but I was finally in position.

However, the moment my head hit the blanket, the horse suddenly lifted its tail and expelled a flurry of snowball-sized poop balls, which, in rapid succession, rolled down the diagonally-arranged blanket, landing finally on the ground. I, of course, had long since vacated the premises. Though I was understandably chagrined by this unexpected turn of events.

The “horse wrangler” seemed sincerely perplexed. He assured us that the horse had, prior to their arrival, been thoroughly “evacuated.” Recent events had now put “thoroughly” into serious question.

The “poop blanket” was hastily replaced, and we were once again ready to go. I had no worries concerning the matter. It was, like, the safest time to get on an airplane is after a crash, because, “What are the chances of it happening twice?”

I lay down on the blanket, the “horse wrangler” tugged on the bridle, and off we went.

Except,

As soon as the horse took its first step, it immediately stopped, lifted up its tail…

And I jumped off!

That evening, I “broke” the “Indian” program walking into camp on my own two feet. I still told them I was dying, explaining to the kiddies that I was momentarily feeling better.

You got time for one more? This one’s a little different.

My friend Shelly and I were savvy Seniors, fifteen year-old know-it-alls. An informed study of the camp’s schedule revealed to us, we believed, precisely the date on which the camp-wide program would begin.

We proceeded to the camp staff higher-ups, and explained to them that we were certain that the “camp-wide” would be broken that night. The higher-ups reluctantly admitted that we, in fact, were correct. They proposed to us, that if we would keep our discovery to ourselves, we could go to a certain location, and, hiding in the nearby bushes, we could observe them set up for the program’s elaborate “break.” Shelly and I excitedly agreed.

After dinner, we snuck out to the stables – the site of the setup – and found a hidden spot, from which we could get a sneak peek at the preparations. This would be a first for us. Up till then, the “breaks” had always been a surprise. Finally, we’d be in on the secret.

The first twenty minutes were entirely uneventful, if you don’t count the swarming squadron of mosquitoes that were biting us to pieces. But we both agreed we should stick it out. We had a unique privilege here. We would ‘t have missed it for the world.

Forty-five minutes, and nothing happened. After an hour – still nothing. Finally, after an hour and a half, bitten alive and with nothing going on, we reluctantly swallowed our pride, gave up, and trudged gloomily back to camp.

How could we have been wrong? Our calculations were indisputable. We were still convinced that the program would “break” that night. It was just not setting up at the stables. The higher-ups had played us for chumps.

That night, there was a camp-wide marshmallow roast down at the beach. Shelly and I stood glumly on the periphery. As the evening progressed with still nothing happening, we started to doubt ourselves. Maybe we were mistaken about the whole thing.

Then, suddenly, several car horns started blaring, and three cars came racing straight for the beach, screeching to a stop just before the full-camp complement of campers and staff.

Shelly and my eyes lit up. It’s unlikely that we danced and hugged – neither of us being of a demonstrative nature – but if we had been, we would have.

We could not have been more excited. We were right after all. The program was breaking exactly when we’d predicted it would. What can I tell you? We were geniuses.

The car doors flew open, and a number of camp higher-ups jumped out. But then, instead of proclaiming the opening of the camp-wide program, they merely passed through the gathering, shaking hands, and saying,

“Hello.” “How’re ya doin’?” “Good to see you.”

And that was that.

What I later learned was that a widespread stomach flu epidemic had determined that, for the first time in memory, there would be no camp-wide program that summer. So, instead, the higher-ups took the opportunity to embarrass two wise-guy Senior campers.

Twice in one evening.

Though I’m telling you, if there had been a program, it would have broken that night!

"Random Thoughts While Watching 'Friends With Benefits'"

The dance studio where I’m taking lessons in preparation for my daughter’s wedding is located near a movie theater. Dr. M is working late. I decide to see “Friends With Benefits”, not necessarily because I want to, but because I’m at loose ends, and it seems the least objectionable of the available alternatives. The following are random thoughts about the experience.

I walk in, the theater is empty. By the time the movie starts, there are maybe ten people in the audience, all of them, I notice, members of more recent generation than my own. I mention this because, as the movie unfolds, I hear them laughing uproariously in places where I’m going, “What?” I seem to be missing the subtlety and nuance. I chalk it up to being in the wrong place at the wrong age. Comedically, they are speaking an entirely different language.

I get the concept. Tired of relationships that have left them both messed up, two people who have recently met decide to forego the emotional component of relationships and just have sex.

I am aware that a movie with a similar premise was released earlier this summer, and I have read that this is the superior version of the two. My appreciation for Friends With Benefits is at least partially due to my gratitude at my not having been subjected to the other one.

I like the movie okay. The storyline until it twists beyond my comprehension near the end proceeds logically. The lead actors are likable bordering on charming, and seem genuinely comfortable together.

The dialogue is delivered in a consistently throwaway manner, which, considering the quality of the dialogue, is exactly what the material deserves. I cannot recall a single memorable line. Though I do remember they talked fast.

There are elements of humanity – a Dad with Alzheimer’s, a burnt-out absentee Mom – the roles played by gifted and interesting actors. Woody Harrelson portrays in gay sports editor in a way that says, “I am not stereotyping the ‘gay.’” The result is the first uninteresting “gay guy” representation I have ever seen anywhere.

My difficulty with the movie is, though the lead couple is indisputably appealing, I do not care whether they end up together. And I think I’m supposed to.

Of course, me being me, you would expect a complaint about a structural flaw in the storytelling. I will not disappoint. The problem feels less like a deliberate oversight than something that was cut in editing, but for whatever reason, the climactic scene, an elaborate musical number, reuniting the couple who sign on for sex but who discover that they’re in love, is so appallingly set up – with some lame “voice over” explanation – the “big scene” falls considerably flatter than it needs to.

Why don’t people understand that it’s essential, especially when you’re talking about the “payoff scene” of the entire movie, to take the time to set the situation up? This is a total “no brainer.” You cannot fully enjoy a moment when you’re simultaneously going, “How did this happen?”

Okay. Besides that. Here’s what I find a little…what? Inconsistent? Dishonest? Hypocritical? Pick one, or see what I mean and select one of your own choosing later.

Let me explain it this way.

Back in the days when there was a “Movie Code”, you knew there were things in the sexual arena they would not be able to show, and you accepted that. Those were the rules. And understanding the conditions they were working under, you readily forgave the unreality.

Now, here we are: No more “Movie Code.” And we’re presented with a story concerning two liberated characters, who are so unconventional and cool, they decide to have a sexual relationship unencumbered by emotional attachments.

And yet…

With the exception of some “back-al” nudity, what we are shown in the multiple “getting it on” scenes between them, is an enormous amount, considering our understanding of the characters, of what one might describe as, “bed sheet choreography.”

(Let me stipulate, in brackets, because it’s peripheral to my point, that I do not understand a job of this nature. Call it, “Actors With Benefits.” An actor comes home, their spouse says, “What did you do today, honey?” and they say, “I simulated sex with my co-star for eight hours but I fantasized it was you what’s for dinner?” How is that a workable life?)

For me, the movie lost all credibility. Except for the logistics of getting in and out of bed, the remaining intimate activity was a meticulous exercise in strategic “sheet dancing.”

Nothing showing, everything left to the imagination. Which is exactly what they did during the “Movie Code” days. The difference is, “Movie Code” or no “Movie Code” the actors were not playing sexually liberated characters. They were just regular Americans. From the fifties. When you didn’t do those things. Or maybe you did, but you didn’t do them in movies.

Here, however, is a couple that has decided to free themselves from sexual convention, yet they remain incongruously “toga-ed up” when the sparks start to fly.

Do you not notice the “disconnect”?

It is not that I felt the need for more nakedness. There was nakedness enough. What offended me was the contradiction. Though the story told me one thing, what I was watching on the screen were a couple of totally liberated shy people.

And it took me right out of the picture. *

*I am aware of the “Ratings System”, and how showing too much can earn a movie a rating that can inhibit its profitability. But still. You have these characters and they are inexplicably doing this thing.

It just doesn’t fit.

"Defending The (Probably) Indefensible"

I wear a lot of t-shirts. Not all at the same time. Consecutively. I’m not that crazy.

I wear a lot of t-shirts, because one, there is no dress code for the “Not going anywhere.” Two, it’s Southern California, where you can wear pretty much anything you want. (Not just in your house, outside, as well.) Three, it’s generally warm here. And four, I exercise more or less daily, and you don’t really want to hop on the treadmill in a dress shirt. With or without cuff links.

As a result of those four reasons, and probably others that elude me at the moment, I have accumulated, for my everyday use, two dresser drawers full of t-shirts, most of them souvenirs from my travels, tangible memories of fascinating destinations – Ireland, Gettysburg, Northern Indiana – which offer a paralleling service as wardrobe.

On occasion, aware of my affinity for such casual habillements, I am presented with a gift t-shirt from a family member who has returned from distant travels of their own. I am always appreciative of this thoughtful present, though I fear it brings my credibility into question.

“You’re wearing a t-shirt from a place you’ve never been to. How can I trust you about anything?

Okay. So last summer, we were visiting Chicago – on our way home from our cabin in Indiana – and I pick up a t-shirt commemorating the recent Stanley Cup (hockey championship) victory of the local Chicago Blackhawks.

It’s a magnificent t-shirt, modeled after the team uniform. It’s dark black – one of the team colors – and it features as its centerpiece a classic, multi-colored, graphic design.

Of an Indian.

(Wikipedia informs us that the Hawks’ original owner named the team after a military unit he commanded during World War I, the unit itself having been originally named after an Indian. Wikipedia additionally tells us that in 2004, GQ voted the Blackhawks’ uniform one of the 25 best in professional sports. So it’s not like I don’t have taste.)

Okay. Indians as team icons. An issue that pops up on occasion. Though I think it can be generally agreed, that having sports teams named after them is not the Indians’ most serious concern. Still, some people find it offensive.

I, for the most part, do not.

Here comes the inevitable disclaimer. My living room is replete with (Edward Curtis) photographs, paintings, crafts and cultural artifacts, produced by and reflective of

Indians.

I identify with Indians. They represent a category of people that other people tried to wipe out. I don’t have to spell out the connection.

So there’s that.

But that’s not the issue. The issue is, is it disrespectful to name a sports team, in one variational form or another, after Indians?

The Washington Redskins. That’s pretty much yuckadoodle. But even there…no, I’m not going to defend that. That one really ought to go.

Then, there are the other teams: The Golden State Warriors. The Cleveland Indians. The Atlanta Braves. The Florida State Seminoles.

The Chicago Blackhawks.

To name just five.

Franchises from all the major sports, associating their teams with an Indian motif.

Why?

Because they want to disparage Indians?

Why would they want to do that?

“We play hard and demean Indians. ‘Go, Team, go!’”

Does that sound like a winning marketing campaign to you?

Do they name sports teams after Indians to attract more Indian Season’s Ticket holders?

I don’t think so. Do you? That can’t be it.

Which brings us to the distinction, and the only rationalization that would exonerate the Washington Redskins organization from blatant discrimation:

Intention.

Which is not, even hardliners would probably agree, to discriminate.

Sports teams choose to identify themselves with Indians,

Because Indians are warriors,

Is the underlying thought process. And a reasonable thought process it is. So reasonable, in fact, that I submit that that’s the only thing that’s going on.

The entities choosing the teams’ names’ unquestionable objective is fof their teams to emulate, with every sinew of their being, “warrior characteristics.”

Courage.

Strength.

Inner toughness.

And the ability to sneak up behind people without being heard. Well, maybe not that one. But the other attributes for sure. That’s why they name their teams after Indians.

Inculcating combat aggressiveness is the same reason that teams name themselves after certain “warrior animals” – The Lions, The Tigers, The Panthers, The Bears. There is no sports team I know of called The Mice. Similarly, I am not aware of any sports team venerating the Swiss.

“We’re neutral and we’re proud. Go, Team, go!”

I will not here debate whether the characteristics of warriors ought to be idealized. I will only say that sports teams talk about “Going into battle.” In that context, it fits.

I am also aware that not all Indians were, historically, warriors. But you don’t motivate a sports program by calling them the Arizona Rug Weavers.

If I were an Indian, I would be proud that my people were perceived to possess the characteristics that could inspire a sports team to victory.

But I’m not an Indian. So maybe I don’t get to vote. Until there’s a sports team called the Tennessee Jewboys, I’m just a guy on the sidelines, looking good in his Blackhawks t-shirt.

"Powah"

Jonah Davenport writes:

I really enjoyed your analysis of Bridesmaid’s (sic) – I love saying “sic.” For those of you unfamiliar with the term, “sic” means, “They made the mistake; I am simply reproducing what they wrote.” Now, back to Jonah.

I did watch the movie but totally overlooked the apparent inconsistencies (I had assumed that the cake had been out of the box and replaced with some other food item.

I was wondering, with all the “hands” that a script goes through from first draft to production, how were these discrepancies overlooked? Any ideas?

Yes.

……….……………………….

(Meaning, I’m finished talking.)

Would you mind telling me what those ideas are?

No.

………………………………….

(Same thing.)

Well, what are they? Man, you’re a pain today. First, you highlight my mistake, and then, I get these answers that I find to be incredibly irritating!

Excuse me. I was just trying to be humorous.

Well, try answering my question instead. Geez, no wonder nobody asks you anything. First, you jump all over them for some accidental misspelling, and then, you give them the “Big Stall” and try to pass it off as comedy.

You know why I did that?

Why?

Because I can.

Which also happens to be – and aren’t I clever for doing it this way – the answer to your original question.

When I wrote about Bridesmaids, I drew particular attention, in the context of my overall positive reaction, to the fact that, along with a minor “wouldn’t happen” observation concerning raccoons and a cake, the movie’s major comedic set-piece – a massive “Puke and Poop-Athon” at an upscale wedding dress emporium – was not adequately set up.

“Not adequately”? I’m being generous. For no reason. It’s not like the filmmakers are likely to inadvertently blunder into my blog, and go, “Oh, look. He let us off easy, by saying the sequence wasn’t adequately set up when he and we both know that it wasn’t set up at all.

“You know what? That man is forthright and honest. Let’s give him a job. In fact, let’s specifically give him the job where he demands that we adhere to rigorous standards of logic and common sense, because, when you come down to it, nobody can successfully make a movie, unless Earl Pomerantz is holding their feet –respectfully, but unswervingly – to the fire.”

Okay. Let me throw away the miniscule possibility of future employment and say, unequivocally:

They did not set up the major primary comedic set-piece of the movie at all!

There. I’ve said it, and I’ve italicized it. I feel better about myself. I took a stand. The consequences be damned.

In my view, the glaringly absent set-up has nothing to do, as commenter Jonah Davenport suggests, with how many “hands” the script went through. It is possible that, under the pressure of time and the hundreds, or who knows, maybe thousands of decisions that have to be made during production, the missing “set-up” issue simply fell through the cracks.

However, emanating from my experience, not in movies where I don't have any, but in television, where, believe it or not, creative decision-making is also involved, another, considerably more likely explanation comes to mind.

The major comedic set-piece of Bridesmaids was not set up, because whoever wielded the final say in these matters– let’s say, the producer, as a result of a string of recent box office successes – felt it would be ponderous to set the "puke-and-poop" sequence up, they believed it would be hilarious whether it was set up or not, and, most importantly, so important that nothing else really matters, they had the unchallengeable authority to enforce their opinion. Right or wrong.

And that – as the exonerated murderer Robert Blake used to say on Baretta – is the name of that tune.

Now I will show you a scene from a wonderful film, set in the arena of moviemaking, called Modern Romance. (1981, written by Albert Brooks and Monica Johnson, directed by Albert Brooks.) As with pretty much all of Brooks’ movies (with the possible exception of Defending Your Life), Modern Romance may not be solid from beginning to end, but it includes a number of hilariously memorable scenes. The following one offers the added advantage of underlining my point.

The scene is a little long, and deliberately, I believe to make its point, tedious, but I encourage you to watch it all the way through, paying particular attention to the ending, which hits the bull’s eye concerning the always tenuous relationship between power and art.

All right, this isn't art, but anyway. Albert Brooks plays an editor, currently working on a cheesy space adventure picture. Despite the schlocky nature of the project, Brooks is seriously committed to making the thing better. The film’s producer, (played by actual producer, plus writer and director, which amounts to “Power Cubed”, James L. Brooks) pops into the editing room…

And you’ll see exactly what happens, not only in this fictional version, but, I suspect, in virtually every movie ever made.

Enjoy the show

"Lemonade"

I’m on “Hold” for the phone company. They are playing music, interrupted intermittently by a recorded announcement, a commiserating female voice, saying,

“Please stay on the line. An AT&T representative will be with you shortly.”

I think about that job. Somebody had to go into a studio, and record that announcement. Who was it? And what was the basis of their selection?

A man would be wrong for the assignment. Men are generally less sympathetic. They’d be like – not their words, but you could detect it in their tone – they’d be like, “Oh, so the poor customer has to wait a few of minutes before his little phone problem gets attended to. Listen, Jerk Face. There are people with real problems in this world. You’re lucky you have a phone!”

That’s why they don’t hire men for that job. The “Audition Pool” is strictly women. My waiting time allows me to wonder how this particular woman got the job. And how exactly she feels about it. Had she studied at one of our country’s most prestigious drama schools, training to tackle the poetry of Shakespeare, the intensity of Tennessee Williams, only to land the role of,

“Please stay on the line. An AT&T representative will be with you shortly”?

And once she got the job, what kind of direction did she get at the recording session?

“Okay. We want ‘caring’, but not cloying.”

I ponder how many ‘takes’ were required before they were finally satisfied?

“That’s close, Margaret, but you sounded overly sincere, to the point of sounding insincere, if you know what I mean. They have to believe you’re sorry for keeping them on ‘Hold’, but not too sorry. I mean, we’re not doing it on purpose, for heaven’s sake. I mean, on that last ‘take’, you were entirely too consoling, like a mother going, ‘Oh, sweetheart. I bet that ‘boo boo’ really hurts.’ They’re grownups. They can handle being on ‘Hold’. Pull back on the empathy. It’s an announcement, not a ‘Condolence Call’.”

You have time to think about lots of things when you’re on “Hold” for a while. I think about how the broken phone in my office – the one calling I’m about – worked perfectly the day before. Then suddenly, there was no dial tone, and the lights on the key panel went dark. I am reminded of the times when, the day before I get sick, I am not sick at all. I think about how similar we are in that way to machines. How abruptly ideal health can transform into serious malfunction.

I think about the “due diligence” I conducted before making the call. I brought in a phone from the bedroom, to test if the problem involved the phone or the connection. The bedroom phone didn’t work in my office either. To confirm my hypothesis, I disconnected the phone in my office and I reconnected it in the bedroom. The phone now worked fine. Twice proven conclusion:

It’s not the phone. It’s the connection.

I am excited to communicate my conclusions to the AT&T representative. I am certain they’ll be impressed. Not waiting for professional assistance, I had experimented on my own, in contrast to, I am sure, many less proactive customers, who discover a phone problem and immediately collapse.

After fifteen minutes, standing with the receiver in my hand, I am really ready to talk to someone. But the time has not quite arrived. I am informed, by the same polite but not overly solicitous recorded voice that my call will be answered in the order in which it was received. The fairness of this arrangement buttresses my patience. Though I hardly enjoy extended waits on the telephone, it would be intolerable if it turned out they were playing favorites.

My mind now considers who my AT&T representative will ultimately be. Not the specific person, but what country they’ll be from. Previous repair inquiries have taught me – though the sampling is admittedly small and therefore hardly scientifically valid – that from an efficiency standpoint, I am better off with a representative from India than a representative from Eastern Europe. The single caveat here is that many representatives from India communicate in extremely quiet voices, so, though their advice is of a higher caliber than that of the representatives from Eastern Europe, you cannot understand what they’re saying. On the other hand, how valuable is it to hear a full-throated Romanian phone representative saying, “I can not help you”?

It is nearing twenty minutes, and I continue to be on “Hold.” My mind jumps to the future. We have a wedding coming up. I have, belatedly, begun pitching in. I am thinking about the toast I have to write. And the dance lessons I’m taking in preparation for the event. Though the time pressure is not imminent, I am resenting this extended delay. There are things that I need to do.

Finally, realizing the futility of my annoyance, I surrender entirely to the situation at hand. As the “Hold” music reverberates in my ear, I succumb to the rhythm, and begin practicing my dance steps.

"The Calculation"

I am attending a birthday party for a one hundred year-old woman. And the scary thing is, at my current stage of life, she does not seem that old to me.

As usual, a monumental milestone in someone else’s life leaves me thinking primarily about myself. I obviously don’t know what it’s like to be anywhere close to a hundred. But I imagine, if it were me, I’d be constantly wondering, “Is this it? “Is this it?” “I just sneezed four times in a row. Am I done?” “I want to go to the Dining Room. What are my chances of making it?”

I have a feeling that the super-elderly don’t think that way. I think it’s more like, “Where’s Harry?”, a beloved mate who “left town” over thirty years ago.

Which inevitably brings me to my next point. For the majority of people – I speak for that majority, since it would be too noisy for you to speak for yourselves – it is not so much a question of, “Will I live to be a hundred?” The answer, in most cases, even today, would be “No.” The more important question is, at whatever advanced age you reach, “Will I retain all my faculties?” The answer to that one, very likely, is also “No.”

Which takes us to the heart of the important question, that being, “Exactly how many of my faculties will I retain, and even more significantly, how many will I be willing to live without and still be okay with the idea of sticking around to see them rolling in a cake with a hundred and one candles in it? (One for “Good luck.”)

(I have chosen in this conversation not to veer into “Kevorkian Country”, because of the sadness of such situations, which would inevitably drive the tone of these proceedings irretrievably downward. Let me just affirm – and hopefully, by so affirming, I am meeting my legal obligations in this regard – that should a situation of terminal proportions befall me, I would request that the Emergency Room be bypassed in favor of a quick and painless visit to the Vet’s.)

We are talking here, not of catastrophic illness, but about the inevitable loss of faculties, more specifically, the calculation required to determine how many deleted faculties would be required before one would insistently and happily wish to call it a day.

You know what people say, maybe even you.

“I don’t mind growing old, if I can retain all my faculties.”

My reaction to that is, “That’s not going to happen.” We’re talking “Pipe Dream Country” here. I mean, it is entirely unrealistic. Even an aging Superman at some point has to settle for leaping over shorter buildings, and the “single bound” nonsense is just, “Forget about it.” Life simply doesn’t work that way. I’m sorry, but on the long journey to a hundred, certain faculties will just not be making the complete trip.

Do I know if the woman who’s hundredth birthday we are attending retains all her faculties? I do not. I don’t know her well enough to be aware of her personal history, and it seems inappropriate to inquire about them at her party.

“So, what have you lost. exactly?”

That’s not something you bring up at a Centenarian’s birthday celebration, am I right? That’s not just me being overly polite.

Her basic faculties seem to be functioning quite admirably. She resides, not in a Nursing Home, but in an “Assisted Living” facility – though “Assisted Living Facility” is an agreeably ambiguous operation, whose services range from “We cook all your meals for you” to “We press on your chest on occasion, to ‘assist’ you with your breathing.”

Acknowledging – and I don’t think I’m being inappropriately pessimistic here – that “You have to lose something“, the question then becomes, “Would you rather make it to a hundred with some missing faculties, or ‘check out’ at, say, eighty-seven totally intact?”

Discussions of this nature may be foolishly theoretical, along the lines of, “If the United States went to war against Canada, which country would you fight for?” (We actually had a heated debate on this subject at camp.)

Realistically, we have meaningful says neither in our life expectancies, nor in the departure schedule of our faculties. Still, the matter’s worth considering, if only to determine where we stand.

What also comes into play in the calculation concerning their departure is the important distinction between major and minor faculties..

“I have one permanently black toenail.”

Unattractive, but definitely minor.

“My salivary glands provide me with insufficient saliva.”

There’s a spray for that, that will bring you pretty much up to speed in the “spit” department, so that’s hardly a “deal breaker.”

“One on my fingers is numb.”

Wait a minute! One of my fingers is numb. Actually one and a half of my fingers – the “pointer” on my left hand, and the finger immediately adjacent – not the thumb, the other direction – the legacy of an alleviated pinched nerve in my back.

This, then, is not a good example, because I have that affliction, and I’m nowhere close to a hundred. I would delete the foregoing, but I fear the effort might overtax my damaged digit. And who knows? This malady could be heralding, “The beginning of the end”, so it should probably stay anyway.

There is little question as to which ones the “major” faculties are. They’re the ones that you go, “Oh, man!” to, when one of them goes away, unless the departed faculty in “speech”, in which case you just think it, and perhaps shed a tear, that is, providing that your tear duct function – a minor faculty – remains in good working order.

I guess when you get down to it, it’s an individual decision. The loss of which faculties, how many faculties, is the deterioration total or partial – the final calculation determining exactly how much you would be willing to put up with, before throwing in the towel. With the understanding, of course, that we are currently unable, except I believe in Oregon, to throw in the towel under any circumstances.

It is also probably not a question that can be responded to in advance. Your opinion may differ, when the situation actually arises. Perhaps life will feel more precious, and the calculation will no longer be,

“Two major faculties, and it’s, “Lemme outta here!”

“Loss of speech, and it’s, ‘Adios, Amigos.’ Inability to whistle? I’ll tough it out.”

“It’s over when I go, ‘Who’s that?’ and I’m looking in the mirror.”

“I lose any combination of major and minor faculties adding up to eleven – the major faculties counting as three points each, the minor ones graded on the basis of “impediments to a reasonable quality of life” – they add up to ‘eleven’, and I’m stepping in front of a bus. Assuming one of my lost faculties isn’t walking. Otherwise, I’m propelling myself out of bed, hoping that I compromise some essential organ.”

Sorry, I have to stop now. Theresa’s about to blow out her candles, and I want to see how she does.