Home Boy Hits The Gym

The number on my blood results jumped off the page: Total Cholesterol 246. It was the latest in a series of reality checks that appeared to indicate a decline in overall health. Other red flags over the last nine months included a 12-pound weight gain, the energy level of an aging panda, and a tendency to count the extra steps taken by parking farther from a store as “high-intensity exercise.”

“I have to start working out again,” I announced to my wife, a bag of potato chips in one hand, the TV remote in the other.

“Just start slow and don’t overdo it,” Sherry cautioned. “You’ve been pretty inactive, and you don’t need to try all the equipment at the gym the first time out.”

 When she said the word “gym” I cringed. The 55-plus community we moved to 6 months ago has a perfectly fine fitness center, but I had been working out at home for 20 plus years. My gym was a spare room in our house featuring a lat machine, weight bench, dumbbells, and a membership of one: me.

Working Through Workout Worries

The idea of using a gym open to others filled me with angst and unanswered questions.

How can I learn to use unfamiliar equipment without looking like a newbie? 

What’s an acceptable amount of talking, grunting, flexing or moaning?

What do I bring? A towel? Two towels? A gym bag? A backpack? A workout log? A log from a tree for bicep curls?

Should I hire a personal trainer or be my own trainer barking nonsensical orders at myself like “blast those lard barrels!” and “squat till you squawk!”

Putting nagging questions about gym etiquette aside, I decided to follow the lead of writer Joseph Campbell who said, “The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek.”

A Trip To The Cave… a.k.a. Gym.

As I entered the fitness center for the first time, I was whisked into a world where sleek, high-tech equipment stands ready to rejuvenate the tattered, time-beaten bodies of me and my fellow youth seekers.

Where does one start? The pec deck? The power rower? The cable crossover station? Let’s get real. I headed straight for the rack of dumbbells, secure in my knowledge of how to use these basic muscle building tools.

As I did some warm-up shoulder presses and hammer curls, I scanned my surroundings to survey the activities of my gym mates. All three of them. One man sat on a weight bench recovering from whatever he had just put himself through. Another roamed the floor, looking like someone in search of motivation… or possibly a misplaced water bottle. A woman worked out energetically near a mirrored wall, swinging some light weights and swaying to the sounds of a private playlist embedded in her musical memory.

The man on the weight bench walked by on his way out and offered some friendly advice: “Be careful on the ab machine. It kills your shoulders.”

“Thanks for the warning,” I replied watching him shuffle away, his drooping shoulders a pitiful casualty of my gender’s misguided pursuit of six pack abs. To my fellow man I say forget six pack abs. Ditto buns of steel. Be grateful for the camouflage of clothes and opportunities to impress others with attributes independent of the body.

Pumping Iron, Popping Advil

Emboldened by my all-access freedom in a nearly empty gym, I headed to the chest press machine and locked in the weight stack at a level that seemed appropriate. Guess again, home boy. I could barely budge the weight, and after moving the pin down another notch, not once, but twice, I became intimately acquainted with the backsliding price of my recent inertia. I would have to downshift my workout regimen to Plan B: Cut the Bull and Build Back Slowly. Okay, it’s more like plan BBB, but that acronym has other frames of reference that I’m not willing to butt buns of steel with.

For 45 minutes I meandered from machine to machine, reading instructions and trying out exercises. I did squats, presses and rows. I did pull-ups, curls and dips.  I was feeling right at home in this formerly unfamiliar world, a place where steroid-fueled he-men and narcissistic super women were noticeably missing in action. But what was also missing in action was my wife’s commonsense suggestion to take it easy my first time out.

“How’d it go?” Sherry asked as I came through the door.

“Really good,” I reported. “But I’m going to need a lot of ibuprofen the next few days.”

“What happened?”

“Remember when you said take it slow and don’t overdo it?”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, I got caught up in the moment, went all out and completely overdid it.”

As Sherry shook her head in disbelief, my mind raced for something to say to redeem myself.

“At least I’m not like the guy who killed his shoulders misusing the ab machine,” I ventured lamely. “Now he can’t lift his arms and his poor wife has to feed him by hand.”

“You would lose a lot of weight in that scenario,” Sherry predicted.

My wife. She would make an excellent personal trainer. I wonder if she’s accepting new clients?

###

Occupation: Retired

 

Recently, unbeknownst to all but a handful of Alan Williamson insiders, I threw myself into one of the greatest challenges facing civilized men and women the world over: Filling retirement with purpose while pursuing the freedom to fart around. After a transitional period of blind wheel spinning and reckless snacking, I hit the restart button on my life and did the following.

I Embraced Minimalism.

What is minimalism you ask? There are many definitions, but for me it came down to choosing quality over quantity and eliminating the surplus debris that had accumulated around me through the years.  My music collection, for example, took some deep cuts with Paul Simon, Bob Seger and Van Morrison among the survivors, while Sheena Easton, Enya, and Sounds of the Everglades said sayonara.

Winnowing the book collection was an even bigger task, requiring a level of tough love normally reserved for parents ousting live-at-home children for irreconcilable unemployment. After some careful consideration, I kept the books that were under 400 pages and cast aside the rest. While this may sound like an arbitrary choice, you should know that my favorite book genre is the short story. In fact, when I get a book of short stories, I flip through it and read the shortest stories first. Sometimes I never get around to reading the longer short stories. Some may call this lazy. I call it a great love of short stories. The shorter short stories.

We Bought A Lake House.

After decades of living in the fragile habitat holding too much humanity called South Florida, my wife Sherry and I decided to sell our home and find an oasis of sanity and serenity elsewhere in Florida. What we found instead were places that were once unspoiled hideaways, but now were traffic-clogged growth areas. Then there was the other extreme: towns that are so off the beaten path and cheerless that even the cows were alcoholics.

One night as I scrolled through the latest listings on Zillow, the holy grail of housing appeared: a lakefront charmer on an oversized lot priced to move.  I knew that properties of this quality and value were rare but decided to keep a cool head so as not to weaken my negotiating power. After looping Sherry into the situation, I casually called our realtor and with a nonchalance bordering on indifference spoke these noncommittal words: “THIS HOUSE, OUR HOUSE, MUST HAVE!!”

Beating other buyers out was surprisingly easy – a little luck and timing go a long way.  Condensing 30 years of stuff to downsize into a smaller home is a different story. We donated, sold or threw out about 25 percent of our material possessions, which left 80 boxes of belongings to bring along. As I write this months after the move, 12 boxes remain unpacked, their contents the subject of only mild curiosity to Sherry and I. In other words, they’ve taken a backseat to other priorities, such as getting away from it all.

We Took A Road Trip.

When you’ve been through a major uprooting of your life and landed in uncharted territory where you know nothing and no one, the next logical thing to do is hit the road again. So we loaded up the SUV and drove through six states to visit Sherry’s family in Michigan. Road trips, of course, aren’t as efficient as flying, but as new retirees we had the luxury of slowing down and taking the scenic route. If you have the bad timing of driving through a major city like Atlanta or Cincinnati during rush hour, you will slow down to the point where it becomes possible to leave your car, tour a local museum or historic site, and return in time to drive another 10 to 12 feet.

Sherry and I have a system on long trips that works exceptionally well. We drive in three-hour shifts stopping to refuel, stretch our legs and use the restrooms. For the sake of our mental health, we have an agreement not to speak about anything we see in the restrooms, unless it involves an unsolved mystery where we might be able to collect some reward money.

During drive time, when either of us starts to fade behind the wheel, we take a slug from Sherry’s dad’s old coffee Thermos that keeps the java piping hot for 24 hours or 1,200 miles – whichever comes first. It’s always good for a laugh when we stop into a McDonald’s or Dunkin Donuts to get the Thermos refilled and the millennial behind the counter looks at it like we’ve given him a spare part that broke off from the space shuttle.

I Started Writing Again.

When we returned home from our travels, I was in the middle of writing a grocery list when it hit me. I missed writing. Not grocery lists specifically, but observations and reflections grounded in real-life experiences. Okay, also some shameless clowning and gratuitous wordplay.

The thing is, after decades of writing professionally, I discovered that it’s fun to do it as a retired guy. Maybe somewhere down the line this writing life could lead to diminishing returns, my vocabulary reduced to words that rhyme with “warthog.”

For now, I’m content to gaze out at the lake and wait for the words to flow. Salt Log? Art Blog?

“Honey… is there any coffee left in your dad’s Thermos?”

 

###

THE MARJORIE SURGERY: How To Get Hip At 83

I’ve known my mother for a very long time. Using archival photos and anecdotal evidence, I’ve traced my relationship with Marjorie Williamson back to the time of my birth. So when she started complaining about hip and back pain that made it difficult to walk and disrupted her sleep, I knew something serious was amiss.

“It sounds like your underwear’s too tight,” I speculated, drawing on my vast personal experience as a purchaser of ill-fitting underwear. “I’ve had the same problem on and off for the last 30 years.”

“No, this is a different kind of pain,” mom asserted. “It’s so bad at times it brings me to tears.”

“Please don’t cry in front of me,” I pleaded, knowing my chances to console a weeping woman who happens to be my mother were feeble.

Flash forward nine months after a lot of painful hobbling, and mom scheduled hip replacement surgery. Looking into the procedure online, I found that approximately 400,000 Americans undergo hip replacements each year and that it’s been one of the most successful surgeries since it began. My mother took this information to mean she would have a high-speed joy ride from the operating table to pain-free living with a quick pit stop to put her feet up and pop a Tylenol.

“Every day, people with walkers, canes and wheelchairs have this surgery and experience outstanding outcomes,” I emphasized encouragingly.

“I can’t wait to be one of them,” mom smiled.

 “Still, the procedure comes with various post-surgery limitations and challenges that require round-the-clock professional care and support,” I conveyed, injecting a dose of reality to what lie ahead.

“I’ll probably need a little help for 48 hours,” she acknowledged, displaying a delusional optimism that is both inspiring and terrifying.  

To paint a not-too-gory picture of the hip replacement process, a four to six inch incision is made just below and to the outside of the groin. Two muscles are then pushed aside, giving the surgeon access to the hip socket. After a significant amount of sawing, tugging, yanking and advanced carpentry work, the natural hip is replaced with a metal and plastic implant. 

While some patients quickly get back to golf, tennis, yoga and other activities they enjoyed before their hip deteriorated, full recovery can take several months. Or to slightly adjust my mom’s projections, 48 hours … plus 90 days.

After kicking around the options for mom’s aftercare, my brother Jim and I worked out a tag-team approach where one of us would be with her at all times for the first three weeks post-surgery. Key areas of caregiving included:

- Pain management

- Medication distribution

- Food procurement and prep

- Physical therapy nudging and nagging

- Compression sock installation and removal

- Strategic phone answering and electronic device recharging

- Nighttime tucking-in-to-bed services

- Moaning and random vocal sound interpretation

“I travel all the way from Nebraska to Florida to help mom and all she does is sleep!” my brother ranted with mock indignation.

“I hear you,” I mock sympathized. “Next thing you know she’ll be asking you what’s for dinner.”

“Stir-fry,” Jim replied, suddenly serious. “When in doubt, always go with stir-fry.”

While tracking along well overall, Mom’s post-surgery road to recovery had a few early speed bumps, usually after a day where she overestimated her progress and did too much. 

I could tell what kind of a day she was having when I would say “Good morning” and she would say “Uhhhhhhhh.” Consulting my Moaning Interpretation app, I knew she was feeling a resurgence of pain. Such reality checks were uncomfortable, but useful learning experiences.

Let’s face it, choosing to have any elective surgery is no easy decision, even when you believe the end result is saying goodbye to pain and hello to a fuller, better life. At 83, I’m proud of my mom for taking that leap of faith and going for revival over survival. I’ve always admired her zest for life and youthful outlook as the years marched on.

As an active member of Team Marge, I look forward to rooting her on in her journey back to a pain-free pursuit of happiness. And because I have her best interests at heart, I will always recommend the least invasive solution to any future discomfort in the groin or pelvic area.

In other words: If the underwear’s too tight, a new pair can set things right.

What I Have Learned So Far

“Welcome To Your 60s” said a sign somewhere on the long haul between here and there. It caught me so off guard, I thought of making an illegal u-turn and heading back the way I came. With my abysmal sense of direction a shaky tour guide, I decided to stay the course. Being hopelessly lost but making good time isn’t as fun as it’s cracked up to be.

Besides, at this advanced stage of the game, a man is bound to have learned a few things – some gracefully, some clumsily, all of value for a work in progress. Here, then, are a collection of thoughts from my first 64 years. They may not always be profound, but I can promise you this: they capture pretty accurately what I’ve gleaned so far from the school of life. (By the way, I hear there’s a test tomorrow. And tomorrow. And tomorrow.)

1.) Making each day in your life count is an admirable goal. You get bonus points for making each person in your life count.

2.) Since the effort we put into things is all we can control in life, our efforts themselves represent moments of success in our journey. Celebrate your efforts, regardless of the outcomes.

3.) Life isn’t short – we just waste too much of it. Use your time and energy to love, learn, help and create.

4.) Goals and dreams add meaning to life, but don't overlook the value of moment-to-moment enjoyment. Talking with a friend, taking a walk, enjoying a book or a meal or some music all have their pleasures. And you don't have to wait for "someday" to reap the rewards.

5.) Live with gratitude, compassion and a sense of wonder and you'll earn the biggest rewards no matter what you do or where you go.

6.) The news of the day is often disturbing. But we can all take heart in the presence of good people everywhere who make the world a better place with their intelligence, humor, integrity and compassion.

7.) It's a nice place to get to in life where nothing much dazzles you but you enjoy a quiet appreciation for many things. (I’m there and I do.)

8.) We cannot be a source of strength to others unless we cultivate our own strength. Value yourself. Feed your mind healthy thoughts. Develop your gifts and talents. Nurture your spiritual growth. You are worth it ... and others will benefit from your commitment to get the most out of your life.

9.) If you try too hard to strengthen your weaknesses, you’re likely to weaken your strengths. Embrace who you are and what you’re good at and find the joy in playing that role of a lifetime.

10.) Protect and enhance your supply of spiritual energy. You’ll need it to love yourself, love life, and live fully in the moment.

11.) Love and laughter are the two most positive forces in the universe. If you make them a priority, you will find a way to make the world a better place.

12.) The loved ones we lose always stay part of us. And the love lives on.

13.) The Signs of Human Beings At Their Best: Acts of kindness; Laughter that uplifts; The instinct to help; Doing the right thing when no one's looking; Creating more, consuming less; Choosing love over hate.

14.) About popularity: It’s nice when people like you. Make sure you like you.

15.) A little self-criticism is good. It’s that voice in your head that says “I can do better.”

16.) Learn from all your experiences. Grow from all your experiences. Then nothing is wasted. Nothing is lost.

17.) Don’t make mountains out of molehills. You’ll reduce stress and save energy for the issues and situations that really matter.

18.) It’s nice to be important, but more important to be nice.

19.) We are asleep until we fall in love. With someone. With something. With Life.

20.) Be curious. About people. About places. About things. Live a life fueled by curiosity and you will find yourself on a journey of discovery and growth that will enrich you in unimaginable ways.

21.) Every day you make your partner laugh is a good day.

22.) The best people to hang with are smart, funny and kind. (I’ll accept two out of three as long as one of the traits is kindness.)

23.) Our life is a battle to fill our subconscious with good news instead of bad. Give yourself the good news: You are unique, you are needed, you are loved.

24.) When all is said and done, perhaps the ups and downs of our lives are secondary to being able to say without hesitation: "I really tried. I did my best."

###

MITCH MICCOSUKEE, MANGO KING P.I.

The Case Of The Missing Mrs.

It was 8 a.m. at Dottie’s Downtown Diner and the counter and booths were filling up fast. Mitch Miccosukee slid into a booth set back from the bustle and waited for his client, Horace Lutz.

Within seconds Dee Dee popped into view, an old-school waitress who never wrote anything down and always got everything right.

“Morning, Mitch. Whacha having?”

“Morning, Dee Dee. Give me two eggs over easy, sausage links, hash browns, whole wheat toast and black coffee.”

“You got it,” Dee Dee chirped, already kitchen bound and moving fast.

Mitch looked toward the front door just as Horace Lutz lumbered in. A meaty man with a bowlegged gait and downcast gaze, he was a familiar sight around town shopping or dining with his wife Olga. They’d been married for 42 years, becoming one of those couples that achieve a kind of brand identity – Horace & Olga, Olga & Horace. No one ever thought of one without the other. That is until a couple days ago when Olga went missing.

Mitch motioned to the empty seat across from him. “Morning Horace, how you holding up?”

“Surviving,” Horace grumbled. “Worried sick about, Olga.”

“Of course you are,” Mitch said consolingly. “You have my word that I’ll do everything in my power to help you find her.”

“I appreciate that,” Horace mumbled. “The police were no help.”

Just then Dee Dee popped up tableside with Mitch’s breakfast. “Can I get you something, Horace.”

“Just coffee, black.”

“Coming right up.”

Mitch picked up his fork and took a tentative poke at his hash browns while eyeing Horace intently.

“Tell me about the day Olga went missing. It was Wednesday, right?”

“Right. We were out for our morning walk,” Horace recollected. “Well, I waddled, she walked.”

Mitch smiled at the mental image.

“After a mile or so, she was still feeling pretty peppy and I was pooped.  I told her ‘happy trails’ and headed back to the house to wait for her return. I’m still waiting.” 

“Is there a way she would have gone out of habit – a specific street, direction, route?”

“We stuck to certain streets within the neighborhood, ones with less traffic, better scenery, friendlier dogs,” Horace indicated.

“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary in the area that day?”

Horace looked up at the ceiling for a moment, running through the streets in his mind.

“Nothing that stands out,” he concluded.

Mitch jotted some notes down as Horace talked.

“What about Olga? Did she seem like she had something on her mind that day … something distracting her?”

Horace put his coffee cup down and slowly sat back.  “The truth is, Olga had something on her mind at all times. She was always thinking, daydreaming, brain-storming. I can’t count how many times I’d have to yell for her to stop right as she was going to step in front of a bike or runner or something.”

“Well, the good news is, if she was in an accident, we’d know it by now,” Mitch assured.

“So what do we do now?” Horace asked glumly.

“You are going home to get some rest,” Mitch asserted. “I’m going to get to work.”

With his worried client’s words fresh in his head, Mitch Miccosukee drove over to Evergrass Groves to search for clues on the missing Mrs. Lutz. A working class burb in the central Florida town of Mosquito Lake, Evergrass is an unassuming cluster of modest homes with an abundance of kids and pets and an absence of crime and commotion.

Mitch traced the route Horace and Olga had covered together on the day of her disappearance, then canvassed a web of streets within a three-mile radius beyond where they parted ways. Other than a cordoned off area protecting a sinkhole and some construction at a home being remodeled, everything appeared neat, tidy and empty of explanations.

“Where you hiding, Olga?” Mitch muttered as he surveyed the world outside his windshield. “Are you off somewhere daydreaming while your husband waits and wallows?”

Needing to clear his head and regroup, Mitch decided to swing by his house to pick some mangoes off the freakishly large tree in his backyard. He often bragged to friends that during the peak of the season the tree was capable of feeding every squirrel, bird, iguana and human in the known mango-eating civilized world.

His favorite part of mango season was using “the picker” to pluck high hanging fruit from the upper branches of the tree. The picker is an eight foot long pole with a molded plastic basket on the end that allows normal sized people to pull down mangos like a fruit-loving giant from a children’s fairy tale.

The thrill of luring mangos down from their lofty perches was a real adrenaline rush for Mitch, and when he spotted a rare beauty about 20 feet up the tree he moved in for the conquest. Just as he maneuvered the picker into position, a squirrel with impeccable timing boldly leaped from a nearby branch and clasped onto the prize fruit deflecting his picker with its long bushy tail and strong hind legs. Momentarily stunned, Mitch regained his balance using the picker to joust and jab at the mango-crazed rodent.

“Stick to gathering nuts and seeds, you mangy tree rat,” he taunted. “How would you like to spend the rest of your life in a small cage spinning around on one of those little wheels?”

After a frenzied battle that dislodged a couple dozen mangoes and coated Mitch and the picker in sap and fur, the insurgent squirrel begrudgingly gave up and took flight. As he disappeared over the fence, Mitch raised the coveted fruit to his mouth, chomp off a hearty bite and bellowed triumphantly, “Who dares challenge the Mango King!?”

Glancing at the picker in his juice-drenched hand, Mitch had a connect-the-dots moment that made him view an earlier sighting with fresh eyes. It was time to pick up Horace and circle back to Evergrass Groves in search of a prize more rewarding than backyard mango.

The light of day was in twilights’ last gleaming mode when Mitch and Horace pulled up to the barricades encircling the sinkhole.  With its moist tropical climate, Florida was particularly susceptible to these collapses in the earth’s surface layer. Their scope can range from a pot-hole-size depression to a crater that eats a three-story building like it was a burrito.

Mitch grabbed the picker out of his SUV and skirted around the barricades to find a sturdy spot. With Horace holding his feet, he slithered down on his stomach thrusting the pole out in front of him and down into the hole.

“Olga! Olga Lutz!” he shouted. “Are you down there? My name’s Mitch. Your husband Horace hired me to look for you.”

Silence hung heavy in the air as the sinking feeling of a misguided hunch began to wash over Mitch.

“I’m here to help,” he added, as if assuring a hesitant homeowner that he wasn’t trying to sell something. “Your husband is here with me and he’s a nervous wreck.”

“We’ve come to take you home, darling,” Horace croaked hopefully. “We ain’t leaving without you.”

The unbroken silence brought Mitch to the brink of despair. But then, just when all appeared lost, he felt … something.

Looking down at the picker he saw a tug, like the moment a fish is caught on the line. He tightened his grip and pulled up on the pole as if to reel in a snapper or grouper. Or a 79 year old woman named Olga.

“I’m here!” Olga cried out. “Thank you, thank you.”

Horace let out a jubilant roar. “Yessss! Thank God!”

“Here, give me your hand,” Mitch instructed.

Olga clutched the picker with one hand and reached out to Mitch with the other as he hoisted her up and over the sinkhole’s edge and into Horace’s waiting arms.

“Are you alright?” Mitch gasped, massaging his throbbing arms.

“I think so,” Olga speculated. “How long was I down there?”

“Two days, 14 hours, 26 minutes,” Horace pinpointed. “What the heck happened, honey?”

“I was walking along and felt a rumble like a big truck was coming by. Only I didn’t see any truck and then I felt the ground crumble and cave in. I just tucked and rolled with it until I hit bottom.”

Mitch listened in amazement. “Did you call out for help?”

“I was afraid if I yelled I might trigger another landslide. So I just laid low and daydreamed about what I would do when I got out.”

 “You are one cool cookie,” Horace observed glowingly. “And you must be starved.”

“Well, now that you mention it, is it my imagination or do I smell mango?”

“That’s just my fruit picking pole,” Mitch said sheepishly.

“Let’s get you some real food,” Horace chuckled. “Care to join us at Dottie’s Diner Mitch?”

“Thanks for the offer, but you two have some catching up to do,” Mitch begged off. “Besides, I’ve got some mangoes to pick, and if I don’t do it the squirrels and iguanas will. Rain check?”

“Rain check,” Horace and Olga echoed in unison.

As Mitch pulled in his driveway that evening, something in his field of vision looked out of whack. Feeling a vague uneasiness, he slung his picker over his shoulder and walked around the side of the house to the backyard.

There, where the mango tree had been, was an enormous sinkhole. He threw the picker in and drove to Dottie’s.

###

 

DEAR ALAN ...

COMMONSENSE ADVICE FOR 
THE CURIOUS AND CONFUSED

Dear Alan: My husband and I are having a baby girl and are thinking of naming her Odette after my beloved grandfather Otis. Good choice?

Dear Naming Novice: The results are mixed when you try and turn a male name into a female name. Just ask Edwina, Henrietta, and Alberta. (Be careful approaching Henrietta though. She's very sensitive and may even insist you've made a mistake and that her name's Gabrielle, you bonehead.)

Dear Alan:  I’m concerned that I’m watching too much television. How much time on average do people spend in front of the TV?

Dear Couch Carcass:  FACT: Americans on average watch close to four hours of TV a day. FACT: Those who skimp on personal hygiene and sleep are able to watch six hours of TV a day. FACT: Overuse of the word "fact" as an attention-getter causes readers to glaze over and wonder what's on TV.

 

Dear Alan: Is it true that drinking coffee can boost my productivity?

Dear Buzzy: A well-timed cup of coffee has been proven to spike cognitive function and elevate productivity for an hour or more. This explains the morning I ran 5 miles, detailed my car, built a guest cottage in my backyard and helped police solve a string of robberies, all before 9 a.m.

 

Dear Alan: How can we make the travel experience safer for airline passengers?

Dear Soaring Eagle: Currently, before a plane takes off, flight attendants instruct all passengers in the use of emergency equipment and check to see that seatbelts are fastened and seats are in the upright positions. 

Let’s also have them make the following announcement: “Before we take off, we ask that all passengers please check fellow passengers in your immediate area for any screwballs, weirdoes, wackos, misfits, haunted drifters or fidgety religious fanatics.”

 

Dear Alan:  Whenever I’m posing for a group photo, I get a sickening feeling that I’m going to ruin it. Any tips?

Dear Shutter Bugged:  When someone’s taking a picture and you’re on the far end of a group shot, ignore the fear that you’ll be cut out of the photo and refrain from doing an exaggerated lean-in. If you get partially cut out, the photographer will be the one at fault. If you lean in too far and ruin the photo, you’ll forever be the bozo who blocked out Aunt Adeline on her 100^th birthday. So relax, smile, and don’t block out Aunt Adeline.

Dear Alan: I get annoyed when I hold open a door for someone and they don’t say “thanks.” I’m a gentleman by nature, but what can I do to let them know that’s not cool?

Dear Door Dissed: A gentleman will always hold the door open for someone coming along behind him. If that person passes through without saying thanks, the gentleman may throw a cross body block on the individual, pin him or her to the ground, and dangle spit in their face until they acknowledge the gesture.

 

Dear Alan:  I've been told that when we sneeze it's to clear allergens or irritants from our nasal passages. So why is it that I sometimes sneeze when I walk outside into bright sunlight?

Dear Nostril-domus: What you perceive as a sneeze is actually a solar powered propulsion of tiny aliens who've been conserving energy in your nostrils and are now beginning their flight back to the planet Sinus. So next time you look at the sun and sneeze, yell "Goodbye golden nuggets," and wave vigorously until it's time for you to go back inside and lie down.

 

Dear Alan: When I lift weights at the gym, I have a habit of grunting like a hippopotamus in heat. What’s the proper vocal release during an intense session?

Dear King Thong: In the midst of even the most strenuous workout, a considerate gym member does not grunt more loudly than necessary. As an alternative, he may yell out "Yo Yo Ma!" but only if remaining silent would risk injury to himself or others.

Dear Alan: I love to grill, but I’m tired of the same old steaks and fish. Any advice to shake things up?

Dear Smokey: Shish kabobs are a great way to add variety to your BBQ menu. Just throw some shrimp, pineapple, chicken and a few miscellaneous items from a junk drawer on a skewer and watch your guests swoon!

Dear Alan: What’s your take on life and love?

Dear Starving Wisdom Seeker:  Life is a mystery, love is a riddle, hi diddle, ho diddle, hey diddle diddle. (Sorry about that, but once you use the word "riddle" in a poem you've pretty much unlocked the door to diddle.)

###

Mellowing Out With Karen, Gordon and Lionel

I was driving around town listening to the radio the other day and I heard Kenny Rodgers sing “She Believes In Me” followed by John Denver singing “Sunshine On My Shoulders” followed by the Captain and Tennille singing “Love Will Keep Us Together.” 

Looking for a logical explanation for this odd string of oldies, I came to two possible conclusions:

1)    I had hit a pothole that somehow triggered a time-travel episode landing me back in the 1970s.

2)    A new easy listening station had invaded the airwaves.

Since a quick reality check confirmed I wasn’t wearing bell bottoms or flipping the hair out of my eyes every 10 seconds, I latched onto the new radio station theory. Of course, I use the word “new” loosely when referring to a station where Olivia Newton John and the Bee Gees are topping the charts and Lionel Richie is still dancing on the ceiling.

Frankly, I have a dysfunctional come closer/go away relationship with easy listening radio. On the positive side, there’s that irresistible thrill one gets when an all-time favorite song pops up, like unexpectedly running into an old friend. That’s how I feel when I hear “Operator” by Jim Croce or “Blue Bayou” by Linda Ronstadt or “Handyman” by James Taylor.

On the negative side, easy listening can quickly turn into queasy listening when sappy slush begins to crowd out the joys of timeless musical gems. That’s how I feel when I hear “Can’t Smile Without You” by Barry Manilow or “My Eyes Adored You” by Frankie Valli or “Sometimes When We Touch (The Reality’s Too Much)” by Dan Hill. Copy that, Dan.

The worst moments come when, in spite of your self-image as an enlightened connoisseur of music as a dynamic expression of the human experience, you find yourself singing along to some gooey slab of schmaltz like the Carpenter’s “They Long To Be Close To You.” 

Before you chalk it up to a harmless moment of weakness, let’s recite a snippet of the actual lyrics, shall we?

Why do birds suddenly appear, everytime you are near?

Just like me, they long to be close to you.  

Still skeptical? Here’s more . . .

Why do stars fall down from the sky, every time you walk by?

Just like me they long to be close to you.

 Call it a “guilty pleasure” if you like, but the ability and willingness to sing along with this or any other Carpenter’s song is a sign that your connection to any form of cutting-edge, contemporary music is hanging by a thread. What’s next, swooning to the silky smooth croonings of Canadian songbird Anne Murray? Dancing to the slick pop stylings of Tony Orlando & Dawn? Partying to the power ballads of Minnie Riperton?

As I teeter between this time-warped world of seductive simplicity and today’s plugged-in power surge of life-in-progress complexity, I see the slippery musical slope before me. 

One minute you’re privately cranking up the car radio to hear an endearing piece of 40-year-old fluff like Peaches and Herb’s “Reunited,” the next you’re telling some mystified 20 year old about Peaches and Herb, or the Fifth Dimension, or Air Supply. What’s that, punk? You never heard of Air Supply? Now don’t make me sing one of their songs to jog your memory. Oops, too late.

I’m lying alone, with my head on the phone,

thinking of you till it hurts.

I know you hurt too, but what else can we do?

Tormented and torn apart.

Not ringing any bells? Here’s the chorus . . .

I’m all out of love, what am I without you?

I can’t be too late to say I was so wrong.

 

Look, some like the breathless zeal and simpleminded worship of easy listening songs and some don’t. Judging from my tendency to turn the radio up at the first sign of any Gordon Lightfoot song, I probably have a higher tolerance for it then a lot of people. But I still worry about the addictive perils of prolonged ballad abuse.

There’s a line that must not be crossed and pretending that line isn’t there is dangerous. For some the line is drawn at Karen Carpenter. For others, Neil Diamond. For others still, it’s any duet involving Tony Bennett, even if he’s paired with Elvis Costello or Bono. For me, I’ll know I’ve reached the point of no return when I hear the DJ say:

“Stay tuned for more soft and mellow favorites to ease you through your cheesy, breezy life.”