tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89775203954559997122024-03-19T08:09:53.693-04:00I Was Born Very Youngjoelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04363843095563741698noreply@blogger.comBlogger733125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8977520395455999712.post-39199276765006179052024-03-09T09:31:00.013-05:002024-03-13T21:18:11.890-04:00Ballad of the Big Prostate<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-emoji: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: left;">Here’s a little country tune I wrote just yesterday to commemorate a dark day in my history. I don’t have a tune but realized you can use any cowboy song ever made. </span></p><p></p><div><br /><b><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjglyLqCGhQgJ0hT3bbgCqMU8VBLWUhmxNIQ1xu3po1raC-77idfss_o3f4bUKwBOAXtIsC0ZOVy0FA6douvSI9uA2CtyVcFm6r8wAx8xatfuEPU_A8dIs58CdTtadA4JYzWpHaAIA0WDZy9_q4vegmx0NCcQNRS0DOR6do7pCjNkzSbL01OwB87x7N3CKT/s562/IMG_2357.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="562" data-original-width="490" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjglyLqCGhQgJ0hT3bbgCqMU8VBLWUhmxNIQ1xu3po1raC-77idfss_o3f4bUKwBOAXtIsC0ZOVy0FA6douvSI9uA2CtyVcFm6r8wAx8xatfuEPU_A8dIs58CdTtadA4JYzWpHaAIA0WDZy9_q4vegmx0NCcQNRS0DOR6do7pCjNkzSbL01OwB87x7N3CKT/s320/IMG_2357.jpeg" width="279" /></a></div><br /></span><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">There comes the day you realize,</span></b></div><div><b><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">Your prostate has grown oversized.<br /></span><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">Your bladder strains. </span></b></div><div><b><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">ou hold on to the wall. </span></b></div><div><b><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br /></span><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">And here you stand,</span><br /><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">Your friend in hand,</span><br /><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">Cursing, screaming , all you can.</span><br /><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">Just to get those precious drops to fall. </span></b></div><div><b><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br /></span><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">Now, in the past you had a stream. </span><br /><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">But today it’s just a dream. </span><br /><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">The pain’s too much and you can’t stop the tears.</span></b></div><div><b><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br /></span><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">Your doctor tells you not to wait. </span><br /><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">The ER now … don’t hesitate. </span><br /><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">So off you go to face your biggest fears. </span></b></div><div><b><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br /></span><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">And sure enough your fate is sealed, </span><br /><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">When tests are done and then revealed. </span><br /><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">A catheter is ordered at that time. </span></b></div><div><b><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br /></span><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggt0d7aLOsDRDvGrf6qs2owBkbd2oHGS7ta9nEd2Sc6JQHz3wOB5dCcFPFXX23FuwDmc_Uw-sYg4FlKXX81rv6LVKOEWa8uDOO9nESQzjqxnxsewlFqL5576Dti588nbzN9GcXzZoPFwFRyl7e2pyvrZccy6J6GrvI2ZBN6E3MbcBFUABzeFx4NQYfgQMe/s242/IMG_2356.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="242" data-original-width="170" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggt0d7aLOsDRDvGrf6qs2owBkbd2oHGS7ta9nEd2Sc6JQHz3wOB5dCcFPFXX23FuwDmc_Uw-sYg4FlKXX81rv6LVKOEWa8uDOO9nESQzjqxnxsewlFqL5576Dti588nbzN9GcXzZoPFwFRyl7e2pyvrZccy6J6GrvI2ZBN6E3MbcBFUABzeFx4NQYfgQMe/s1600/IMG_2356.jpeg" width="170" /></a></div>A guy named Bruce knocks on your door. </span><br /><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">He says it’s you he’s looking for. </span><br /><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">John Wayne Gacy’s face just comes to mind. </span></b></div><div><b><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br /></span><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">He says of course “there won’t be pain.”</span><br /><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">He lied of course the pain’s insane. </span><br /><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">Bathed in sweat you’re <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>praying for the end. </span></b></div><div><b><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br /></span><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">Finally done he doesn’t stay. </span></b></div><div><b><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">John Wayne Gacy goes away. </span><br /><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">And you are left there naked with no pride. </span></b></div><div><b><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br /></span><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">If there’s <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>a moral to this story. </span><br /><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">It’s not great, for that I’m sorry, </span><br /><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">“Father Time is on the other side.”</span></b></div><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 28px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 34px; text-align: left;"><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"></span></p>joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04363843095563741698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8977520395455999712.post-51355018786380419922023-01-29T17:01:00.004-05:002023-01-29T17:01:57.014-05:00Madrid: We Have “Arrived”<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd9667XiMdrNvk5EhboWvatz9vEXacrePoFwH9oqWaNSLZgQdr9GKHNb0uO9U39buJ9aq0Sv2C-CWTHmS_uoQkQhSAoe76nSATBbXzBNkvoYxHUVgST7G-iBBzUQEfz5utYQnatl9k-yBT4isrU3U7BZU6oBAY6R9eDM_n_GHqZyWJvxtdu9TEIRb8iw/s4032/1577DE99-43D3-4E4D-ACB5-703BED193E52.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd9667XiMdrNvk5EhboWvatz9vEXacrePoFwH9oqWaNSLZgQdr9GKHNb0uO9U39buJ9aq0Sv2C-CWTHmS_uoQkQhSAoe76nSATBbXzBNkvoYxHUVgST7G-iBBzUQEfz5utYQnatl9k-yBT4isrU3U7BZU6oBAY6R9eDM_n_GHqZyWJvxtdu9TEIRb8iw/s320/1577DE99-43D3-4E4D-ACB5-703BED193E52.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>We arrived in Madrid late this afternoon and checked in to the most incredible place we’ve ever stayed in. <div><br /></div><div>The name should have been a dead give away: Mandarin Oriental Ritz. <p></p><p></p><p>Of course not being among the seasoned travelers who only stay at the finest hotels in the world, we suffered temporary culture shock when we walked through the front door. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwIoOrqxusq5UqB40l_sr5h_UtcdQOtF-5PbDRknEAK0UFMminIK6tiguMeMEd6R1JflENhFiOE-kNTPid7o0ZpNnSl9sq35PAwugx5--s-_XbAUygWxQ8EB3i-qzhwPYFN80kpmkLFn3AoliY8pxxwVJnVrJ2mHHZlCBAwH_wHv-Gl09UmWl4dff-ug/s4032/E68D916E-B165-42F2-A659-D3245ED2B66A.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwIoOrqxusq5UqB40l_sr5h_UtcdQOtF-5PbDRknEAK0UFMminIK6tiguMeMEd6R1JflENhFiOE-kNTPid7o0ZpNnSl9sq35PAwugx5--s-_XbAUygWxQ8EB3i-qzhwPYFN80kpmkLFn3AoliY8pxxwVJnVrJ2mHHZlCBAwH_wHv-Gl09UmWl4dff-ug/s320/E68D916E-B165-42F2-A659-D3245ED2B66A.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>And get this … Everyone (including the doorman) knew our names. They took us on a tour of the hotel and were greeted by bartenders, hostesses, a butler (yes we had a butler for our room who gave me his cell number). <br /><p></p><p>Our room … was incredible. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfC_-387hw2nhfgvMAfz5JSbnCTULAcubTtKHitga_p2z38kLKm7419Zde7e8Ldetzvx1klDye7NsXmrS2LDuwAj-B_j5MpIyjBi66BuHpHDZsqJysief9KXZV0FmsHvsh14jFaaFXs7TfnpmQsbAWs25X7H-1di5J6GRdmIV5jl4TGw0g4eAvIeIxlA/s4032/0BDE7AAC-7A56-4B96-B5ED-069D8CBDFA8E.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfC_-387hw2nhfgvMAfz5JSbnCTULAcubTtKHitga_p2z38kLKm7419Zde7e8Ldetzvx1klDye7NsXmrS2LDuwAj-B_j5MpIyjBi66BuHpHDZsqJysief9KXZV0FmsHvsh14jFaaFXs7TfnpmQsbAWs25X7H-1di5J6GRdmIV5jl4TGw0g4eAvIeIxlA/s320/0BDE7AAC-7A56-4B96-B5ED-069D8CBDFA8E.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>As I looked around the room I spotted two fancy water bottles with labels I recognized right away. They were the covers of two of my books. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilX2Kv33SrAB1Vhbmp6UISbZNdlL_jL2YnZfSfTspMdXrwvcmgGns-9ThDs-2jTXeoHxBYI5VVGl59VR6mz3XPP2UiaAX2N8rZTrm316l9Wk8K0m_8Ii8RoIVoLBH9PKg63-Gk9GCsAaP0Fj2Mkn-RMxCiHJniI6Fmi3tIdnLL2htYstc57O1pGhkM6w/s4032/EB5D47CA-7C26-438E-953F-A4267F0A4195.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilX2Kv33SrAB1Vhbmp6UISbZNdlL_jL2YnZfSfTspMdXrwvcmgGns-9ThDs-2jTXeoHxBYI5VVGl59VR6mz3XPP2UiaAX2N8rZTrm316l9Wk8K0m_8Ii8RoIVoLBH9PKg63-Gk9GCsAaP0Fj2Mkn-RMxCiHJniI6Fmi3tIdnLL2htYstc57O1pGhkM6w/s320/EB5D47CA-7C26-438E-953F-A4267F0A4195.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>And the bed had two pillow sheets monogrammed with D and J. <p></p><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM4OQs6epBa09EcfOfSsnsCVjQisn_Xvoss3hGgCrSfPNeQzWm5UTPX0z_eiyV-LRAeOzpSETHWtOv9P04vmUenvBUiffENRmsXrf_hSb8s_KdgZiNqEgk2jmNqv9bx22YnXhTKAixbCfYZ1z9Puem7JAcbghjw1-SPEuINSIvnSpJvyZeG97FMZS8SA/s4032/B5A7B071-F833-477E-9274-CEDBE86109E2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM4OQs6epBa09EcfOfSsnsCVjQisn_Xvoss3hGgCrSfPNeQzWm5UTPX0z_eiyV-LRAeOzpSETHWtOv9P04vmUenvBUiffENRmsXrf_hSb8s_KdgZiNqEgk2jmNqv9bx22YnXhTKAixbCfYZ1z9Puem7JAcbghjw1-SPEuINSIvnSpJvyZeG97FMZS8SA/s320/B5A7B071-F833-477E-9274-CEDBE86109E2.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br />I kid you not. Our initials were on the pillows.</div><div><br /></div><div>And next to the bed was a picture of Deb and I from my website. </div><div>I realize there are many of you that read my blog laughing hysterically at my lack of sophistication … especially those of you that have stayed at a Mandarin Hotel. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvKiMCcB-wFSHYsOUk6Q-53ESldWmpkIKtgKFVantLy6xTuQng8403J8uage8nZFBj0O5BGRGGPc9j-EnCegLrgHB6C52od4BAk2Jg5gBf7jPBuVqwklaJVIVNfm6spIOIO1ub21cEX_FSEE-RNQoRpyxojHKphwUpEeP7T9-6j4FnL_XKTjuGD1ss5A/s4032/452E6B28-C521-4890-895E-93E5231C6FF9.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvKiMCcB-wFSHYsOUk6Q-53ESldWmpkIKtgKFVantLy6xTuQng8403J8uage8nZFBj0O5BGRGGPc9j-EnCegLrgHB6C52od4BAk2Jg5gBf7jPBuVqwklaJVIVNfm6spIOIO1ub21cEX_FSEE-RNQoRpyxojHKphwUpEeP7T9-6j4FnL_XKTjuGD1ss5A/s320/452E6B28-C521-4890-895E-93E5231C6FF9.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>Bottom line. These folks have figured out how to make each guest feel like he or she is special, unique and important. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnPO1oGjeUdy5lbHvV-0ZMSrWsGWjzPI5XYc7RDCU7FDz4Cbuix2FsVZJJL_mgPmEQOnwwVnij7yVUEna-RERMcbXSavihTzpgq0yLl3QKHzuRMYDcs4UQtzwF9wPbn_oROc5Dm6VRD0mthLT1rFM5TxbB9iwxbTULkRVytqeLTfZ5pr4o7znHuXJxeg/s4032/C89EBC83-A024-495F-8EBD-1BCA443E3EBE.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnPO1oGjeUdy5lbHvV-0ZMSrWsGWjzPI5XYc7RDCU7FDz4Cbuix2FsVZJJL_mgPmEQOnwwVnij7yVUEna-RERMcbXSavihTzpgq0yLl3QKHzuRMYDcs4UQtzwF9wPbn_oROc5Dm6VRD0mthLT1rFM5TxbB9iwxbTULkRVytqeLTfZ5pr4o7znHuXJxeg/s320/C89EBC83-A024-495F-8EBD-1BCA443E3EBE.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>On that note, we are headed to the lobby. I need to talk to my new friend, the bartender.. TTFN</div><div><br /></div></div>joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04363843095563741698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8977520395455999712.post-10860990256470927032023-01-28T12:22:00.005-05:002023-02-02T15:38:46.888-05:00Barcelona: There's Nothing Gaudy about Gaudi<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUVQY1WIAIsdERjcpmZU1DhVh_f2DQjHqLCB8E4cSLyYtTwC6dfrbEXn0KFm9oA6iZwBSvUVIfMa8TuIzBx7VMas2jogiZrvYYfu-vQXoxysO1AQs8EDLM23UIFIPl9k1t5kQoz4iGiFIG60CuZ_2wzLXUq73rgzE3if8AnxlenPRYQm3b6wb8g_63PQ/s4032/8758F4B9-D64D-46D4-A261-97B90958B99D.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUVQY1WIAIsdERjcpmZU1DhVh_f2DQjHqLCB8E4cSLyYtTwC6dfrbEXn0KFm9oA6iZwBSvUVIfMa8TuIzBx7VMas2jogiZrvYYfu-vQXoxysO1AQs8EDLM23UIFIPl9k1t5kQoz4iGiFIG60CuZ_2wzLXUq73rgzE3if8AnxlenPRYQm3b6wb8g_63PQ/s320/8758F4B9-D64D-46D4-A261-97B90958B99D.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>It was cold today. <p></p><p>But when Deb and I stood in front of Antonio Gaudi’s La Sagrada Familia, the famous and one of the largest churches in the world … we barely noticed the wind. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKRPzipFSim8coDpFobdALz6Vp6BRcGnlurva9SNKRlWpKS-oKo2SuqewJK3kUIYcooWDxOK_mgk2vFfrlmy3moFSSpEMVh_YzlUJhTxz0gm9pe2dhHVXBrWk_vwuaQvBOBjdcbMVelnHxscqFNudvMSsBPCnImdfvGzvzMBx6dRAG1ooq2LIifi5WXw/s4032/0387F58A-5687-4A07-8CAA-405FAB58D223.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKRPzipFSim8coDpFobdALz6Vp6BRcGnlurva9SNKRlWpKS-oKo2SuqewJK3kUIYcooWDxOK_mgk2vFfrlmy3moFSSpEMVh_YzlUJhTxz0gm9pe2dhHVXBrWk_vwuaQvBOBjdcbMVelnHxscqFNudvMSsBPCnImdfvGzvzMBx6dRAG1ooq2LIifi5WXw/s320/0387F58A-5687-4A07-8CAA-405FAB58D223.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>It took our breath away. <p></p><p>It was absolutely one of the most impressive buildings we have ever seen. </p><p>Just as background … the large-scale work that began on March 19, 1882, from a project of the diocesan architect Francisco de Paula Del Villar. In 1883, Gaudi oversaw the works of the basilica, a task that he did not abandon until his death in 1926. Since then, different architects have continued the construction always under the influence of Gaudí's final drawings.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2QOHKlsWy4Dfx8XoUiYxiq6LgayNwF3tYbdNL3hL0ShrbCm8DQpGKRCVbYMdU0BB-Rpsk45cRfAuVYFiRT28Chis51KSLW9imzRM6TzxotgT2cqyRTmQo4J_furtbuEOWR9u5kSPwZnqCClEkGH7N8kSIM6etDFckgupKbK1OlIHGhWfFmj5QoQoufg/s4032/22E9F039-55D3-46CB-8699-BA13CF7B764B.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2QOHKlsWy4Dfx8XoUiYxiq6LgayNwF3tYbdNL3hL0ShrbCm8DQpGKRCVbYMdU0BB-Rpsk45cRfAuVYFiRT28Chis51KSLW9imzRM6TzxotgT2cqyRTmQo4J_furtbuEOWR9u5kSPwZnqCClEkGH7N8kSIM6etDFckgupKbK1OlIHGhWfFmj5QoQoufg/s320/22E9F039-55D3-46CB-8699-BA13CF7B764B.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>The engineering marvel was without traditional buttresses. Instead, Gaudi worked years on creating columns the were various sizes and angles to balance the weight of the building. The result looked like a forest of trees. <p></p><p>The light and color from the large windows added to the feeling of bringing nature inside. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQB0c6SiXsx01CemAZNXOkXhC9zmabGWgGp8QEmNzZF-6UM7AQqWOjWznumfGPT08-wOq_wuAsH4n686hxY15YS53092GTSnUR6gAIFxoCDzjyJM9J5ivbDw64Qr-czdzfGK0qOxkHGdfaj9PBrjG-KSz5XP4BbfrYPuj2jtXJMTaHMZFxtFgFbP47Wg/s4032/61B87626-1D46-4214-862F-EE7C8A086B97.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQB0c6SiXsx01CemAZNXOkXhC9zmabGWgGp8QEmNzZF-6UM7AQqWOjWznumfGPT08-wOq_wuAsH4n686hxY15YS53092GTSnUR6gAIFxoCDzjyJM9J5ivbDw64Qr-czdzfGK0qOxkHGdfaj9PBrjG-KSz5XP4BbfrYPuj2jtXJMTaHMZFxtFgFbP47Wg/s320/61B87626-1D46-4214-862F-EE7C8A086B97.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>The doors were decorated with bible verses.<p></p><p>Debbie can translate each one … she’s very talented. She quotes them to me every day. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIiHStJ8tOitUatEP2KKV6HmMU-IN1zJCQ_ZMKeayox8tV2zpltrBjQwd8GLnldc0c40AOPx_X6te_dtyMxmO79FiocsRY5c02D2bN8PRpE8HG7ckH1brqhkGKGbAA6H4ryur910ICWyltbN6uc0gMKvIFCBzRYZr1Iv7cq6pmyBZ6QuyS6jzAztRbWg/s4032/CBAD9725-2963-4BB9-BBCD-1E379FD4C6BA.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIiHStJ8tOitUatEP2KKV6HmMU-IN1zJCQ_ZMKeayox8tV2zpltrBjQwd8GLnldc0c40AOPx_X6te_dtyMxmO79FiocsRY5c02D2bN8PRpE8HG7ckH1brqhkGKGbAA6H4ryur910ICWyltbN6uc0gMKvIFCBzRYZr1Iv7cq6pmyBZ6QuyS6jzAztRbWg/s320/CBAD9725-2963-4BB9-BBCD-1E379FD4C6BA.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizPpc2OJoI9BrCDMPaLP7TRrzHtWr1jm06GaK4CE9n2k6gVtbpdduaVtETN75inOj-C1oE1RNKOnj1XHHbLRdfQV7J276H4XN6hqFXCdcqTE3mGfC_hBwI_og28SNo-E78ofWCS5yzEZMFg1f57guOTbr6KAdSs4YNDZFy6ZaXRlCtHCl00ieFfrIR8g/s4032/2CD95409-F3E7-4A94-AB8F-669E083C4DC6.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizPpc2OJoI9BrCDMPaLP7TRrzHtWr1jm06GaK4CE9n2k6gVtbpdduaVtETN75inOj-C1oE1RNKOnj1XHHbLRdfQV7J276H4XN6hqFXCdcqTE3mGfC_hBwI_og28SNo-E78ofWCS5yzEZMFg1f57guOTbr6KAdSs4YNDZFy6ZaXRlCtHCl00ieFfrIR8g/s320/2CD95409-F3E7-4A94-AB8F-669E083C4DC6.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br />Tomorrow we head to Madrid. More great sites ahead!<p></p><p><br /></p>joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04363843095563741698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8977520395455999712.post-15002329479074019862023-01-26T18:02:00.007-05:002023-01-28T09:40:58.353-05:00Barcelona: Tapas Paradise!<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5_TUJyfAp6hs3zMK4WVFrs3xkhUaIIVDG5JqPrDi0HlDJ79qnIkG5FB3cCaBv96pgWoN-XJeEbN3TbBl54-dKZa8q9wzopPm0VPg9vv9jDr9cYq3fSFN8hFECMolbFdEfpshVbx_dkp4PyS3MdQL-56bYKOKhbtkZDf4JanK-DbVcDF99UiZ25LOz2A/s4032/23E37AB1-9572-415E-ACEC-023EEE08E4A1.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5_TUJyfAp6hs3zMK4WVFrs3xkhUaIIVDG5JqPrDi0HlDJ79qnIkG5FB3cCaBv96pgWoN-XJeEbN3TbBl54-dKZa8q9wzopPm0VPg9vv9jDr9cYq3fSFN8hFECMolbFdEfpshVbx_dkp4PyS3MdQL-56bYKOKhbtkZDf4JanK-DbVcDF99UiZ25LOz2A/s320/23E37AB1-9572-415E-ACEC-023EEE08E4A1.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>Tonight, after zipping along the Spanish countryside in a high speed train, we found ourselves in Barcelona. <p></p><p>We checked into another Mercer Hotel (just as unique and beautiful as Mercer Sevilla with the exception that this one has hot </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB2A_KP0EV7VVgCTAfwo9RwSt2rfwV5JcAu3UMhKqqY_Koe6PZlLribx7SKhDhyrgNmpaVA_vBVzDOhJ_PJ2NdgLWWOZu0AXN0Mbh4sRo8hFwExqoZsDTzkkECZwwxKdKu-nJYPs6hlKRe2o5AHybgWn2YNAMyHjSncHF95-RMHey61pp0T8HVSvokEg/s2048/691E7567-C3FC-477C-B779-CF8B5DD0CFDF.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB2A_KP0EV7VVgCTAfwo9RwSt2rfwV5JcAu3UMhKqqY_Koe6PZlLribx7SKhDhyrgNmpaVA_vBVzDOhJ_PJ2NdgLWWOZu0AXN0Mbh4sRo8hFwExqoZsDTzkkECZwwxKdKu-nJYPs6hlKRe2o5AHybgWn2YNAMyHjSncHF95-RMHey61pp0T8HVSvokEg/s320/691E7567-C3FC-477C-B779-CF8B5DD0CFDF.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>Long day, cold and not conducive to walking the street … we looked for dining at the hotel and found it at Le Bouchon … a beautiful little tapas restaurant.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilhjU9VV-9aUwdY1P-XdccThxiAoRPCzxMO05ib6vJZi2SE2ARhsuBVU82TIG5ciyaDnIZwlGsEeFk07xG8NjWNUCaVETYU9u0CCNbd0nBAQq5wH83sYNYRfamR5r1b4EyqFLFUZjJ2Y0JXjaG86i64_WbcuAhUETKzXeZdeqA29QJ9AHlwuBCNQ2dLw/s4032/B8E865C3-619E-455D-B7B4-C6148D71E397.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilhjU9VV-9aUwdY1P-XdccThxiAoRPCzxMO05ib6vJZi2SE2ARhsuBVU82TIG5ciyaDnIZwlGsEeFk07xG8NjWNUCaVETYU9u0CCNbd0nBAQq5wH83sYNYRfamR5r1b4EyqFLFUZjJ2Y0JXjaG86i64_WbcuAhUETKzXeZdeqA29QJ9AHlwuBCNQ2dLw/s320/B8E865C3-619E-455D-B7B4-C6148D71E397.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Our waitress (who unfortunately looked a lot like Adam Sandler’s marine assistant who took care of the walrus in 50 First Dates) introduced the various tempting dishes and we ordered somewhere between four and thirty four dishes … <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeB21_Jxr3VqiZ918LgVbouyCq7OY3g_rEZM6LWInIrq29CycMjMFUnN6r06Ga5TgRxhOuAANgDfYV8eaMyx7GdkJCbjkTSucIWmw7oC9gERj3AZYipNto4i1bh5KYL61TppNC4hwCEW4-GEJFsK5J8s5spyKxtnjoaelU4K5IpOKqvCC_mQ_IJDTCQw/s4032/D702FED2-309A-4E92-8489-8D9D61B44B30.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeB21_Jxr3VqiZ918LgVbouyCq7OY3g_rEZM6LWInIrq29CycMjMFUnN6r06Ga5TgRxhOuAANgDfYV8eaMyx7GdkJCbjkTSucIWmw7oC9gERj3AZYipNto4i1bh5KYL61TppNC4hwCEW4-GEJFsK5J8s5spyKxtnjoaelU4K5IpOKqvCC_mQ_IJDTCQw/s320/D702FED2-309A-4E92-8489-8D9D61B44B30.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br />at least that what it seemed like as one after another came from the kitchen And each was better than the next … croquettes, short ribs, salads, guacamole on rolls, more meat dishes … everything was scorched by the chef right before <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwJvDRrdkDNTDFwNcUxXz5BpoPU41DUT7IfMAguON0HjkfUv7y_yLPQU7DgkpEOAjDfAoMxL0dZcyFg1TnbLg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />The final dish dipped in whiskey and floated in cream was to die for !<p></p><p>I kid you not … the best ever tapas place I’ve ever been to … it was like we were in … Spain, you know? </p><p>Early to bed. There’s more to come tomorrow </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04363843095563741698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8977520395455999712.post-41701656901402154612023-01-26T05:41:00.001-05:002023-01-26T05:49:41.825-05:00Sevilla: It's Good To Be The King (Checking out the castle!)<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihuXrA-1m7iGo16GWdQs0JAoCMY69vyLMZbH808K06rbVX8TWg-r5NLWSlHMfeXE_iZFTj9ufEFyXwLvQ7ZMLGgEEdp8iHlcpooeWxWAuNg42h21t6q88mVBxL_kg1qyyRTVFKxz5gnO6pu1GaHhd4fFcXsqwjkdnjO-ps99jKWIo3itvmEt8UEsCEgg/s4032/IMG_2429.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihuXrA-1m7iGo16GWdQs0JAoCMY69vyLMZbH808K06rbVX8TWg-r5NLWSlHMfeXE_iZFTj9ufEFyXwLvQ7ZMLGgEEdp8iHlcpooeWxWAuNg42h21t6q88mVBxL_kg1qyyRTVFKxz5gnO6pu1GaHhd4fFcXsqwjkdnjO-ps99jKWIo3itvmEt8UEsCEgg/s320/IMG_2429.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>"My name is Angeles! Like Los Angeles."<p></p><p>That's the way our enthusiastic Sevilla guide introduced herself. She was a riot. Her hair stuck out the way it would be if you poked around in a wall socket. Her goal was to get us through the Palace and the Cathedral in under four hours. Based on the massive size of both ... it was certainly gonna be a challenge. They stood side by side but both were like small cities. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2GeWjK-IB2y4me16O8sf97TV0qtbMEmv2e9ayQ5C-mCPLOmSs8btMNc3EiPqkpax4M3VS2CPRKa880WBeHH85C1xPVoin1itNFjoRbsEdiYETPMNNRv1easpeyMW00Za77md0Ob5MyOQYHFkOVZmE6TLwF71d7n_53GpYx_m8SsanT1qxFPBZmeWSRQ/s4032/IMG_1437.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2GeWjK-IB2y4me16O8sf97TV0qtbMEmv2e9ayQ5C-mCPLOmSs8btMNc3EiPqkpax4M3VS2CPRKa880WBeHH85C1xPVoin1itNFjoRbsEdiYETPMNNRv1easpeyMW00Za77md0Ob5MyOQYHFkOVZmE6TLwF71d7n_53GpYx_m8SsanT1qxFPBZmeWSRQ/s320/IMG_1437.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>Fun facts:<p></p><p>The King really liked Arabic architecture. It's everywhere. He probably didn't read the language because it said a lot of stuff about Allah. (Clearly enough for Angeles. I can't read Arabic and obviously neither could good Catholic King Peter.) There was also a lot of representational artwork praising Peter too that was written into the borders around the ceilings. It was the usual King stuff like: "It's Good To Be The King! Peter Is The Best! The King Is Always Right!" </p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMT1D3fgkf3z8z1Wx1xZNhHaiaXMYoklAj6pdFrrZVxVwvHYcqdHn5RENs5sQ3ZfN2GGsd6KeUuqZ4Xp_nMXH5kEhcYjoKSa60Z5a_ZnlpvTMjIBZ9AULzv0W31N1cr8p3dAYYHoPOAyVRGoC0nFTeTLOsX82ewIeqe3-r6BoBjXSAGD1z5AKT79l2OA/s4032/IMG_1442.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMT1D3fgkf3z8z1Wx1xZNhHaiaXMYoklAj6pdFrrZVxVwvHYcqdHn5RENs5sQ3ZfN2GGsd6KeUuqZ4Xp_nMXH5kEhcYjoKSa60Z5a_ZnlpvTMjIBZ9AULzv0W31N1cr8p3dAYYHoPOAyVRGoC0nFTeTLOsX82ewIeqe3-r6BoBjXSAGD1z5AKT79l2OA/s320/IMG_1442.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>The gardens were filled with orange trees and palm trees. The gardeners must have visited Miami during the construction in 1500. I didn't see any flamingos but they did have a peacock or two walking around. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9_MtNI1rKFqvqP0E0W6hArQkS9-sty2SBceWWjf849lqUyctOLnWmyIQYHFJnW9vVOayaMMJDBb9yWH_gLERTe19G2PjfNvzA__SKNkFEYRYKTlhuqMmnUI5-norFn5p7BRKSlxlrNFoKYxr2D1BArOJ7Z5uX1yktYdPmJbb24X4BxY_-2MldZrfkSA/s4032/IMG_2422.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9_MtNI1rKFqvqP0E0W6hArQkS9-sty2SBceWWjf849lqUyctOLnWmyIQYHFJnW9vVOayaMMJDBb9yWH_gLERTe19G2PjfNvzA__SKNkFEYRYKTlhuqMmnUI5-norFn5p7BRKSlxlrNFoKYxr2D1BArOJ7Z5uX1yktYdPmJbb24X4BxY_-2MldZrfkSA/s320/IMG_2422.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>Chris Columbus is entombed in the Cathedral. Only 16% of his bones are there. The rest apparently didn't make the trip back from the Americas. (Or wherever he landed after he got lost) <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtdEYN8uYBi4nVSjJc6GcygRItnX8DoQM10liXO9E496W36WAPhUNb2riM-mu87CPLBQ46AuKlzrhCNmJajgkGlDAMlY4lGLvdoZZ7CTS8vdNSjK7aBRPrZO_Tq8lh1TI433hifN3jshA5UWkNG-bDHeNSS-ZHr6fz06QhLatqDQbgfEpPOKkG-23GSg/s4032/IMG_2411.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtdEYN8uYBi4nVSjJc6GcygRItnX8DoQM10liXO9E496W36WAPhUNb2riM-mu87CPLBQ46AuKlzrhCNmJajgkGlDAMlY4lGLvdoZZ7CTS8vdNSjK7aBRPrZO_Tq8lh1TI433hifN3jshA5UWkNG-bDHeNSS-ZHr6fz06QhLatqDQbgfEpPOKkG-23GSg/s320/IMG_2411.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>Around the time of the great Arabic influence in the 1500, everybody got along. This was prior to The Inquisition of course ... so even the Jews were well liked. Or maybe ignored ... same thing, I guess. We saw the Jewish District next door which is the only one I think that's not referred to as a Ghetto. <p></p><p>Jews must have had to be close by the Cathedral because I assume they did the books. And a few of them did alterations to the robes.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-CLS-gP0CsyRdxGWxk7ODwiotkLJPfzUqKp2pGw8zcDkjhZzrKcuiK8DVqqjL6FrBg8Lgff2m_V_Lok-97njRZZv-_xx-TNjxkJhgknLyGcNIljKfAFSQ4lcGd7ORuhFZm7C0F35dpzg8EMptFYlKbeaTNA5mFEzdjyAAfURxYjPUW9PFWd-4a4ohNw/s4032/IMG_1479.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-CLS-gP0CsyRdxGWxk7ODwiotkLJPfzUqKp2pGw8zcDkjhZzrKcuiK8DVqqjL6FrBg8Lgff2m_V_Lok-97njRZZv-_xx-TNjxkJhgknLyGcNIljKfAFSQ4lcGd7ORuhFZm7C0F35dpzg8EMptFYlKbeaTNA5mFEzdjyAAfURxYjPUW9PFWd-4a4ohNw/s320/IMG_1479.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>Last night we enjoyed a Flamenco Show in the town where it was created, Triana. Our guide was a Trianese or Trianite or whatever you call someone who was born there. Her name was Maria. She knew everything about Flamenco ... what the different steps were called, the hand gestures, the costumes, why the dancers always look like they are mad at someone, the guitar player's life story and who he is married to and who his mother in law is ... you know ... important stuff. After the show we went to a bar, had too much to drink and 35 plates of tapas ... It was great!<p></p><p>Today we are off to Barcelona on a high speed train. TTFN </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p>joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04363843095563741698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8977520395455999712.post-24066757375904012212023-01-24T19:24:00.004-05:002023-01-25T11:57:24.426-05:00Sevilla: Was that a bidet in your room or were you just happy to see me?<p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidtXM_bZRFmu3pcxlLpRU1raPjqxIkhYaflXdhNfFLZxaNfKrnFGLG9i33TvBjteVcRNbxwtj0dWP4gg-OcYSDmN8JqnBST1_0-lM2u6k6BIDWqtiGSiKAWD6uIW1usC_ejRnb2zj6LWADYNa2jJKo9DxVdGHWz04byL9H8m0RBFMxj2cV3MJ7DmGbJw/s2469/71D348F8-DDEF-4E4C-AD84-53D96CAD4706.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2469" data-original-width="2281" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidtXM_bZRFmu3pcxlLpRU1raPjqxIkhYaflXdhNfFLZxaNfKrnFGLG9i33TvBjteVcRNbxwtj0dWP4gg-OcYSDmN8JqnBST1_0-lM2u6k6BIDWqtiGSiKAWD6uIW1usC_ejRnb2zj6LWADYNa2jJKo9DxVdGHWz04byL9H8m0RBFMxj2cV3MJ7DmGbJw/s320/71D348F8-DDEF-4E4C-AD84-53D96CAD4706.jpeg" width="296" /></a></div>So we knew there was something different about our beautiful hotel in Sevilla. We checked in with four desk clerks … all of which couldn’t have been kinder and more helpful. Three more staff members took up our luggage. I think the owner turned down our bed. <p></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 34px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">Yes. We were the only guests in the hotel tonight. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 34px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">We didn’t mind. At dinner we had the total attention of the server who doubled as our bartender earlier and probably cooked the dinner. She was a delight. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 34px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">We laughed about it as we nibbled on our chocolates in the room and checked our other amenities. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 34px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">Tom Selleck (at about 18 years old) was speaking Spanish in a different voice on TV. “Me llamo es Mannix!” </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 34px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">Wow I thought. It was the only thing I remembered from Mrs. Jensen’s Spanish class. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 34px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">The thermostat was in centigrade so it was set at 23 degrees. I had no idea what the other words were so I figured that was it for the night. We will freeze or sweat. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 34px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBQJForCnIfSj425ivfhNN1-GX35F-ABrmy0mpmy-l8ObV4JAC-7LMYymwFaMzzuqwXQxkqOTbhzVKYIFelWyP4F4q1pr8dklHPYXkRWsT2wQm9wQc6_gmlhUk62Z935yRCv120q7yi6iV8R7dYaF7Fom0MLLeYlMszlOVLah4VSfFevNUGlAQgB87eg/s4032/D4015ECB-3B10-4CFE-9802-A77B2A9A8C78.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBQJForCnIfSj425ivfhNN1-GX35F-ABrmy0mpmy-l8ObV4JAC-7LMYymwFaMzzuqwXQxkqOTbhzVKYIFelWyP4F4q1pr8dklHPYXkRWsT2wQm9wQc6_gmlhUk62Z935yRCv120q7yi6iV8R7dYaF7Fom0MLLeYlMszlOVLah4VSfFevNUGlAQgB87eg/s320/D4015ECB-3B10-4CFE-9802-A77B2A9A8C78.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br />The bathroom was by far the coolest. There was a remote by the toilet that looked like it maybe adjusted the height and a temperature gauge for the seat? <p></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 34px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">I couldn’t resist. I pressed the one that looked like it shot the back up higher and set the temp for hot. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 34px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">A snake like silver spigot popped up in the center of the toilet and shot a stream of water right in my face. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 34px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">Debbie later explained what a bidet was, patiently put the remote back and dried my jeans and shirt with a hair dryer. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 34px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">Sevilla sure is fun so far. Can’t wait to start the tours in the morning. </span></p>joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04363843095563741698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8977520395455999712.post-25006356300901786882023-01-23T17:51:00.000-05:002023-01-23T17:51:33.103-05:00Portugal: Days Two and Three<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB_nzk9rCElmm4pRhnMEjF5Nx8FamGZmtLHeQ-W52LYf3IDvLiLWmf-yOBeMR2YkbgcKfvY47zWZ2_vlUz_l3NsYX1zPS8_stZFyLvnarRjsnwiKxnqzOzYY3arqDMsY8qiJlviruHhjC_1mkeZ1VA_7grnfSYPr6eMPM6MmR70yIcUs-6LyrXbtDQgA/s480/IMG_2372.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="360" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB_nzk9rCElmm4pRhnMEjF5Nx8FamGZmtLHeQ-W52LYf3IDvLiLWmf-yOBeMR2YkbgcKfvY47zWZ2_vlUz_l3NsYX1zPS8_stZFyLvnarRjsnwiKxnqzOzYY3arqDMsY8qiJlviruHhjC_1mkeZ1VA_7grnfSYPr6eMPM6MmR70yIcUs-6LyrXbtDQgA/s320/IMG_2372.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>This is our last day in Lisbon and I'm on historical overload. Trying to retain information about kings, castles, religious visions, pork dishes to die for and salted cod.<p>Highlights from day two ...</p><p>We start the morning at Sintra (Not Frank Sinatra ... the other one with one "a"). The "old city" has been preserved for over 500 years, which is apparently just a few years older than my back and joints as we maneuver the stones and inclines. </p><p>At the top of one of the hills was Quinta da Regaleira one of seven noblemen's estates. From what our guide told us, this area prospered because rich people love to hang out with other rich people and when royalty lives nearby ... they love it even more. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Ylck9zFxrGVmKP1qjfRh2y1EEDjtsjD2MSi294zBoXsUN4_PWoO8cH7qlwL4S74duqeqnf4cpeQ2nS60u-4EC_ubdB6x19hAHnm4DhwfHfM0aF0OOhOIvAFKrD-BD3lafh-bgwRLm1EyoL9W-7VJVf77zKcMMIlPbhQ5xKu1AGnDAsGMQMGXLU146A/s4032/IMG_1386.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Ylck9zFxrGVmKP1qjfRh2y1EEDjtsjD2MSi294zBoXsUN4_PWoO8cH7qlwL4S74duqeqnf4cpeQ2nS60u-4EC_ubdB6x19hAHnm4DhwfHfM0aF0OOhOIvAFKrD-BD3lafh-bgwRLm1EyoL9W-7VJVf77zKcMMIlPbhQ5xKu1AGnDAsGMQMGXLU146A/s320/IMG_1386.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>The Quinta estate was built with ornate designs complete with waterfalls and irrigation wells and underground passageways, connected by a labyrinth of trees and bushes and ornate gardens.<div><br /></div><div>Some folks still live in certain buildings that surround the property. The residents must agree to keep the area exactly as it was in the 1500s. So I guess if you're a fan of drafty old castles ... this is paradise. <div><div><br /></div><div>Funny thing is ... only the wealthy can afford to live here. I guess Bohemians still exist! </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZvgKLBry_cZB855bKnnw6bRs0WB7rP8rQg-EN9fxzoIIvRfT3Vb3fGRc9KqYPOMXzDLcLz5zttXScpflh2z3xgHfxbXvld0vZ4U_eK69iCjMw_ypovM5tKujjioHIOs-hWxEh9xb4_1ME6PmgctvfxU_3FewRBmkug9Ci-ARYu5jGroLY4U1cVC4svw/s800/IMG_2376.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZvgKLBry_cZB855bKnnw6bRs0WB7rP8rQg-EN9fxzoIIvRfT3Vb3fGRc9KqYPOMXzDLcLz5zttXScpflh2z3xgHfxbXvld0vZ4U_eK69iCjMw_ypovM5tKujjioHIOs-hWxEh9xb4_1ME6PmgctvfxU_3FewRBmkug9Ci-ARYu5jGroLY4U1cVC4svw/s320/IMG_2376.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br />From there we jumped back in the car and drove to the coast (or as our guide said "the Malibu Beach of Portugal". A little seaside restaurant served up an incredible lunch ... Portuguese style Bream with vegetables. </div><div><br /></div><div>We dined overlooking the Atlantic.</div><div><br /></div><div>A little slice of heaven</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIheo6PXssj69VYQoyG7AF3T68swHdo-kxYJVSjL06qy27oH-akBT3EgEBDu0BCtuwlpnwLSh3MV-Oq2DUZX3xeSwU8wzQNJbf5Jk1PxHRbkj8TGiPKQiePrJsIEdsCImXVRec6ybc-1xRdfht2CmvsIwHZPM4KPUdTanf4XW-A3oVqhKBMR_6_wS2Wg/s4032/IMG_2394.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIheo6PXssj69VYQoyG7AF3T68swHdo-kxYJVSjL06qy27oH-akBT3EgEBDu0BCtuwlpnwLSh3MV-Oq2DUZX3xeSwU8wzQNJbf5Jk1PxHRbkj8TGiPKQiePrJsIEdsCImXVRec6ybc-1xRdfht2CmvsIwHZPM4KPUdTanf4XW-A3oVqhKBMR_6_wS2Wg/s320/IMG_2394.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br />Today is Day Three and it started with Debbie's favorite ... one she has been looking forward to for a long time ... a visit to the Shrine of Fatima and the Chapel of Apparitions (which I assumed were ghosts until I realized it was where that three young shepherd children had visions of Mary above a tree, I think) </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBOmtwN7zlQDLo6HuyTM2KsZJuViqGaSe77kjCxg7Zn_B4cstZUKmG-FG-p_-cqNpbMkjVTHJVYiihoNcv94PWHVJTGFTpnkwmrX3eu5Ba0qyxa0l0VuOCkSome8zl1kvarRjiH3D2ZRb84Nsa574nx-biG_peFeGfkRSfoZtCMXUPG3AMcBLwY7BYYw/s4032/IMG_1414.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBOmtwN7zlQDLo6HuyTM2KsZJuViqGaSe77kjCxg7Zn_B4cstZUKmG-FG-p_-cqNpbMkjVTHJVYiihoNcv94PWHVJTGFTpnkwmrX3eu5Ba0qyxa0l0VuOCkSome8zl1kvarRjiH3D2ZRb84Nsa574nx-biG_peFeGfkRSfoZtCMXUPG3AMcBLwY7BYYw/s320/IMG_1414.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>I know this because a picture of Francisco, Jacinta and Lucia is in the window of every shop that sold mementos of Mary, Jesus, candles in various shapes and sizes (saw two candles that were taller than the people holding them).</div><div><br /></div><div>The shops carried lots of goodies for the many visitors eager to buy mementos of their pilgrimage.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1sMd5M_K5rlfStLNW7xy2UZlizRPj5yKgtrayliIztOYzkwK-ExL4tuOucK4vxtGBTiBDMctJr5TM3ArtqoTTT-vbxSRnj5hPzCQBEmJdJjwvAasZxRK0adXBOdM63rV3HDsfWoV-diEeUGCJAtBxFX46gCjB0OcEgzErHfv-1hV_SiP81k_luLmVUw/s4032/IMG_1412.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1sMd5M_K5rlfStLNW7xy2UZlizRPj5yKgtrayliIztOYzkwK-ExL4tuOucK4vxtGBTiBDMctJr5TM3ArtqoTTT-vbxSRnj5hPzCQBEmJdJjwvAasZxRK0adXBOdM63rV3HDsfWoV-diEeUGCJAtBxFX46gCjB0OcEgzErHfv-1hV_SiP81k_luLmVUw/s320/IMG_1412.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>In one of these shops, there were numerous shapes and sizes of the baby Jesus appearing to say, "Won't you please take me home and put me on your kitchen counter?" </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9gkfSzbWPHQhT3GFMMtuiDvEGVlItPrbldwTo7zlExzmeRtTZe125QrFOfcEFuUt-aiJ4xtEaiprenaiT3TCx1W2UzwCKIygqiAisACItL-AxMPvSvNgzIzbndVPj73yyCEzMt0ev-GSXeACwg-C4TS79VS4zqSBYMb1T-kRenGoh_VdZmy_6aZ8Ekg/s4032/IMG_1413.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9gkfSzbWPHQhT3GFMMtuiDvEGVlItPrbldwTo7zlExzmeRtTZe125QrFOfcEFuUt-aiJ4xtEaiprenaiT3TCx1W2UzwCKIygqiAisACItL-AxMPvSvNgzIzbndVPj73yyCEzMt0ev-GSXeACwg-C4TS79VS4zqSBYMb1T-kRenGoh_VdZmy_6aZ8Ekg/s320/IMG_1413.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>Next to them were many Marys who were in solemn prayer and looking down at cigarette lighters with their images beautifully painted on.</div><div><br /></div><div>As the story goes, Mary appeared six times to the the children as an apparition ... the last time it was well documented by 60,000 witnesses. </div><div><br /></div><div>I assume they must have all lit their lighters at the same time (which is why they are sold in the shops ... wouldn't you think?)</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-0rZFiiNu3gmansad_d_Eo1d9MnqfwAOZcYjQUDW70yTxKw2G8-fU6r46MJuAstFarue2s8vNQ-Ci8AD0uUSI48X2ny6R3bSVM7pcs1W-zAZ36jgcnkIoyaLDSk7a5heMRjs-7f_qVhee8JlDzQhpUIC3gRrk-rFFEUl0co7z_dDZaciIAPwiXcjETg/s4032/IMG_1415.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-0rZFiiNu3gmansad_d_Eo1d9MnqfwAOZcYjQUDW70yTxKw2G8-fU6r46MJuAstFarue2s8vNQ-Ci8AD0uUSI48X2ny6R3bSVM7pcs1W-zAZ36jgcnkIoyaLDSk7a5heMRjs-7f_qVhee8JlDzQhpUIC3gRrk-rFFEUl0co7z_dDZaciIAPwiXcjETg/s320/IMG_1415.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br />We ate lunch at Crispin's, which was originally a personal home of one of the faithful in Fatima, and seated with us is Tiago (our great tour guide). </div><div><br /></div><div>**************************************</div><div><br /></div><div>NOTE: Let me tell you that our hotel, Bairro Alto, was the greatest thing since sliced bread (or Portuguese croissants). The room, the service, the amenities, the food ... all five star just like the rating given this boutique hotel. Highly recommend it if you visit Lisbon. </div><div><br /></div><div>Tomorrow we fly to Sevilla ... TTFN</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div> </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhapnq9hFm6R0X5hsXZ9hvwTc5Lvn-eWd-Bb-nMDAdYCHDbKlr4yb593RkrwUTBpQwooVwdl0pfiI9h-Pax98WIubaoBkTW8z_zgqMDrRrzAWsM8BE_XfEmu6dNZIACnspePQN93bdeGYq3HtrhVS3oSC-82yU_U0wS1hU727ZNsIrCAQho59JjdtZCcQ/s4032/IMG_1388.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div></div></div></div>joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04363843095563741698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8977520395455999712.post-88962105249391215922023-01-22T05:51:00.002-05:002023-01-22T14:21:07.301-05:00Portugal Day one<h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9r5d4NBTvygjK2gY5pmV9xB1h-yNOBZbnUXp_szpH6nzGi7-l5POW7WobvjppyMupJERKa8CbztcBR5ON-IRUbnmNOz00Bbbcc1PAarHb3II55mdVW0kb0I-lJNGk2U2A_dAd_e9694IwhY1bITvFtvq6wJeZlarTEMNQ7OrtiAERERNqh5_G1YfZEg/s2907/00570A9B-5647-4D4E-8AD9-4DA7686F0D11.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2907" data-original-width="1999" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9r5d4NBTvygjK2gY5pmV9xB1h-yNOBZbnUXp_szpH6nzGi7-l5POW7WobvjppyMupJERKa8CbztcBR5ON-IRUbnmNOz00Bbbcc1PAarHb3II55mdVW0kb0I-lJNGk2U2A_dAd_e9694IwhY1bITvFtvq6wJeZlarTEMNQ7OrtiAERERNqh5_G1YfZEg/s320/00570A9B-5647-4D4E-8AD9-4DA7686F0D11.jpeg" width="220" /></a></div>Hi friends. </span></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium; font-weight: normal;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br /></span><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">Been a while since I’ve made a blog entry. No excuses here just laziness. <br /></span><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br /></span></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: medium;">Deb and I are taking a grown up trip for a change. Portugal and Spain for two weeks … </span></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium; font-weight: normal;"><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br /></span><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">Here are highlights from yesterday. </span></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium; font-weight: normal;"><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br /></span><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">On the plane to Lisbon we flew first class (told you it was a grown up trip). Very comfortable but challenging from the seat operations perspective. Debbie who is patient in so many more things than I … is not at all patient with electronic operations. </span></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium; font-weight: normal;"><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br /></span><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTJfkYRSd0C9H0NuHYjPrfdlNorTDWiCZvdKRVq_FsmgcktCMyYrm0uA2rRLumFOy27gkt1nFlmoA2a_2kbHOHM3CL50MXLGkqOPlLRJQMtdkqMJGHJauYHSAjkTeBsnGriDSJe4jJbWFQZLPg7gInbxd6sSOzJhB609sqniiGRqg-8SoDUzyV1S8xtg/s2505/4F39B92A-D266-4461-B723-4E58F78055CD.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1629" data-original-width="2505" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTJfkYRSd0C9H0NuHYjPrfdlNorTDWiCZvdKRVq_FsmgcktCMyYrm0uA2rRLumFOy27gkt1nFlmoA2a_2kbHOHM3CL50MXLGkqOPlLRJQMtdkqMJGHJauYHSAjkTeBsnGriDSJe4jJbWFQZLPg7gInbxd6sSOzJhB609sqniiGRqg-8SoDUzyV1S8xtg/s320/4F39B92A-D266-4461-B723-4E58F78055CD.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br />“Excuse me!” She told one of the flight attendants. “Can you tell me how to operate the massage feature of my chair?”</span></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium; font-weight: normal;"><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br /></span><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">“We have a massage feature?” She said. “I’ve been doing this flight for years and never knew that.” </span></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium; font-weight: normal;"><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br /></span><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">Deb was not happy. Two minutes later … “Excuse me!” To another flight attendant. “How can I adjust the air? Do I have to stand up and turn the knobs?”</span></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium; font-weight: normal;"><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br /></span><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">“Yes. Yes you do.” </span></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium; font-weight: normal;"><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br /></span><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">I liked her. </span></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium; font-weight: normal;"><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br /></span><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">There were various other questions about reclining the seat, bag maintenance under her feet and such … but there was a little gift bag that kept her busy (a sleeping mask, slippers, a tooth brush …) she talked about those for most of the 6 hour flight. </span></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium; font-weight: normal;"><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br /></span><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">We landed. </span></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium; font-weight: normal;"><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br /></span><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">A driver whisked us away to a truly wonderful hotel in the middle of old town Lisbon. </span></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium; font-weight: normal;"><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br /></span><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjItB3w5iMkCa0XmcsjqqFDm6A9MJep3WE4a-rbpCvDSDRpOCfMoWrIcFfVTNRTjkpIcc5s0-CafC1D_rjH-Gs1MI_r7a2l-Vqw9fT30GHgxdvvvcTqe04Yi9YQC_8jndh5-8Msb-RrAn9H_eyQxdrI8uX-dX2L1prdchA-9Zei_Hr63T6qRymsRQ8mwA/s4032/EB725396-5903-45C7-B62A-131BC370A0CE.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjItB3w5iMkCa0XmcsjqqFDm6A9MJep3WE4a-rbpCvDSDRpOCfMoWrIcFfVTNRTjkpIcc5s0-CafC1D_rjH-Gs1MI_r7a2l-Vqw9fT30GHgxdvvvcTqe04Yi9YQC_8jndh5-8Msb-RrAn9H_eyQxdrI8uX-dX2L1prdchA-9Zei_Hr63T6qRymsRQ8mwA/s320/EB725396-5903-45C7-B62A-131BC370A0CE.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br />We napped for a couple of hours and then walked through the town with a guide who told us great stories. </span></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium; font-weight: normal;"><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br /></span><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_FWW-9HV5WZhiTrdcr0O4u_Ad928Kfcn2Ih7BIOLVpsxMUE4DYpNHQ6IDj8kFD-3vTarINsjDUYrZ8zpQHH0E6HkYQTZB9HrU7Y7wrr_DnMpufyY4Zuh_VL-KWQTHBAgfrEARohF4Vu9KFRaO98XujVqsuXcI6WWTr2YY2SxeCFz2OpHW5g5am5FzCw/s370/D3E80AF1-BC08-4A20-86EB-DB2B06DEC947.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="370" data-original-width="276" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_FWW-9HV5WZhiTrdcr0O4u_Ad928Kfcn2Ih7BIOLVpsxMUE4DYpNHQ6IDj8kFD-3vTarINsjDUYrZ8zpQHH0E6HkYQTZB9HrU7Y7wrr_DnMpufyY4Zuh_VL-KWQTHBAgfrEARohF4Vu9KFRaO98XujVqsuXcI6WWTr2YY2SxeCFz2OpHW5g5am5FzCw/s320/D3E80AF1-BC08-4A20-86EB-DB2B06DEC947.jpeg" width="239" /></a></div><br />He pointed out that the buildings were in fact historical exteriors and renovated interiors (partially subsidized by the government) to retain consistent quality. </span></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: medium;">Each had historical reference signage. </span></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium; font-weight: normal;"><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br /></span><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBWPh8oIKNZzRda6wNlLYypu5pD31_646QyG7dBKZngrariCdKnFkWLaATCGXIRj_2LRwXBOFJSWXABXp4rns1C-LYVNtJZVyQi31SMM-pEQUG55SdXnQAznVfn5qw-d888yTF2Oo6jHvylsPssszfBgWEXHIs_11QzeE2d8RiA10J7Uag8NXp40WpMw/s3145/3B3A0392-5264-4D91-A6DE-7A3882A30765.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3145" data-original-width="1938" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBWPh8oIKNZzRda6wNlLYypu5pD31_646QyG7dBKZngrariCdKnFkWLaATCGXIRj_2LRwXBOFJSWXABXp4rns1C-LYVNtJZVyQi31SMM-pEQUG55SdXnQAznVfn5qw-d888yTF2Oo6jHvylsPssszfBgWEXHIs_11QzeE2d8RiA10J7Uag8NXp40WpMw/s320/3B3A0392-5264-4D91-A6DE-7A3882A30765.jpeg" width="197" /></a></div><br />In the center of town was a statue of the poet/bar owner … The 16th-century Portuguese poet, António Ribeiro who was fondly known as 'Chiado', which is what this district is named. Interesting guy … hung out with everyone famous at the time. Never wrote anything down but eventually was published by other writers of the time. </span></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium; font-weight: normal;"><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br /></span><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht0HtH0ZSDH2RDpVAaMe2uq1xTWoOZHF2N2vwG7UMwpy1OpMICd0HoEh2Vx6J1XoYOnbfcPzwYlS-tcsY5v6TbLn7C048VIqlCR5mt0f3RFmrOrNaafxa-MyPSy8Tjh20OPhXgS_uMMkebQ3c9rUFWZ3fkfZku4OV_XtJYejoGitexzphKq2oQ-cHqvQ/s3122/FDB2BE6C-C825-4DE1-A746-5292FCE9CAB2.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3122" data-original-width="2138" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht0HtH0ZSDH2RDpVAaMe2uq1xTWoOZHF2N2vwG7UMwpy1OpMICd0HoEh2Vx6J1XoYOnbfcPzwYlS-tcsY5v6TbLn7C048VIqlCR5mt0f3RFmrOrNaafxa-MyPSy8Tjh20OPhXgS_uMMkebQ3c9rUFWZ3fkfZku4OV_XtJYejoGitexzphKq2oQ-cHqvQ/s320/FDB2BE6C-C825-4DE1-A746-5292FCE9CAB2.jpeg" width="219" /></a></div><br />There’s a glove store that is the smallest in the world. Word is … only two people at a time fit. Frequented by Asians. True story. (Note: Only one quarter of my fat body could fit)</span></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium; font-weight: normal;"><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br /></span><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjItQeqidURN9ulkbD1c3gb3V9fdkQ774QNtDc_t3JaiyueLMgmCsOUhjKbM1nUDs4g8PME-XOMocCI6aL5sLQd2-W2cV8g2Ok_zrZ3ffV274I0ldoTEVV-yFxDeC320asRCx1TXBYCfwW2W5iwu4KDtCmo6SN63yeMTbEg_qyZrIGmNJBTMar-ppCwCA/s4032/CC9B9C36-ACC6-4860-8025-26A85AF2FBCC.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjItQeqidURN9ulkbD1c3gb3V9fdkQ774QNtDc_t3JaiyueLMgmCsOUhjKbM1nUDs4g8PME-XOMocCI6aL5sLQd2-W2cV8g2Ok_zrZ3ffV274I0ldoTEVV-yFxDeC320asRCx1TXBYCfwW2W5iwu4KDtCmo6SN63yeMTbEg_qyZrIGmNJBTMar-ppCwCA/s320/CC9B9C36-ACC6-4860-8025-26A85AF2FBCC.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br />The Church of St. Dominic took my breath away not with beauty but with horror as we were told the story in 1506 of the massacre of hundreds of Jews by order of the priest. The church burned down every decade since but was rebuilt to commemorate the tragedy. </span></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium; font-weight: normal;"><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br /></span><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX-XJjG16mPmICZOXY0P2pHk6uY0u1G8B2Txm1OPEirJATtyb46dLgGS3E6mnzUMrt4nfUuNgsHOEF2E0oaNE-2JiXPvrI0hqwXbrDsPinkcA11ScZS-oksuV1xosvjkWYI_NuEBcKfMz1Ba1P5WUM-lF3ZZwF1X1_TUykjAF6jK2vk1L_f_vf6Twymg/s1899/50CD18B6-218B-4B94-BD07-4272BEECE3E8.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1899" data-original-width="1892" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX-XJjG16mPmICZOXY0P2pHk6uY0u1G8B2Txm1OPEirJATtyb46dLgGS3E6mnzUMrt4nfUuNgsHOEF2E0oaNE-2JiXPvrI0hqwXbrDsPinkcA11ScZS-oksuV1xosvjkWYI_NuEBcKfMz1Ba1P5WUM-lF3ZZwF1X1_TUykjAF6jK2vk1L_f_vf6Twymg/s320/50CD18B6-218B-4B94-BD07-4272BEECE3E8.jpeg" width="319" /></a></div><br />Sorry … wanted to end on a lighter note. Sometimes you just can’t. </span></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But trust me … Lisbon is a beautiful city and we love it here! The people are wonderful.</span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 34px;"><br /></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 34px;"><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: medium; font-weight: normal;"></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 34px;"><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: medium; font-weight: normal;"></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 34px;"><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: medium; font-weight: normal;"></span></p></h2>joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04363843095563741698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8977520395455999712.post-84420720173937416582022-05-17T10:53:00.002-04:002022-05-18T03:24:23.026-04:00Final Stretch<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGouFB7oE7SjbN2SHweytOCn8TlOZIXHFEKSdWjxYlAW553wTJ7ub-vCj3IFOkYalO_QsNjXxOASAoZxX_6TbFbzYrABx9hze9M33Yk5x_FlmGl2n_9Zf3dNGDICPJKm_2xsSJkxmpeYj-OCI4plUWBC2ARfdbMHrbmT9OzlS29vPowMx5p-PQgPF5DQ/s4032/D75EB16F-263B-49D2-83AB-4B31B2887CE5.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGouFB7oE7SjbN2SHweytOCn8TlOZIXHFEKSdWjxYlAW553wTJ7ub-vCj3IFOkYalO_QsNjXxOASAoZxX_6TbFbzYrABx9hze9M33Yk5x_FlmGl2n_9Zf3dNGDICPJKm_2xsSJkxmpeYj-OCI4plUWBC2ARfdbMHrbmT9OzlS29vPowMx5p-PQgPF5DQ/s320/D75EB16F-263B-49D2-83AB-4B31B2887CE5.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>In the last few days I’ve made great progress on my book. I think I really like it. (That’s like saying I think I’m pretty.) <p></p><p>I like Fairhaven too. </p><p>I’ve unfairly drawn an unflattering picture in black and white. It’s a very pleasant town and I’ve been very comfortable in my little cottage. </p><p>I’ll post better pictures later and leave it at that. </p><p>Here’s an excerpt from Frats and Cats:</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 14px;"><span style="font-style: italic;">“For just a brief moment, my attention shifted from the drone of Mrs. Jensen’s monotone recitation of roll call to the buzzing of a horsefly that landed just inches from my Civics textbook. I was fascinated by his size. He was a fat old sucker. And he just laid back and looked at me.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 14px;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Harvey Morris?” As luck would have it Mrs. Jensen called my name just as I was pushing my textbook over the head of the fat horsefly. The book dropped right off my desk.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 14px;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Here!” I answered an octave higher than usual.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 14px;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I think we all noticed that you were, Mr. Morris.”</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 14px;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Giggles erupted behind me as I sunk lower into my chair with that damned horsefly still sitting in the same place, daring me into action again. I picked up my textbook and looked at the floor. </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 14px;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The horsefly finally made his way back through the classroom window closest to me. It was slightly cranked open like it always was with a moss covered oak branch on the other side. The temperature inside the classroom was maybe two degrees cooler than the 85 degree temp outside. My shirt clung to my body. I felt like I was bathed in sweat and continually wiped my hands on my pants just so my pencil wouldn’t slip through my fingers. There were a/c units in some of the classrooms at Upperline High School but not that one.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 14px;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Truth be told, Upperline High School could barely afford to be open. It was the worst high school in New Orleans. Actually, it was the worst high school anywhere. Even the national secondary school listing for Upperline stated that “based on test scores, dropout rates, and socioeconomic status of the students, Upperline High School is one of the worst schools in the country.” </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 14px;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Sitting in my desk on the 6th day of May in 1971, I was one of the many socioeconomically and educationally impaired students in Mrs. Jensen’s Civics class to answer the roll call. That’s me. Harvey Morris … better known as R.V. Morris, a nickname given to me by my older brother Stan.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 14px;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Needless to say, I learned very little throughout my high school years other than “how to leave in the middle of the day and not be missed” or “how to avoid being beat up by using the right exit doors”. I could have chosen to study “illegal habits that could get you killed or at the very least, arrested” but stuck with the basics instead. </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 14px;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I wasn’t a stellar student, not by any stretch of the imagination. I wasn’t on any superlative list and not really known for any particular great accomplishments. In fact, the only notable thing that I ever did prior to my senior year didn’t even happen at Upperline. It happened in the sixth grade at Lafayette Elementary School. The school held a talent show on a stage that was set up on the playground. For some unknown reason, my mother signed me up to perform in a clown costume, playing the ukulele while singing Dean Martin’s That’s Amore while Peggy Marchelli did a ballet dance around me in a tutu. The judge and MC that night was Dick Van Dyke who worked at the local WDSU TV station before he became THE Dick Van Dyke. Peggy Marchelli and I came in 24th out of 25. Johnny Kushner’s tuba came in 25th. </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 14px;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Some of my Upperline classmates who were also classmates with me at Lafayette remember the talent show well and would often serenade me with That’s Amore in the cafeteria. Thank you, Mom. </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 14px;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>There were two entrances into Upperline High School. One was on the Joseph Street side and the other was on Nashville Avenue. Students who used the Joseph Street side were known as “frats”. Frats wore weejuns (Penny loafers), had button down collars (usually madras) and listened to John Fred and The Playboys at The Valencia Club on Saturday nights. </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 14px;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The Nashville side was where the “cats” or “hoods” parked their ’57 Chevys. Greased down hair for guys and teased up hair about the size of a basketball held in place by lots of hair spray for the girls. They typically spent their weekends at the LaPlace Drag Strip.”</span></p>joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04363843095563741698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8977520395455999712.post-51086964469551951612022-05-15T14:39:00.001-04:002022-05-16T08:00:48.747-04:00More From Fairhaven<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOlf62RzfcUxFNnGNShiGr3Zn7Agmpm4dDRNPTKvN8iQCj_WTloqNw-lkkWIpSqZWWVrbMxeMM0mHNKzyoZZBhGQZIiXnGLrCfw-0b9MwflBEtu4ibJaWHrA_J7JRMhnJzZbEVJLamTmExPMJVyxJ0kHVtCWyKylkrAs2Y4OwRoHiGkkQiKMHKbn06og/s4028/B52D29D6-33CD-42F8-8158-064A1470D59B.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2030" data-original-width="4028" height="161" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOlf62RzfcUxFNnGNShiGr3Zn7Agmpm4dDRNPTKvN8iQCj_WTloqNw-lkkWIpSqZWWVrbMxeMM0mHNKzyoZZBhGQZIiXnGLrCfw-0b9MwflBEtu4ibJaWHrA_J7JRMhnJzZbEVJLamTmExPMJVyxJ0kHVtCWyKylkrAs2Y4OwRoHiGkkQiKMHKbn06og/s320/B52D29D6-33CD-42F8-8158-064A1470D59B.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>Just taking a break from writing the great American novel because I know that you ... my dear readers ... are dying to know what I've been up to up here at the cottage. <p></p><p>1. Here's a picture of the neighborhood. The mist you see moves in and out at various times of day. I am waiting for my first sighting of Steven King's clown ... Pennywise.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTamM6gnGX_tvNl4ScJA2IyKu3kJ_SNZmaYddRlz8jJbyms68sLiDz84ECfUryExf25FsTe4rSBI6ei0gFJC3gvuuNpHnkA01XZtS2FO_lPkMBz2G1tDMFPAr4ektKyMrkyeAOqTswhZxmjQskwDtlySFiUV5vwt6QDrPTGrxh8Uh4NwajEsPiJlXFaw/s4032/226160DC-1C3F-44E0-811F-39C176D51D8B_1_201_a.heic" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTamM6gnGX_tvNl4ScJA2IyKu3kJ_SNZmaYddRlz8jJbyms68sLiDz84ECfUryExf25FsTe4rSBI6ei0gFJC3gvuuNpHnkA01XZtS2FO_lPkMBz2G1tDMFPAr4ektKyMrkyeAOqTswhZxmjQskwDtlySFiUV5vwt6QDrPTGrxh8Uh4NwajEsPiJlXFaw/s320/226160DC-1C3F-44E0-811F-39C176D51D8B_1_201_a.heic" width="320" /></a></div>2. The television set in my cottage is limited to reruns of House. This is not a bad thing. It prevents me from being tempted to turn on the tube and detract from why I'm here ... to finish my novel. I'm taking the high road.<p></p><p>On second thought ... it really sucks.</p><p>3. My food choices es are pretty good up here. There are 10 pasta "houses", a breakfast place called Scramblers and a fish place. Kidding. There's no fish place.</p><p>4. This morning I dropped my EarPods in the toilet. Now I can't complain that the reception is crappy. (get it?)</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMELP2z3ct-KHPDG79lBZ-ZsEHMqW9KISsYZivArn8hAEA07ZiowANg-roEOx48bcY91VhFmLkkSCMUsVI7uKW0T2eRpriZJTvplehgUjDqSimLfHLxevGmXxMldGhDOI__zUMRRnLbfN7gr5bMBeNsFR6rSd1rAEu6sdyUu9vSZQoIYNSjQh4p2WPuw/s4032/50A7EC0B-188B-4AF6-A4FE-845B47159596_1_201_a.heic" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMELP2z3ct-KHPDG79lBZ-ZsEHMqW9KISsYZivArn8hAEA07ZiowANg-roEOx48bcY91VhFmLkkSCMUsVI7uKW0T2eRpriZJTvplehgUjDqSimLfHLxevGmXxMldGhDOI__zUMRRnLbfN7gr5bMBeNsFR6rSd1rAEu6sdyUu9vSZQoIYNSjQh4p2WPuw/s320/50A7EC0B-188B-4AF6-A4FE-845B47159596_1_201_a.heic" width="240" /></a></div>5. Back to work!<p></p><p><br /></p>joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04363843095563741698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8977520395455999712.post-83299970002228393682022-05-13T14:16:00.005-04:002022-05-14T04:26:02.545-04:00Jaws ain't got nuthin' on me!<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAg2xqcwcWmNQoPwcBD5hWXmjcTHSJjzrrDBrCx7BDHHW6X2r6BHJklpfXq5dcireXayiO8faFjHlanBNDLlCnxwDKmPJVmIzcBZqmCVZdkKKmCZFNH2mzHY8guBBBoobzk-oYGornu_TyZHsUUFRCnC6tyvNuSx32Vp4V-HMd4UOY7hxGDTqAG-e1bw/s3267/98747C5E-BC78-468D-9C0A-E6FB82020836_1_201_a.heic" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2501" data-original-width="3267" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAg2xqcwcWmNQoPwcBD5hWXmjcTHSJjzrrDBrCx7BDHHW6X2r6BHJklpfXq5dcireXayiO8faFjHlanBNDLlCnxwDKmPJVmIzcBZqmCVZdkKKmCZFNH2mzHY8guBBBoobzk-oYGornu_TyZHsUUFRCnC6tyvNuSx32Vp4V-HMd4UOY7hxGDTqAG-e1bw/s320/98747C5E-BC78-468D-9C0A-E6FB82020836_1_201_a.heic" width="320" /></a></div>Travelled to Fairhaven, Mass. (West Island) last night where I am spending a week finishing my fourth book at a little cottage that I found on Vrbo. </div><div><br /></div><div>I sound like I really know what I'm talking about, right? Truth is ... I don't have a clue about all this Vrbo stuff and I've never been to Fairhaven in my life. But I got lucky. I looked it all up and it truly is a cool place to "retreat" and focus on my writing. Also, Debbie is probably happy to get me out of the house. </div><div><br /></div><div>I posted this image in black and white because this place reminds me of Jaws and my vision of what Amity would look like. </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlqY2nS46OGnJiBKL4eP4KTUjWsA4A1rou5PSBG7fMmtKoa18OeOFMDofDjl3rVXJZCzICK164RfGCajH3lvWcG01i5f0p_SGHZTotoXqKcShp5fvu4d2hBTTLfRT5fUeras1PK5VqmaAxY5HK2c8lDieAspkhBhCLZIg-eX-KzQ3VNhk9W0Hn2CObaQ/s2850/38133BB1-777E-4884-A081-2952763B0D8A_1_201_a.heic" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1447" data-original-width="2850" height="162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlqY2nS46OGnJiBKL4eP4KTUjWsA4A1rou5PSBG7fMmtKoa18OeOFMDofDjl3rVXJZCzICK164RfGCajH3lvWcG01i5f0p_SGHZTotoXqKcShp5fvu4d2hBTTLfRT5fUeras1PK5VqmaAxY5HK2c8lDieAspkhBhCLZIg-eX-KzQ3VNhk9W0Hn2CObaQ/s320/38133BB1-777E-4884-A081-2952763B0D8A_1_201_a.heic" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I also posted it because I look better without color (okay and without even being in the picture ... but I thought I should at least put myself in so you'd know I was really here. You know ... kinda like the guys on the Weather Channel in the middle of a hurricane who have to foolishly prove that they are in the middle of the storm ... LIVE. )</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYzAPMOqhd-UewwxVrMX_fB-VskAmfSbtKzejTUgufeJrDwCUQb8HOkQwXSofalG7H06INzTPtMTylKABqH9KtNkvoyNVZY02JEEA7lGWQXgjjLe_wNLNYkGpe0TJFOYEsKpaWGnO7ZVHNMZBN7AZzdrE1zyy_hSO0ImDlI6uMNKDEaLywJBlZsVX-AQ/s4032/89E513FE-19DD-44B6-86C6-85277C8FA2AA.heic" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYzAPMOqhd-UewwxVrMX_fB-VskAmfSbtKzejTUgufeJrDwCUQb8HOkQwXSofalG7H06INzTPtMTylKABqH9KtNkvoyNVZY02JEEA7lGWQXgjjLe_wNLNYkGpe0TJFOYEsKpaWGnO7ZVHNMZBN7AZzdrE1zyy_hSO0ImDlI6uMNKDEaLywJBlZsVX-AQ/s320/89E513FE-19DD-44B6-86C6-85277C8FA2AA.heic" width="240" /></a></div>Okay, back to work on novel number 4! </div><div><br /></div><div>More later.</div><div><br /></div>joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04363843095563741698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8977520395455999712.post-7288747047101303932022-05-03T15:09:00.002-04:002022-05-03T15:26:19.615-04:00New York State of Mind<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs9RJ4aXNwDAPWAGvIfys8NHNg-o7Y1q726Nu8E-4ztV2J3UEMU5H3VEbnA6nF6x6wKPoY6fbcsOheF7A44oUdCt7X51aopNG5StCM1IL_HWXovuye5qOpSXTxrHy31pckdytj6uItYbzLx7stw_0v-5XtWX5CxjOSFrnet-Yuypg_Dt_6w9FQuiXJ6w/s3088/734382D3-9A49-431C-B1B9-CC732288BAD4.heic" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs9RJ4aXNwDAPWAGvIfys8NHNg-o7Y1q726Nu8E-4ztV2J3UEMU5H3VEbnA6nF6x6wKPoY6fbcsOheF7A44oUdCt7X51aopNG5StCM1IL_HWXovuye5qOpSXTxrHy31pckdytj6uItYbzLx7stw_0v-5XtWX5CxjOSFrnet-Yuypg_Dt_6w9FQuiXJ6w/s320/734382D3-9A49-431C-B1B9-CC732288BAD4.heic" width="240" /></a></div>We just got back from NYC yesterday.<p></p><p>I would have told you sooner ... like when we were actually there ... but Deb thought I should wait to blog when we got home, you know, in case someone might be stalking us and watching our house. I get it. The roofers, the window replacement guys, the electricians and the plumber who work regardless of whether we are home or not were deemed safe. The three people who read my blog, we don't trust. (Maybe four).</p><p>Our trip began Thursday night. That's when we flew the friendly skies and slim fitting seats of Southwest Airlines into La Guardia, which is beautiful these days (for those that haven't been to New York since the remodel of that musty old ... go outside ... then inside ... then outside ... airport). </p><p>We took a cab to our hotel, which was the beginning of a semi-nightmare first night ... not the cab ride, the hotel room. To begin with, I think someone was murdered in our room right before we checked in. There were mysterious stains next to the bed, and by the bathroom, and by the windows, and in front of the closet. My God, it must have been a mafia hit on an entire family. Only thing missing was the horse's head. Then we discovered the toilet didn't flush and the phone didn't work. </p><p>Debbie took the first stab at talking to the front desk. They sent a plumber up who tried with a plunger and then later with a snake. In broken English he told us (I think) "It not flush too well but should work okay for .... How long you stay?" </p><p>That was long enough for me. I booked us in a nicer hotel and left that night. When we checked out of the palace we were in, the hotel manager was nice enough to charge us half price because "you didn't tell us sooner that the toilet didn't work." Not making this up. The hotel shall remain nameless... NOT! (It's the MILLENIUM).</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn6xBgnbLMs3KwamBF0H3WugcWESui6Hbk5QPzdn3APlVJC5OjeNfiBfu-xnBu3-Jow2Txi6abMNt5z_dUSV-0qHzLATdXfr-IlOXANht_8Vl-CeNpBaAQsXf0fm2bJrtusvunPd1ahtC9WnxMB1BFd3mI34Q3kZvok3oX-4aRWhmFuKP98aoz9sEB1Q/s4032/C404D1B4-C442-4820-A676-2E42619065FA.heic" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn6xBgnbLMs3KwamBF0H3WugcWESui6Hbk5QPzdn3APlVJC5OjeNfiBfu-xnBu3-Jow2Txi6abMNt5z_dUSV-0qHzLATdXfr-IlOXANht_8Vl-CeNpBaAQsXf0fm2bJrtusvunPd1ahtC9WnxMB1BFd3mI34Q3kZvok3oX-4aRWhmFuKP98aoz9sEB1Q/s320/C404D1B4-C442-4820-A676-2E42619065FA.heic" width="320" /></a></div>Not a total loss the first night. We dined at one of our favs, Carmine's. Always great food and plenty of it. We split a chicken parmigiana and some sauteed spinach. <p></p><p>Slept like babies and woke up late. Explored Times Square with the three million other visitors that crammed the streets. Clearly, New York is back and no one is afraid to be in crowded areas any more. </p><p>We ate a late lunch at Virgil's Real Barbecue.</p><p>Love that place. We got a couple of big old pork sandwiches and fries. I had two strokes on the way back to the room but it was worth it. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6H709FlXofiGBEUY5RopLtK0v2pHoNEt2gizaXzzLfdD2lStahNOgZeMsP0NIfWDQ6QNVgPccGmdCEYEI5w9Fd_isQjJ4uXslDH1xY8MNh9rWb_qlPO38bsEdjfDSuztD8RVicd9QzW4peddFLBk8DDGpppL3a93Vjr8B9y14dhf8zhrVjh_4vHUByg/s4032/08504B7C-1F40-41F5-B0B4-402E6211CD59.heic" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6H709FlXofiGBEUY5RopLtK0v2pHoNEt2gizaXzzLfdD2lStahNOgZeMsP0NIfWDQ6QNVgPccGmdCEYEI5w9Fd_isQjJ4uXslDH1xY8MNh9rWb_qlPO38bsEdjfDSuztD8RVicd9QzW4peddFLBk8DDGpppL3a93Vjr8B9y14dhf8zhrVjh_4vHUByg/s320/08504B7C-1F40-41F5-B0B4-402E6211CD59.heic" width="240" /></a></div>It's always interesting sitting there in the city of Babel where on my right were Eastern Europeans, on my left were Puerto Ricans and behind me were Middle Easterners. And right in the middle of the table was a big old plate of barbecue. <p></p><p>Everywhere I go, I seem to attract loud talkers. You know the type. They talk to their tablemates as if they were sitting across the room instead of right in front of them. The conversation is always personal "So Madge, the yeast infection is SO MUCH worse. I got a new doctor who poked around down there for hours. SO UNCOMFORTABLE." And poor Madge looks around sheepishly trying to whisper her responses but fails miserably.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzJAWFtqnNTq2ELExS1eHczaR446VHniehxADoWen8LYI4fOJFEqDZpzMxHHsaC77SKkFJeni26bG520qXPP3lpEmb4s9ib4wTnkXa1vdGxK9XTN3_uWwrYy3Fh4MuiOFn8enrlcZQ5pkep9s0gF8QtIc13szS5d8LBADHpugBFrz6yl5_W5AZzR-k0w/s2048/7790B696-F902-4B3F-A9DC-E08223A83001.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzJAWFtqnNTq2ELExS1eHczaR446VHniehxADoWen8LYI4fOJFEqDZpzMxHHsaC77SKkFJeni26bG520qXPP3lpEmb4s9ib4wTnkXa1vdGxK9XTN3_uWwrYy3Fh4MuiOFn8enrlcZQ5pkep9s0gF8QtIc13szS5d8LBADHpugBFrz6yl5_W5AZzR-k0w/s320/7790B696-F902-4B3F-A9DC-E08223A83001.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>Back to the room, changed and quickly out the door to see "Mr. Saturday Night" with Billy Crystal.<p></p><p>What a great show!</p><p>Billy Crystal was truly in his element. He was so damned funny and had me laughing even at his setups: "Two jews sitting on a bench ..." </p><p>I thought this play was one of the best I've seen. Full disclosure ... I think anything Crystal is in is the best I've seen, so I'm probably not the most unbiased critic ... but we loved it. By the way, I took a picture of Billy signing Playbills after the show. No one could get close enough so I photoshopped Deb getting up close and personal. </p><p>Took another of Deb and one of the costars Chasten Harmon who played the agent. She was also terrific and Debbie didn't need to be photoshopped.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXm9cAD0rFsHbdrAmNyZX-19Zx0F9CxNB2Fcx-kyxNDj_9vEzhDzqOjEita6dzsyCelNZmu7KQvlQVECetxphQZRLPN33veT-ilL5USbuaEAkQPqKe6EEZUboRPRB3t7ut4ducKJ_SZQu4V_8mRrz1PI2H6vGh_QKvwcDyA_McUE4sYpJ31GijPNB5Zg/s4032/342DC6B0-4DE4-4135-A7BC-BF807BD3E76B.heic" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXm9cAD0rFsHbdrAmNyZX-19Zx0F9CxNB2Fcx-kyxNDj_9vEzhDzqOjEita6dzsyCelNZmu7KQvlQVECetxphQZRLPN33veT-ilL5USbuaEAkQPqKe6EEZUboRPRB3t7ut4ducKJ_SZQu4V_8mRrz1PI2H6vGh_QKvwcDyA_McUE4sYpJ31GijPNB5Zg/s320/342DC6B0-4DE4-4135-A7BC-BF807BD3E76B.heic" width="320" /></a></div><br />Next day we saw "Hadestown".<p></p><p>Not one of my favs but the production was really incredible. We were on the first row ... great seats but I think we might have missed some of the big stage effects because we were too close (Can you believe I'm complaining about front row tix?)</p><p>Anyway, the storyline is a version of the Greek myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, where Orpheus goes underground to rescue his lover Eurydice. See? That's why I didn't really get into it (Or get it ... at times).</p><p>I did get a potato latke at Junior's however ... after the show. And two big black and white cookies for the room (thanks Stever Greenbaum for getting me hooked on those!)</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEibnBC5kk6k5dYzwmau7lDp8KTCn43QL_01YG5kWAcCUVuHVUlNUe08Kp7sZgs8E1JZKo6_rlyASs5IrtyPNXtxTykrfDSS-fvHTOlJkITYEnOCcwM4OAWd_4RrMiRQWf8a4sUg1sCd4gT2dyo21S7fMkqk-aLMhYYX2ZkFBmZQEr0Vf8u21phODlQfCQ" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEibnBC5kk6k5dYzwmau7lDp8KTCn43QL_01YG5kWAcCUVuHVUlNUe08Kp7sZgs8E1JZKo6_rlyASs5IrtyPNXtxTykrfDSS-fvHTOlJkITYEnOCcwM4OAWd_4RrMiRQWf8a4sUg1sCd4gT2dyo21S7fMkqk-aLMhYYX2ZkFBmZQEr0Vf8u21phODlQfCQ" width="240" /></a></div>We found another cool place to eat ... Victor's on 52nd. <p></p><p>Great atmosphere and great food. Interesting placement for the outdoor eatery. </p><p>There are now tons of bike paths in NY and this one is dangerously close to the patrons when they walk in and out of the restaurant. So close that we saw one get hit. The bikers are incensed that anyone would not stop for them of course (much like the bikers and skateboarders in St. Pete and Tampa). I take the high road ... I think they all should use their feet or get off the damned road. </p><p>Okay I'll take my meds and calm down.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqgyroPGfBrR-wXvWxwg7bfb01N79f07lBTO2-Xf7gVBerekS7b-4JVPbIlbJQLBIOU5KYdcvG5CBi5OEyfZPSt-aWkLSLEZbDNO4aZ2HwsTY1RiTPCi0mUinOTTmrYAxTwAl1vrjbwDseITooYj-BPszpzKLTHG5o5H57fr8r0G68ltRO9DrTlyRweQ/s4032/C4AB97C4-FD39-4266-9229-8222D3D417DF.heic" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqgyroPGfBrR-wXvWxwg7bfb01N79f07lBTO2-Xf7gVBerekS7b-4JVPbIlbJQLBIOU5KYdcvG5CBi5OEyfZPSt-aWkLSLEZbDNO4aZ2HwsTY1RiTPCi0mUinOTTmrYAxTwAl1vrjbwDseITooYj-BPszpzKLTHG5o5H57fr8r0G68ltRO9DrTlyRweQ/s320/C4AB97C4-FD39-4266-9229-8222D3D417DF.heic" width="240" /></a></div><br />Sunday, our last day, we saw "MJ The Musical". Our buddy Quentin Darrington was one of the stars of this show ... BUT as bad luck would have it, he had COVID and was unable to be there. We texted and I told him that the musical ... which was based on Michael Jacksons life ... was really awesome. The music, actors, staging ... everything ... was unbelievable. Helps to be a fan of Michael's music but when the Thriller theme starts playing and you don't at least move your shoulders in your seat, you're probably dead.<p></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjgZVR4Swcui10h7r4lhScZC0eXLp4ytQSC6bK42huZsLMZY41_EYUgDnnvAEN6f2JO52ewfwjlnKdlsoPhNtc8DXMhHjOiNPb3BjR6_LWz5xCac3qozB4qNyM14ZyuxCgRR1xl1QaVU7Te11JMjcAOZQO6q__3Yjz2EvrOhd9GuYzK0Nku611sz4zcg/s4032/A385AD9C-6960-4E53-9D1E-DE09720D0CE6.heic" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjgZVR4Swcui10h7r4lhScZC0eXLp4ytQSC6bK42huZsLMZY41_EYUgDnnvAEN6f2JO52ewfwjlnKdlsoPhNtc8DXMhHjOiNPb3BjR6_LWz5xCac3qozB4qNyM14ZyuxCgRR1xl1QaVU7Te11JMjcAOZQO6q__3Yjz2EvrOhd9GuYzK0Nku611sz4zcg/s320/A385AD9C-6960-4E53-9D1E-DE09720D0CE6.heic" width="240" /></a></div><br />New York is still a happening place.<p></p><p>By the way ... Deb snapped this picture of me because my hair had its own trip up there. I look like an author! (or maybe just a little Stephen King ish). </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p> </p>joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04363843095563741698noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8977520395455999712.post-59949732352271903102021-10-31T12:36:00.000-04:002021-10-31T12:36:29.626-04:00Sometimes it ain’t so cool to be “hip”<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB3EEIGb_r0JcWPfKMqL5tOuOy1-BLPNqOB4Cdmp13iqxNCY1ylGLBwI8VA5G_qmX8NveQFFzJJDC6EKiKZw3jew8Hc2Xpdh34jLgDyDpfwPIK4tD_l7RcYPX3FoF5v7oMznQtOJRsTbMo/s710/7BC6F390-6DE0-40F0-9D08-2AB1AA3E9761.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="710" data-original-width="551" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB3EEIGb_r0JcWPfKMqL5tOuOy1-BLPNqOB4Cdmp13iqxNCY1ylGLBwI8VA5G_qmX8NveQFFzJJDC6EKiKZw3jew8Hc2Xpdh34jLgDyDpfwPIK4tD_l7RcYPX3FoF5v7oMznQtOJRsTbMo/s320/7BC6F390-6DE0-40F0-9D08-2AB1AA3E9761.jpeg" width="248" /></a></div>A show of hands. How many of you feel like you’re pretty Hip? Okay. Now how many of you feel like you were hip when you were younger? And now for those over 50 … how many of you wish you didn’t FEEL your own hips when you walk, run, lie down in bed or sneeze??<p></p><p>You probably figured out which group I belong to.</p><p>Years ago, I always thought I was hip until I had kids who reminded me often that I was not hip, not funny, not cool and embarrassing. I smile often today when I look at them raising their own kids knowing that paybacks are hell. </p><p>Oh course hipness is relative, depending on your stage in life. I mean … I was a musician, an artist, a writer, a teacher … how hip was that? Who cared whether I didn’t sell a lot of books or make it as a painter or that I was reassured by only folks who worked for me later in life that … I WAS HIP. </p><p>So … fast forward to today. Older, not much wiser, my last unhealthy hip replaced by a titanium insert … definitely NOT feeling hip. For you who have undergone joint replacement … it’s not much fun. </p><p>In the maze of crutches, ice packs, raised toilet seats, compression stockings, vibrating leg cuffs … you wonder when you can not think about your hips! Funny, I did this once before three years ago with my left hip and don’t remember as much pain but I don’t remember what I had for breakfast lately either </p><p>Funny story </p><p>Yesterday, Debbie visited one of her billionaire condo owners to instruct them how to open their garage doors (or something less complicated). Debbie’s been taking care of me since surgery and was afraid to leave me alone for ten minutes (knowing I might get confused and hurt myself). </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic1MQEATwdbXKu9I8DKmHwEZ77IQ8o4Z2lJKfh54NlZ15_Xdf_pkwJJHhvBsorU8WZW9oW9_oIkwF4X5UkKybNdXsHIPwsa1JTrV9VMHP1324bZR6BUopYAGXlCuDXLv1ADgn2NR71G5At/s737/3DCED176-4059-4F9D-A3C1-8D9CD6A7F7BA.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="737" data-original-width="563" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic1MQEATwdbXKu9I8DKmHwEZ77IQ8o4Z2lJKfh54NlZ15_Xdf_pkwJJHhvBsorU8WZW9oW9_oIkwF4X5UkKybNdXsHIPwsa1JTrV9VMHP1324bZR6BUopYAGXlCuDXLv1ADgn2NR71G5At/s320/3DCED176-4059-4F9D-A3C1-8D9CD6A7F7BA.jpeg" width="244" /></a></div>I had just taken my 13th pain killer before lunch and suddenly a hawk slammed into my sliding glass doors by the pool. He hit so hard that I swear he pooped all over the deck … then got back up and flew into the glass again. Then he flew off. <p></p><p>I grabbed my phone.</p><p>“Debbie … Debbie … you won’t believe this . A hawk just flew right into our glass doors then pooped himself.”</p><p>Silence on the other end.</p><p>“Are you making fun of me because I saw a yellow butterfly by the pool and told you that was a great sign?”</p><p>“No, no I swear I saw a hawk. You don’t believe me?”</p><p>“I don’t” Debbie said. </p><p>“I’m telling you it happened. And if you don’t believe me, ask Bobby Kennedy. He was there. He saw it. So was Ben Franklin.”</p><p>I stopped.</p><p>“”Oh man I can’t believe what I just said. Ben Franklin wasn’t here. I’m so stupid.”</p><p>“No honey. Don’t worry. You’re just hallucinating from all those medicines.”</p><p>“I meant George Washington.”</p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04363843095563741698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8977520395455999712.post-448609346752686332021-07-26T23:50:00.004-04:002021-07-27T08:52:08.302-04:00I'm POSITIVE You Will Love This Show<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfjsv_p27l7-g3HHGnyCFfcRCskA3gEfY92yfaWkTdkN0PMKTgqwg5UKqqnZSzSZzoqa5lpWvHpjXuFCDVfdp4aH_sbOLaITHTPQy6TSnbokV8-0VzdddRZZjNODLPyiJiIWIBwlVKh4yv/s292/00938A82-06DD-498B-833B-2798507441F0.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="173" data-original-width="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfjsv_p27l7-g3HHGnyCFfcRCskA3gEfY92yfaWkTdkN0PMKTgqwg5UKqqnZSzSZzoqa5lpWvHpjXuFCDVfdp4aH_sbOLaITHTPQy6TSnbokV8-0VzdddRZZjNODLPyiJiIWIBwlVKh4yv/s0/00938A82-06DD-498B-833B-2798507441F0.jpeg" /></a></div><br />I try not to watch the news any more. <p></p><p></p><p>Oh... I'll listen to a podcast now and then. Certainly, Debbie will keep me informed about all the really important things happening around town ... like what a good dea<span>l she got at Sam's Club on peanut butter or why the lawn people didn't show up on Friday or the rain percentages for mid afternoon.</span></p><p>The world is a crazy place right now. Every day there are stories about people who lie, cheat, murder, steal, plunder ... and those are just the people we voted for. What happened to the NICE people? What happened to the people that we LIKED? </p><p>Well ... There is HOPE ... he's called TED LASSO.</p><p>Ted Lasso is a GREAT TV series that airs on Apple TV+ and could not have come at a better time. Jason Sudeikis created Ted, a cheery football coach with a goofy moustache from Kansas who is recruited to coach a soccer team in England. It’s a sport he never coached and never played. It would be like putting Andy Griffin in charge of Scotland Yard. The reason he was picked? The owner of the team is the ex wife of the former owner and (just like in the film “Major League”) she wants to LOSE every game to destroy her ex husband’s first love. </p><p>Ted Lasso is ridiculed for his folksy demeanor by the fans and the press and the players. Every day he faces an impossible task ... to create a winning environment with a team that has no respect for him at all. And through it all he remains POSITIVE. He has an undying spirit and smiles every day. He is never negative and always sees the bright side to the worst situations. </p><p>Sudeikis could have played this part like a slapstick buffoon ... just for laughs, but instead took the high road. And boy does it work. It makes you laugh out loud and shed a tear or two at the same time.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsZAQY6WkR8JI36X-lG1XgTrnUIw5gUG7N5yO8nDYHt8inBCXfj19dbJu_yHg34BwUkyFJUqMnwhcUoC8StK54bL6-YezlzddEz4Xo6imBL2RDX1WK_GuJhZfvx8sPaqtG6jJyf5FgoZvv/s300/656B111F-83EF-431A-83D1-066FEF7D6365_4_5005_c.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsZAQY6WkR8JI36X-lG1XgTrnUIw5gUG7N5yO8nDYHt8inBCXfj19dbJu_yHg34BwUkyFJUqMnwhcUoC8StK54bL6-YezlzddEz4Xo6imBL2RDX1WK_GuJhZfvx8sPaqtG6jJyf5FgoZvv/s0/656B111F-83EF-431A-83D1-066FEF7D6365_4_5005_c.jpeg" /></a></div><br />Here's an example:<p></p><p>The opening show on Season 2 starts with a penalty kick from his best player. As he strikes the ball, the greyhound mascot Earl slips out in front of the goal to chase a bird. He is hit by the ball and killed. </p><p>Everyone is devastated. </p><p>In the press conference that follows, one of the cynical newsmen asks Lasso, “So do you have any comment about Earl, the greyhound?"</p><p>Ted pauses a few minutes and says, "You know when I was a kid, a neighbor's dog attacked me. It was pretty bad, my mom told me. I was too young to really remember. Well, years later, my neighbor passed away and I helped out around the house. I walked and fed the dog ... took him outside and played catch. The next couple of years the other spouse passed and there was no one to take care of the dog. This was the same dog that attacked me when I was little. But I decided to take the dog and care for him because there was no one else. He lived a long life until I had to put him down when he was older. You know ... funny thing about life. The things that you hated years before ... you hate it more when it's not there any more. Well sir ... I just hope our mascot Earl and him are running around in heaven just as happy as ever."</p><p>Ted Lasso works. It's a series that is such a great reminder that good guys DO finish first and that kindness can in fact create winners. There are better ways to lead your life and treat others. </p><p>Tune in ... YOU WILL THANK ME.</p>joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04363843095563741698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8977520395455999712.post-87225208029809921922021-06-05T14:50:00.002-04:002021-06-05T14:54:02.065-04:00Wayne’s Song<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwol2w46YO6gzW9YidQbiwbeWZLJNDA-o_RHxV6FPojAlwX6nXAXtN-KJkucCK6mtUZqDKqnDYZGM4y-S1EDw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /> I’ve been spending time at the keyboard remixing old songs and tried my hand at a little montage for my brother. <p></p><div>Wrote this 20 plus years ago. Wayne died of a brain tumor at 40 … far too young. </div><div><br /></div><div>Seems like yesterday. </div><div><br /></div><div>Hope you enjoy. </div>joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04363843095563741698noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8977520395455999712.post-46395279683591921372021-05-27T22:20:00.001-04:002021-05-27T22:23:24.374-04:00Fishy Story<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Av2fzVMhFY2l1bPUf9KLOpl6r-QW4AyQt_2P6FNm2K0V0I5nGrhz0WEQlXaxynGhAs9rYp842Lmjh4wlqbjI4roeOEQ2BJpF2Np1vOEnKc9ZS3wYD0gDDUMTjEZkxky4liVSpuIss44Y/s2048/166A968A-6B14-4517-A0D6-78379D8CBE03.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Av2fzVMhFY2l1bPUf9KLOpl6r-QW4AyQt_2P6FNm2K0V0I5nGrhz0WEQlXaxynGhAs9rYp842Lmjh4wlqbjI4roeOEQ2BJpF2Np1vOEnKc9ZS3wYD0gDDUMTjEZkxky4liVSpuIss44Y/s320/166A968A-6B14-4517-A0D6-78379D8CBE03.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br />I ate lunch today at Doc Ford’s, a very cool new restaurant at the pier approach. The food is delicious and atmosphere is pretty delicious too. <p></p><p>After lunch I wandered over to the old jetty that juts out into the pass between Albert Witted airport and the Pier … where it has sat for years … kind of like an old friend that you pass as you slowly cruise past in your boat. </p><p>I have memories of that jetty especially when the kids were small and we would drift by with fishing poles to hook whatever we’d find … pinfish, flounder, catfish, random trash that shouldn’t be there. </p><p>Once, when my brother in law at the time … Myles took the kids Nikki and Shane … we ran out of bait. Myles announced we’d head back but Shane stood, took his fishing rod and cast it out with just the hook. </p><p>“I will catch fish for us because I have the magic touch!” </p><p>We went along with a Shane and smiled as we patiently waited. In a few minutes, his rod bent and Shane caught the first fish of the day. In shock … we congratulated him. </p><p>“I will catch more!” He announced. </p><p>“Let’s not push our luck Shanie.” I think one of us said. </p><p>But undeterred, Shane caught not one but three fish that day. He was the only one and we still have no idea how he did it. </p><p>I tell that story because there’s a big sign by the jetty today. NO FISHING. It really struck me. Why on earth can’t there be fishing by the jetty anymore?</p><p>I thought Shane would probably have the answer … “Is it still fishing if you don’t use bait?”</p><p><br /></p>joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04363843095563741698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8977520395455999712.post-25371188092556996022021-05-09T17:38:00.002-04:002021-05-09T17:41:58.744-04:00Welcome to New Orleans (Make That Philly)<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhetPWGXshzk6TZwB8qhsx-T6s_wBLq0WNTUJZrLto6wrdi0DBmyctqAgIYU1cfY38fVeYHybM8wBijhnE7gRB5tUGZR7SrHxfpv-WNAKPiRDfsyvENmVtYofCxZbzSsz0fXo3WRKCgqFDY/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhetPWGXshzk6TZwB8qhsx-T6s_wBLq0WNTUJZrLto6wrdi0DBmyctqAgIYU1cfY38fVeYHybM8wBijhnE7gRB5tUGZR7SrHxfpv-WNAKPiRDfsyvENmVtYofCxZbzSsz0fXo3WRKCgqFDY/" width="180" /></a></div>"So guess what?" I asked Deb about a month ago ... after planning a trip to New Orleans as our first big outing. "I bought us NBA tickets to the Philly/New Orleans game on Friday."<p></p><p>"That's great," Deb said. "I've never been to an NBA game. Are the seats good?"</p><p>"The seats are great!"I said, "... except we would be sitting in Philly."</p><p>"On the Philly side of the stadium? That's okay."</p><p>"No. IN PHILLY. I screwed up and brought tickets for a game that is in Philly, not New Orleans."</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhdvzPAQwl0jH6IZ-B_ksm0IRwkMdMWcH3lQfeVClCk3rrpul_N5edsYRdCNQqSqWW6Phtzlx4iPJuNaNHOuBd71HDF-AA12wIZsgO_iGGvS9uCUnzGaFb_oPGy3jyFCSoyMkYi5BDrkNI/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhdvzPAQwl0jH6IZ-B_ksm0IRwkMdMWcH3lQfeVClCk3rrpul_N5edsYRdCNQqSqWW6Phtzlx4iPJuNaNHOuBd71HDF-AA12wIZsgO_iGGvS9uCUnzGaFb_oPGy3jyFCSoyMkYi5BDrkNI/" width="180" /></a></div><br />Thus began our whirlwind trip to New Orleans AND Philly (the tickets were non refundable and we decided against reselling them online)<p></p><p>I'll start with Philly. It was the last stop ... but the craziest. We did it in one day. Rushing to the airport at the last minute as is the case with most of our planning, finding our seats on Frontier Airlines (truly no frills, no food, no leg room and seats that were carved out of a forest somewhere) we got there an hour before game time. </p><p>Wells Fargo Arena is in the Navy Yard section of Philly amid the other sports complexes (Baseball and Football) and a short walk from the Marriott Courtside. We hadn't eaten anything all day so we were starving by the time we got to the stadium. As luck would have it, Deb found a salad place and I bought a chicken sandwich that I managed to take one bite of and had to throw the rest out. It was bad ... I mean really bad. Soft served ice cream was my dinner that night.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZVHynoCnyqHlg1FGYd5Up5V8o0ictzC2kJLGBnOZ5pYk3q_ktmZTXYZcDHaHDiDpMaTvA5lCfbh9SM2ANNl4fLNgwO9Wcgv1yNqUDrI_ufwQCdFQtB-zUjVUNncj1IYaHunY3dKbbkWVX/s2048/3DA2E346-7D66-4929-9D00-2E3727A772BF.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1893" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZVHynoCnyqHlg1FGYd5Up5V8o0ictzC2kJLGBnOZ5pYk3q_ktmZTXYZcDHaHDiDpMaTvA5lCfbh9SM2ANNl4fLNgwO9Wcgv1yNqUDrI_ufwQCdFQtB-zUjVUNncj1IYaHunY3dKbbkWVX/s320/3DA2E346-7D66-4929-9D00-2E3727A772BF.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br />The game turned out to be pretty great (for us). Philly blew a 16 point lead and fought back in the last few minutes to barely beat the Pelicans. We spent the night in our little Marriott bed and visited old friends, Steve and Colleen Klasko, the next day ... hustling back to St. Pete in the afternoon.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfUscV3q1ppNUHqtL2Ovqc8c4xTNNaFdm4dxRZPR6UETh9ZG9DcAWNEMXW1pr9C1nZ8fH8c4YJE5THfFYNx_RtgviVYL_3nSzzbj3c_RsO7qzh6lclYlfGBy-yhvjuGWGOJOU9zU9_pWqq/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfUscV3q1ppNUHqtL2Ovqc8c4xTNNaFdm4dxRZPR6UETh9ZG9DcAWNEMXW1pr9C1nZ8fH8c4YJE5THfFYNx_RtgviVYL_3nSzzbj3c_RsO7qzh6lclYlfGBy-yhvjuGWGOJOU9zU9_pWqq/" width="180" /></a></div><br />By the way, we ate our way through New Orleans, days earlier. <div><br /></div><div>There were the crawfish beignets at Grand Isle Restaurant, shrimp and corn risotto and flourless volcano dessert at Superior Seafood and a big old shrimp po boy at ACME Oysters.</div><div><br /><br /><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFYqY6D_uk1GWyEycfIVJiVuOHTN4xTB2D6hDNOO42qmGiK0t9Pua0t6lVkhLU0pxjL7BKBE6_EAXJX6zhOXK9tOuJLEzVitAPg28dlJIR5nT1mPTgY8B9AoDVy0xkoOl3iyLVLessuRSz/s1393/A42A8E1E-23C8-4C1B-9D2A-E503523B0209_1_201_a.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1393" data-original-width="1065" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFYqY6D_uk1GWyEycfIVJiVuOHTN4xTB2D6hDNOO42qmGiK0t9Pua0t6lVkhLU0pxjL7BKBE6_EAXJX6zhOXK9tOuJLEzVitAPg28dlJIR5nT1mPTgY8B9AoDVy0xkoOl3iyLVLessuRSz/s320/A42A8E1E-23C8-4C1B-9D2A-E503523B0209_1_201_a.jpeg" /></a></div><br /> It was heaven.<p></p><p>Sometimes the trips that seem to have gone awry turn out to be some of the best trips ever.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p></div>joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04363843095563741698noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8977520395455999712.post-50935489917655807012021-04-02T11:15:00.001-04:002021-04-02T11:15:41.802-04:00Sammy ... Are You Listening?<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ2VqPQSipewK4j8S9XRGb3hcL5_GW1VfJ4jo1xefJILA07zSmo6wcyrWr2JS95IpfniFSpiajEub8FJx_y7kF4EMswJU9EWW2XVscsKm8RmWCDK24271OJa24b2AmsCnneZrP-uYwFAvR/s2048/5A0DE025-3C9D-44FC-96EF-60953FCF01E1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ2VqPQSipewK4j8S9XRGb3hcL5_GW1VfJ4jo1xefJILA07zSmo6wcyrWr2JS95IpfniFSpiajEub8FJx_y7kF4EMswJU9EWW2XVscsKm8RmWCDK24271OJa24b2AmsCnneZrP-uYwFAvR/s320/5A0DE025-3C9D-44FC-96EF-60953FCF01E1.jpeg" /></a></div>"You know ... I am VERY proud of me!"<p></p><p>That was one of my dad's favorite things to say. The funniest thing about that line was that he didn't use it to be funny. And ... it was often said when he was talking about his grandkids. If Nikki, my oldest daughter, was given special recognition in the medical community for something that she accomplished as a physician ... he would say, "I showed my friend Stan the article in the paper about Nikki. I am VERY proud of me. I'm her grandfather, you know?" </p><p>I just finished a screenplay adaptation of my second book "SAMMY". Sending it around to people I know in the industry who might give it a read or share it with others. You never know, SAMMY just might find his way to the silver screen (if they exist any more after COVID darkened movie theaters everywhere). </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVKrYxQ6iJX65azQoXpbtEdr5CZB_65JIz76cco3drXGk288UTddGNg-1hTapvdsSS-vNQL8mYVXesEEmnurVQ2wM4IuaTjMO0FJqAgindG3rRqptTjsNwisTvGS_Ah3dXRrAtkCZ0TcwW/s2048/ABCC52F3-4754-44CC-80E9-9182274B5240.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVKrYxQ6iJX65azQoXpbtEdr5CZB_65JIz76cco3drXGk288UTddGNg-1hTapvdsSS-vNQL8mYVXesEEmnurVQ2wM4IuaTjMO0FJqAgindG3rRqptTjsNwisTvGS_Ah3dXRrAtkCZ0TcwW/s320/ABCC52F3-4754-44CC-80E9-9182274B5240.jpeg" /></a></div>Audio sales have been doing well for the new audio version of SAMMY as well. It's on Amazon and Audible if you want to check it out (I never pass up a chance to beg). <p></p><p>I often wonder what Sammy would say about all the attention he has gotten from the fictionalized account of his life. Like all of us, his life was filled with ups and downs. I know there were things left undone that bothered him. </p><p>That's one of the reasons I wrote SAMMY ... to give him virtual closure. </p><p>Maybe if he were alive today, he would give Stan a copy of the book and say "I am VERY proud of me! That's my son, the author, you know?"</p>joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04363843095563741698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8977520395455999712.post-81493094210022305012021-03-08T15:52:00.002-05:002021-03-08T15:52:59.031-05:00Only Keli Would Ask<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsFpprD7XtPKCzzrRJf_s008tz5X4jRt5WiX3jq6wCojEamhxNP93jgdpHpw5a9MvIbBNVlzzkx3oKsixxr5mBVU1sBPD74yrOokZ-e2Z1wlI57Z3dVzce3lZit6lVC2msc281wSE_iQZx/s2048/D946881D-EC97-4600-9C45-0A69433D5D31.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsFpprD7XtPKCzzrRJf_s008tz5X4jRt5WiX3jq6wCojEamhxNP93jgdpHpw5a9MvIbBNVlzzkx3oKsixxr5mBVU1sBPD74yrOokZ-e2Z1wlI57Z3dVzce3lZit6lVC2msc281wSE_iQZx/s320/D946881D-EC97-4600-9C45-0A69433D5D31.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br />The other night the siblings went out to dinner on PAG beach (Pass a Grille for the out of towers). We started out at our condo drinking wine and then walked to Grace Restaurant. Sitting there at Grace, my sister in law Keli (who may have consumed the lions share of the wine) looked at the silverware which was wrapped in baggies for all in attendance and asked me a question. I’m sure she didn’t look at her silverware first. <p></p><p>“Joel ... is that special silverware that you bring with you?” </p><p>“What?” </p><p>“Your silverware ... it’s wrapped in plastic. Is that Diabetic silverware?”</p><p>I wasn’t sure what to answer first. I thought about saying “duh! Everyone has wrapped silverware and what the heck is diabetic silverware?” But the fact that she even asked left me speechless. </p><p>Without having to answer she finally laughed and said. “Oh sorry. Never mind. I thought you had diabetes.”</p><p><br /></p>joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04363843095563741698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8977520395455999712.post-73638562273514444882021-02-26T02:24:00.007-05:002021-02-26T23:14:52.681-05:00IPhone, uPhone, We all Phone <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAEoof4ZYyaa4xQ63hbVUJei1j97uqsIcBs4H3nCBCFaMQNBQx-VV5oL4K7btPF3WYSWuznbW2LGtU0bnPeAT7UjLzz2z8vpfwoXq8HFH-jqnus6KWie4rHSUSkr_ZFfkMpT1pfB41kj7I/s663/F2566273-8B95-44BA-9E1A-64DF5F1D93BA.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="663" data-original-width="590" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAEoof4ZYyaa4xQ63hbVUJei1j97uqsIcBs4H3nCBCFaMQNBQx-VV5oL4K7btPF3WYSWuznbW2LGtU0bnPeAT7UjLzz2z8vpfwoXq8HFH-jqnus6KWie4rHSUSkr_ZFfkMpT1pfB41kj7I/s320/F2566273-8B95-44BA-9E1A-64DF5F1D93BA.jpeg" /></a></div><br />There is one word that has been banned from our household: iPhone. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">This wasn’t always the case. But lately, the word has been linked with criminal acts and cursed repeatedly by Debbie in ways that I am even shocked to hear. Truth be told, Debbie has never liked her iPhone (since she traded up from an iPhone 3 ... I think 10 years ago) and was always unhappy with the lack of consistency and multiple glitches she encountered ... hence ... the repeated use of colorful language in its description. It</span><span style="text-align: left;"> has gotten so bad as of late, that even Debbie promised not to mention it anymore. I’ll admit that I encouraged her silence after she cursed me for inferring that her 250,000 saved emails might be to blame for a sluggish performance. It was not healthy for our marriage </span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The other morning, Debbie brought it up once more this time she seemed really shaken when she shared this, “ Okay ... I am REALLY over it My phone is gone. I can’t find it. It is in some large room hidden by the Apple people and I spent all night looking for it.”</div><p>Bad dreams are a sign that it’s time to get that sucker fixed (or delete at least half of your emails.) But that’s just me and I will say no more. </p>joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04363843095563741698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8977520395455999712.post-44919875570378645492021-01-31T13:52:00.000-05:002021-01-31T13:52:27.921-05:00You Feel a Little Warm<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOlhJuSH4-HFz9LvunnNp73mav-16fwU136RQ2Q-qJsbfb3oaiSjUKJF7tsNuwoLEl_hYChRLl_rrdnBV6pP-FBOIzQS0ZapOCz4HZ3xvc693uIgFpIeJY5bShV_1m-WGE4mWIvH5OyEgS/s2048/E8FDFF05-B38F-4FC1-9CB2-F0C4505B5B7C.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOlhJuSH4-HFz9LvunnNp73mav-16fwU136RQ2Q-qJsbfb3oaiSjUKJF7tsNuwoLEl_hYChRLl_rrdnBV6pP-FBOIzQS0ZapOCz4HZ3xvc693uIgFpIeJY5bShV_1m-WGE4mWIvH5OyEgS/s320/E8FDFF05-B38F-4FC1-9CB2-F0C4505B5B7C.jpeg" /></a></div><br />A few days ago, I was given the second dose of the Pfizer vaccine. My arm was a little sore and I felt a little under the weather. <p></p><p>That night Deb felt my head and said “You feel a little warm honey. Let me take your temperature.”</p><p>She came back with a new thermometer I hadn’t seen before. It was pretty large and bright yellow. “Just bought this,“. she said. “I wanted to try it out”</p><p>It was still in the package and the instructions were written in a different language. One thing I was sure of ... it met two of her criteria for a purchase. </p><p>1. It came from WalMart</p><p>2. It was cheap or on sale</p><p>As she slipped it in my mouth, I told her that the thing was so big that I couldn’t hardly keep it in my mouth “Just make sure it’s under your tongue.” </p><p>Ten minutes later, it still hadn’t beeped or anything. She took it out and noticed it was 99.5. “Okay looks like you have a fever.” </p><p>I was skeptical but agreed to take a couple of Tylenol. A few minutes later she came back with the old thermometer and asked me to try it again. </p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“ Because I looked the new one up on line.”</p><p>“And...”</p><p>“ it’s a Meat Thermometer.”</p><p><br /></p>joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04363843095563741698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8977520395455999712.post-238057370421228562021-01-12T10:05:00.002-05:002021-01-12T10:06:30.337-05:00Memories<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOkErPrntBjO0HKz_XZYnZRtRhrl64otQCqTN0MmnYPc7dTQg5lO5CNeSXfz8YwAlosKBHI3xv6k0lsCmTAQSDl4cjmCxzJ9UHpMzxX4-ol8AteOz2n7qP7b9x2wk_yYVqJWhTs5_rv4Vq/s2048/6309991B-0628-4CC9-960F-E8D0A104D2D1.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1601" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOkErPrntBjO0HKz_XZYnZRtRhrl64otQCqTN0MmnYPc7dTQg5lO5CNeSXfz8YwAlosKBHI3xv6k0lsCmTAQSDl4cjmCxzJ9UHpMzxX4-ol8AteOz2n7qP7b9x2wk_yYVqJWhTs5_rv4Vq/s320/6309991B-0628-4CC9-960F-E8D0A104D2D1.jpeg" /></a></div>Yesterday ... Came across all these pics of the kids when they were little. Nikki, being the first born, posed in most of them for me. I think I ruined her for life. She now takes pictures of her two kids every ten minutes. <p></p><p>She was a beautiful baby and now is a beautiful woman. By the way... there are pictures of my other two kids Alissa and Josh who are equally beautiful and handsome. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisfFpYMmMIpA9hWNAFfnaA8bWEP2q-0khr8pTn9e8LUz0kBdZhCRFRfcUXGdmgJH76_I4AlRC44PaCUZ_Wokkqwf1LzAZtQ-9xUxui4CLVxYWFQMw6_usjMcnWKi0fWTwll5qmblngpmgx/s2048/90B324FD-4956-4CD8-BD2B-C199524306F9.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1263" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisfFpYMmMIpA9hWNAFfnaA8bWEP2q-0khr8pTn9e8LUz0kBdZhCRFRfcUXGdmgJH76_I4AlRC44PaCUZ_Wokkqwf1LzAZtQ-9xUxui4CLVxYWFQMw6_usjMcnWKi0fWTwll5qmblngpmgx/s320/90B324FD-4956-4CD8-BD2B-C199524306F9.jpeg" /></a></div><br />But Nikki was around for 6 years before they arrived so she got all the attention. <p></p><p>I found a series of drawings that I did when she was still in diapers (This was 40 years ago).</p><p><b>Note: Anybody old enough to remember Didee Diapers? We used them until disposables were sold.</b></p><p>The plan was to paint these images on her bedroom walls ... things she could be when she grew up ... musician, teacher, painter, zookeeper ... plumber. Good thing I didn’t do that. Nikki is now a successful doctor (one image I didn’t draw) and we had lived in at least five houses by the time she was 13. </p><p>Oh well ... time marched on. </p>joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04363843095563741698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8977520395455999712.post-86644920391110866172021-01-10T18:18:00.003-05:002021-01-10T18:53:21.921-05:00We ALL See Him!<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVlx0-0eNk7zr0jK7qNvojiyccbInXeAlZb6AIqT9VDyTqMArCOlIJAFlwoBWcFwCCcUlBDtILn4nPzuqGLKv8mn3vn2b7Q4Sl-Fnl8pEs1zmUP9Dth2rCb7P4fN3DBn1iMHMf8kvyjtlD/s1000/36547C59-DC41-4733-9A12-C466E444DA0B.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="562" data-original-width="1000" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVlx0-0eNk7zr0jK7qNvojiyccbInXeAlZb6AIqT9VDyTqMArCOlIJAFlwoBWcFwCCcUlBDtILn4nPzuqGLKv8mn3vn2b7Q4Sl-Fnl8pEs1zmUP9Dth2rCb7P4fN3DBn1iMHMf8kvyjtlD/s320/36547C59-DC41-4733-9A12-C466E444DA0B.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br />This guy is my new favorite actor in my new favorite commercials. Bill Glass plays Dr. Rick in Progressive Insurance’s series of ads that are brilliantly written and brilliantly portrayed by Glass and others. <p></p><p>They are hysterical in their simplicity. </p><p>He is a Parents-Life Coach who works with adult children to correct habits they have picked up from their parents. They go on field trips to places like the hardware store where Dr Rick reminds them to not talk on their speaker phones in public and when they pass a customer with blue hair and the class all stares, Dr Rick says, “We ALL see him We ALL See him.”</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/u0yT5XWjldo" width="320" youtube-src-id="u0yT5XWjldo"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Look for Dr Rick. He’s the best. Kudos to Progressive. There are SO MANY dumb commercials out there. <p></p><p>I am so happy there are still some smart people in advertising. </p>joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04363843095563741698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8977520395455999712.post-3497636923925916922020-12-31T12:59:00.006-05:002020-12-31T13:15:31.378-05:002020 ... The Good, The Bad and the Ugly<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3TEh0F4dpNJKrVhXO0EHK13nU10-nmDac16Fejpg28ohXeeOUck9-Qp2Aziy1SXvW9mGgKYw2UunC7a6drtjSK-sLvsJLTabkzyDixqbiI02Gq_lP-kJ9WUCnBjFLOEjuvls5xMgNZ854/s700/F9EC31A2-E59D-460B-958B-CFBF85E1C770.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="467" data-original-width="700" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3TEh0F4dpNJKrVhXO0EHK13nU10-nmDac16Fejpg28ohXeeOUck9-Qp2Aziy1SXvW9mGgKYw2UunC7a6drtjSK-sLvsJLTabkzyDixqbiI02Gq_lP-kJ9WUCnBjFLOEjuvls5xMgNZ854/s320/F9EC31A2-E59D-460B-958B-CFBF85E1C770.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>We say goodbye to a year that was probably not high on anyone’s top ten list. But one that definitely created introspection. <p>The GOOD: We slowed down. We thought long and hard about how we live. We had a new appreciation for our families. We focused less on how we looked and more on what we did. </p><p>The BAD: We lost friends and loved ones. We found hatred and jealousy where we weren’t looking. We lost our way for a period of time. </p><p>The UGLY: We rediscovered politics and watched it play out everyday ... no matter which side we were on </p><p>So welcome 2021! Here’s hoping we can use valuable lessons from 2020 to make each day important in our lives and the lives of others we know and love.</p><p>Let’s celebrate the new year with a renewed sense of hope. </p><p>Aw hell ... just grab a beer and hold on!</p><p>Have a Happy New Year!</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04363843095563741698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8977520395455999712.post-21558686637320362082020-12-19T14:13:00.003-05:002020-12-19T14:14:26.917-05:00Family night with the sibs<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvuGoJMCnr1L35fpW8Kq-Lh3c2FGOFVE-fF3GXYylamHgOS5mS5S4TgR8xfRQIPH2SuMSl4DrmbwcFcanwwG4VRPCk6DhaDEMXzeEpxLvn5jaqhg7JUpsNEBprifqinsePqFhWkDkD7L1t/s906/6D2B694E-D108-467C-AD8B-573A1D9E7840.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="629" data-original-width="906" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvuGoJMCnr1L35fpW8Kq-Lh3c2FGOFVE-fF3GXYylamHgOS5mS5S4TgR8xfRQIPH2SuMSl4DrmbwcFcanwwG4VRPCk6DhaDEMXzeEpxLvn5jaqhg7JUpsNEBprifqinsePqFhWkDkD7L1t/s320/6D2B694E-D108-467C-AD8B-573A1D9E7840.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>Finally went to dinner with our family in a safe secure (I hope) environment at Paul’s Landing last night. It was chilly outside but we had a couple of heaters and alcohol to keep everyone warm and cozy. <p></p><p>The conversation among the sisters is always interesting and last night didn’t disappoint. You see, to us brothers the sisters speak in tongues. They understand each other but I am not sure anyone else could follow without a translator. </p><p>Keli, who has always provided rich material for my blog, told a story about a recent trip to a nail salon. As the story goes ... she was getting her nails painted when she noticed the signs in the shop. </p><p>“So,” she asked. “I see you have Polish (as in belonging to Poland) nail colors. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that.”</p><p>The nail tech looked at her and smiled. “Oh no. Not Polish ... that is nail polish!”</p><p>Keli laughed. “I can’t believe I said that. I get confused with words that are spelled the same. Like message and massage. You know?”</p><p>“Those are spelled differently. “</p><p>“They are? Well ... Whatever.”</p><p> ********************</p><p>Families are the best, aren’t they? Deb and I have a Tuesday lunch get together with our kids and the grands. Can’t wait!</p><p>Happy holidays to all of you. Coming up on a New Year ... with renewed hope, peace and love!</p>joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04363843095563741698noreply@blogger.com0