Guilty? Nope. Pleasure? Ahhhhh..............

I remember precisely when it all started. We were living in New Hampshire at the time and being in the mortgage business, much of my time was spent on the road. I would drive from town to town soliciting realtors for business. Well, since I had the freedom of the road so to speak I began stopping by our apartment for a nooner. Afterwards I would make a quick sandwich and hit the road again. It so refreshed me that I did this as often as I could.

Well I’m still in banking but don’t travel like I used to so a quickie at lunch time just isn’t practical any longer by the time I drive home etc…. Still I absolutely make full use of the concept on weekends. I can’t explain it really. There’s just something about the middle of the day and even if I didn’t look at the time, my body ummmm……….knows it’s time.

Spouse just looks at me with that knowing look and rolls her eyes skyward. She doesn’t even ask. So I slip out of most of my clothes, glance at the clock and look so forward to the next hour or so – give or take a few minutes. Yes, that’s true. The next time I bother to glance at the clock it’s nearly always an hour. After all these years I have the timing down.

And so with a great deal of pleasure and NO guilt whatsoever I proceed to take an hour nap.

Did you wonder? J

My Favorite Teachers

I should have given credit where credit was due long ago but as the saying goes, better late than never. I was a kid who actually enjoyed school and in looking back can spot those teachers that helped me feel that way. I was not a book worm by any means but then again, I didn't grumble when I had to get ready for school. So here is my Wall of Fame tribute to some of the best.

Elementary School - Mrs. Nash, sixth grade. She was like a second mom to all of us and her classroom was like a home away from home. She told us stories about her teen children and their vacations. She gave everyone hugs (in those days you could!) and gave us each weekly responsibilities. Her wall was covered with spinners and kids' names. Each week we waited in excitement as she would spin one after the other to see what WE got to do: clean erasers and the board? Sharpen all the pencils? Move desks around? Feed the fish? Thank you Mrs. N. for making that such a marvelous transition year to Junior High.

Junior High - Mr. Mears who taught English and Mr. McClintock who taught typing. Mr. Mears was really a pain in the ass but I liked him. He wore starched cool shirts with a tie every day and had huge funky glasses. He would call you by your nickname but only if it was a natural derivative. Mine being Michael, Mike was fine. One boy in class went by Butch but his name was Ralph. Mr. M. refused to call him Butch. He would call roll and drag his name out sarcastically: Ralllllllllllllllphhhhhhhhhh? Not sure why I liked him but verbs and adjectives became real to me. Mr. McClintock was the girls' heartthrob. He drove a Corvette and had shaggy 70's hair and taught us how to type. He made it fun. We had typing "races" to see who could get close to him and amazingly by the end of the year I was close - around 60 wpm. Not bad for a hormonal Junior High kid.

High School - Mr. Drabick psychology and Senorita Ortiz - Spanish. Mr. D. was probably 50 or so with huge forearms and a dark tan. He loved to garden in his spare time and would stand in front of his desk and with arms behind him, lift the damn thing a few inches off the floor as he told us about his garden AND psychology. He had National Geographic magazines by the boatload and when we finished tests etc..., he would encourage us to grab one and read. A very cool guy who turned me on to psychology. Senorita O was beautiful. In the days of polyester she wore it tight. Short dark black hair, big hoop gold earrings and a perpetual smile. I admit that I stayed after class as often as I could to ostensibly learn more Spanish but in reality just to LOOK at her. At graduation she gave us all a hug and wished us a good life.

College - Doctor Martin who taught Comm I (mostly English again) and Doctor C. who taught an American Culture class. Doctor Martin was another dark-haired beauty (do I see a pattern here?) and certainly turned a freshman class into a very good one. She smiled a lot, joked about dangling participles and taught me everything I've since forgotten. Not her fault in the least but to this day I hope my basics in communication skills are better than most - due to her. I used to wonder if she was married. Hell, I still wonder. Doctor C. did NOT believe in  American History from a date perspective. If you got within a decade he was happy. No, he was enthralled with how people actually lived in this country's early days. His enthusiasm and his scraggly beard made for a lively class and to this day still has me interested in how people actually LIVED back in the day.

There are a handful that came close to an honorable mention and the classes included philosophy, ecology and general science. My final tribute goes to Mrs. Campbell - fourth grade. A rotund woman with brown hair I have only one remembrance of that class - I got a perfect attendance certificate at the end of the year. I didn't miss one day.

I'm Slowing Down

While I have been aware of the progression over the last few years the most difficult part for me was staring it in the eye with complete acceptance. The fact is I’m slowing down a little. I’m watching my step a bit more carefully and you know what? I’m okay with that. I just finished my annual lab review with my doc’ and based upon all the buzz words of HDL/LDL, BP, liver function, PSA etc…, she pronounced me fit as someone 17. Quite an accolade since I haven’t seen 17 in 3+ decades. I’m sure she was sincere based upon all the numbers but in the real world – I know differently and so does she. I’m okay with that.

After leading a near-Tom Sawyer childhood when I ran and biked and went fishing; when I went barefoot all summer and played baseball every year for many years; played some football and was even a pretty good sprinter on the track team in school – it’s caught up with me. The knees get stiff now, especially the one where I tore the cartilage playing football, one shoulder hurts on and off for no damn reason that I know of and the years of being Mr. Outdoor Boy has me seeing a dermatologist now as if I were her best friend. I’m pretty okay with it all really.

This came to light (again) yesterday when I took my 2 ½ year-old granddaughter to the playground/park which she and I both love. Typical of me I’m not one to sit on a bench and watch. No I have to climb with her and crawl through tunnels and go on the swings. Well yesterday I saw what we always used to call the pull up bar. So I went over as I have a hundred times in the past, jumped up caught the bar and proceeded to do a grand total of – two pull ups. Two Mike? Really? My granddaughter wanted to do it so I hoisted her up (know she couldn’t hold on long) and with me ready – caught her as she let go. She thought it was great fun and so did I. Plus it took my mind off my TWO pull ups. I was only stunned for a brief while really and ended up chuckling. Yes I’m slowing down. I’m okay with that.

My career is also slowing down and at my choice. I’ve been in lending for many years and a manager for many years. My next up would be to a large office with a corporate VP status and I realize now, I don’t want to go. I’ve had enough of the politics even at my level – why would I increase my exposure to that as well as my stress? Staying out of the job posting environment I’ve seen more than one person that used to be at a lower level than me – now in the big office. They are all much younger and still eager to climb that ladder. I get it. I was like that but now – it’s time to slow it down and coast a bit with a distant eye on elusive retirement. You know what? I’m okay with that.

I still do as much as I did – just at a different level. I’ve learned and as written before, accepted (the hard part) and adjusted as needed. Still though a few lines from what I think is a country song go through my mind: I’m not as good as I once was, but I’m good once – as I ever was. Regardless of the implied meaning, there is one thing I’m going to do again. Sprint. I used to love to sprint and run track and in baseball I was always a threat to swipe a base or two in a game. 

One of these days I’m going to stretch and stretch and warm up. Then I’m going to take a couple of slow sprints and then….. I’m going to get at one end of the lot and stare at the fence 125 feet away. I will hear in my mind the starter’s pistol or I will see that pitcher of yesterday take his first step towards home plate – and I’m going to sprint as hard as I can. I bet for around 3 seconds or so it’s going to feel exactly as it did. I wonder if my decades-old sprinter’s muscles will remember? You know what? Even if they don’t for that brief period of time – I will and I’ll be good with that.

The Nude Beachgoer Goes to Disney World.

I might as well state two things up front. This is not a steamy blog in the least so for those who were keyed here by the buzz word “nude” – might as well move on. The other statement or admission in this case is that I enjoy nudity, the beach and Disney World. No laughing now – at least not yet. I’m going to tie these three pieces of thread together I promise.

I don’t know where I came across my lack of modesty as far as shunning clothes. I grew up in a modest home with modest parents and to my recollection don’t ever seeing either one of them in anything less than a bathrobe. My oldest sister became something of a naturist around the age of 40.  Each year she would go to a clothing optional retreat in the mountains. There literally hundreds would discuss books and art, listen to music, discuss spirituality and enjoy swimming in hot springs.   

This was not an exclusive retreat for the rich and famous and hot of body but rather for Mr. and Ms Average. That was the best part. What you wore or did not – didn’t matter. What mattered was who you were inside. I loved that concept and still do. When I first moved into this house it was a very sparsely populated area of a very small town. Two houses on the whole street and nothing else but scrub palmetto and pine trees. I thought nothing of wandering around the backyard in my birthday suit (I stayed out of view of the street in case a car every two days happened by) since I was certain there were no pervert birds lined up on the power line watching.  My wife honestly thinks I've got issues.

The beach. I’ve grown up never more than 15 minutes or so from the beach and I love it. It can be the most relaxing place on the planet to me. Cold and dark on a winter day, buzzing with activity in the summer. I prefer summer. It is then that I can give witness to a dizzying array of colored beach umbrellas and an equal number of people in all sorts of bathing suits. No this isn’t South Beach but Average Beach. All shapes, all sizes, men, women, children. There are always a large number of people wearing bathing suits that are 47 sizes too small judging from their girth. Young men and gals, old couples, the parents of those kids eating sand…The cool part? Nobody cares least of all me. I’m just happy to see people out and doing something. For all I know there could be a Mercedes Benz or five in the parking area – who knows? Who cares? Nobody. I like that – except for my spouse – no judgment going on. It just doesn’t matter to me, what matters is who they are inside….

I hate to think of how much money I’ve spent going to Disney World over the years. Me as a teen and a date; my family; friends and family from out of state. Yes I still love the land of the mouse and here’s why. On any given day you are packed in with literally thousands of people from many different countries, speaking any number of languages. You stand in line together, you sweat in the summer until your face melts off and you keep smiling. People get fried in the Florida sun, children pass out in their strollers by noon and by the time you leave that night – every single person looks completely whipped, beaten and sweat stained. In line the guy in front of me might be a bus driver from New York; the elderly woman behind me a Grandmother from Israel; behind them a family from Mexico and last in the snaking line, a single mom and her two kids from Ohio. Guess what? Everyone looks the same in their rumpled and wrinkled clothes. And over there waiting to get on Space Mountain? An Atheist in front of a devout Baptist. Sneakers of every color and people of every color; funny Mickey hats and ice cream that is melting on that little German boy’s hand. It is so cool – because nobody cares. Who you are what you believe and what you’re wearing means nothing inside the Mouse Walls. What matters is what is inside, who you are – and yes the fact that you are actually sharing space with people you might otherwise hate outside the Mickey Gates. Why do we as a collective have to go to a nudist resort or the beach or a theme park before we are judged as whom we are as individuals?

You see I have a thing against people intentionally self-serving and pretentious. My grandmother would scoff at such people as “putting on airs”. I don’t care what you drive; I don’t care if you have the latest logo on a chest pocket and I certainly can’t tell the difference between $50 shoes and $500 shoes. It simply doesn’t matter to me. Mind you, I have nothing against finer things in the least but not as some sort of badge to the ego. And that is how I tie my three threads together. Three completely different subjects: Nudity, the beach and Disney World – all three of which reduce people to who they really are inside and in the end – isn’t that all that matters?

Human Sexuality - a Brief History

I wish I could claim I have researched this essay in detail to warrant high praise from a leading journal but I have not. In fact, everything you are about to read is conjecture on my part, having pieced together the logical sequence in human sexuality. While not adult rated by any means, it is not intended  for the eyes of little readers.

Human sexuality is a very personal and private thing but over the centuries it has had some interesting milestones. In the beginning there was Grog and Grogette – your typical cave people. It was only the two of them and how they arrived is up to you to fill in the blank. One day getting ready to hunt a Wooly Mammoth they had seen, Grogette had a wardrobe malfunction. Not a terribly good seamstress as she could only grunt as it was, her fur and leather coverings popped off. Now this was only worn so they didn’t freeze their prehistoric butts off having not yet discovered or learned any sort of modesty.

Grog noticed of course but this time in his prehistoric brain he thought to himself – wow she’s hot, why didn’t I notice before?  He decided right then and there he would win her over with his romantic charms. Thus he approached her, zonked her on the head with his club and dragged her through the prehistoric dirt to his prehistoric cave. He had his way with her which no doubt lasted all of 54 seconds – got up and left. Still a bit groggy from the zonk, Grogette thought to herself: What the hell was that all about? This one act spawned many Grogs and Grogettes and thus it went for many generations.

The next major step in sexual evolution must have been with Cleopatra. History tells us she cruised up and down the Nile in her barge but what is lacking in the books is what I now share with you. One day having seduced a blue collar pyramid employee as she often did, said employee finished up in around 2 minutes and 3 seconds (progress from Grog), got off the Queen’s bed and began to put his toga back on. Cleo nearly shouted: Where do you think you’re going? That’s it? That’s all you got? The worker shook his head with a sigh and replied, I’m sorry Queen Cleo but I have to get to work. We’re about done with this one – only four more years to go. With that, he left her barge but Queen Cleo’ had the last word: Fine then! See if I care! I’ll just take matters into my own hands!! Dismissing her body guards leaving her to privacy – she did just that and realized she sure as heck didn’t need Mr. Blue Collar Pyramid Boy any longer! (As a side note worthy of mentioning, it was Cleopatra who first came up with the idea of batteries).

It was quite some time before the next huge leap of progress which really started what was to become known as The Nooner. It was in Boston nearing the Revolution. Paul Revere is well known for riding the streets on his horse shouting upon seeing the signal, the British are coming the British are coming! I of course have learned some background truth. Paul and all the colonist leaders were discussing the upcoming war, what signal should they give when the British arrived and so forth. After some hours they took a noon break and headed for the nearest  tavern.

Mr. Revere however rode his fine horse, Mister Goodbar over to the house of the woman known only as Boom Boom. She was actually the very first European in the new country to go by a first name only. Thus she pre-dates Cher, Madonna and GeorgeDubya by a couple a hundred years.

 Boom Boom was a buxom and very British lass but she was cut some slack because she had no British loyalties any longer and she was the town Madam. Scorned from a distance by women and the Boston political leaders, the latter group were quite happy to visit Boom Boom at night and on the sly. Not much different than today really now that I think about it.

So Paul Revere had yet to mount his horse for his famous ride, instead that honor went to Boom Boom minus a saddle of course. Poor Paul was pre-occupied however as he was stumped: What WOULD he shout when he DID ride? Hey everyone watch out the British are here! Everyone listen to me – run like hell they are HERE! Nothing seemed to fit and the more agitated he became the more he wished he’d taken a Viagra. Boom Boom was not to be denied however and pressed on until finally with a shout at the top of her lungs she announced: The British are Coming! The British are Coming!

Now this just scared Paul to death figuring he had missed the signal but her orgasmic shout had given him an idea at least. Hurriedly climbing aboard Mr. Good Bar this time, he tore through Boston’s streets shouting the now famous lines. He was actually two hours early due to his nooner interruptis but would later be thanked (in error) for being so proactive and eager.

The next momentous link in our evolutionary sexual progress was in the early 1960’s with the Women’s Liberation Movement  or Women’s Lib’ as it soon was known. Tired of being viewed as mere sexual objects, tired of being compared to Marilyn Monroe or Jayne Mansfield or Jane Russell or any of their ilk, they wanted EQUAL treatment based on who they were – not their breasts.

The first known protest occurred on the outskirts of the tiny town of Muscatine, Iowa.

 Precisely 84 of the town’s leading young women had gathered as had a small somber crowd to watch the demonstration. Several of the women had given rousing speeches of equality for all and at their conclusion, put flame to a large pile of kindling wood. As the flames grew the women began to chant  something that was a takeoff on the anti-war cry at the time: Hell no, let ‘em go! Hell no, let ‘em go!  Finally at  some unseen signal, each of the women reached inside their blouses and shirts and with the magic that only a woman knows, maneuvered herself out of her bra and slid it through one sleeve. In one large chant of solidarity the women threw their Playtex Cross Your Heart Bras (of that era) into the fire with a loud: Hell no, let ‘em go!

And go they did much to the broadening smiles of the males who had gathered. Some of the younger women still maintained horizontal while some of the older ones who had let the girls go, aimed a bit more towards earth. This had no effect on the male smiles but the rain did.

 The heaven’s opened up and the fire burning elastic and foam and underwire began to hiss. The women well aware of the rain’s effect on their blouses and shirts did the only thing they could which I admire: They marched off into the rain, single file with heads held high and with great pride.

Now the men of this modest mid-west town didn’t leer or make suggestive comments in the least but they certainly were smiling and this was noticed by one Sam Shyster owner of a local bar. Putting two and two together, within a few days Sam’s club announced the first-ever “Wet T-Shirt Contest – Hell No , Let ‘em Go!” This was a huge turning point because it marked officially and established with finality – women’s total rule over men.

 Let’s face it. It was sexist to be sure and quite counter to the Women’s Lib’ Movement however the bottom line was this: A young woman could come in, dance for five minutes or so while Mr. Shyster threw pitchers of water on her white t-shirt and then exit stage left, put on a dry shirt and leave with a hundred bucks. The men however would wake up the next day with a pounding headache and be without a hundred bucks! Who was the smarter?

Since then the adult movie industry and pornography in general exploded across the landscape reducing the intimacy of human sexuality to nearly nothing. Marketing gurus, advertising geniuses, home computers, music videos, the internet and smart phones have all put human sexuality within the touch of a button or a screen.

Personally I think this is a fascinating history but I wonder if we’ve really progressed terribly far from Grog and Grogette. Were I to travel back in history I think I would have frequented Cleopatra’s floating barge and probably told the pyramid foreman to buzz off. I could have been her Barge Boy which I think would have been a pretty good gig. Yes, Human Sexuality is a very personal thing.

Little Turtle Cay

Robert Morris sat in a state of utter contentment beneath the tall palm trees. The breeze was ever-present, the ocean water wore various hues of crystal clear blue and his tall iced drink kept the heat at bay. There was nothing like a vacation in his mind at least, where there was zero thinking.

The island was small by most standards among those in the Bahamas’ chain and from the air it did resemble something of a turtle. Not far off the Florida coast it was situated west of Grand Bahamas’ Island and a modest boat trip from either Ft. Lauderdale or West Palm Beach.

As he sat quietly in his solo lawn chair looking out over the open sea he wondered as he often did, why exactly his name conjured up images of the “world’s most eligible bachelor” or “the elusive bachelor”.  He was by his own description an off-the-rack kind of guy. At five ten he was average in height, he wore a 40 regular jacket like a bazillion other men and aside from a perpetual tan – which frustrated the hell out of his dermatologist – he simply didn’t stand out in a crowd.

He dated some, he knew plenty of women but at the grand old age of 42 he simply had no desire for anything more permanent than a long weekend or maybe a week’s vacation with the opposite sex. His life was complex enough without the addition of a significant other. He rationalized that this was better for everyone in the long run.

From behind his aviator styled Ray Bans he spotted a small spec on the horizon. It could be one of half a dozen cruise ships headed towards Freeport or Nassau. Sometimes they came quite close to Little Turtle Cay but the little island certainly wasn’t on their list of destinations. Too small, no deep water and really not much to do. Pulling his glasses off he hefted a good pair of binoculars and slowly scanning the horizon for the small dot, he finally found it and with a bit of focusing saw that it wasn’t a cruise ship but a small yacht. Judging from the white froth spraying from the sides it was making good time across the calm waters.

He hated the thought of vacation ending as it soon would but then he didn’t know anybody that was in a rush to get back to work. Glancing inland he noted the island’s few recreational amenities. A tennis court surrounded by a hedge of some sort of flowering bush; a small swimming pool mostly hidden by yet another hedge with huge flowers whose scent reminded him of honeysuckle, a small helicopter pad for guests who arrived by air and finally his favorite – a small putting green that ran nearly to the water’s edge. Next to the green was a small square of equally green grass and it was from there, one could drive golf balls in slow arcs over the water and watch them splash some 200 yards away. They weren’t golf balls really but were called Eco-Golf Balls. Their cover was designed to literally dissolve in salt water and when it did what was left was a core of fish food! Pretty damn clever he thought.

Turning back to face the water, the motor yacht was close enough you could hear its twin diesel engines rumbling as it idled down preparing to pull in to the one of two slips that was not gated with a sign warning - keep out. Through the binoculars he could see Captain Bill on the bridge focused on nudging the 80’ Viking gently against the dock. Robert couldn’t see any of the occupants and so assumed they were inside, enjoying the cool of the air-conditioned lounge and free hors de oeuvres. A woman somewhere in the range of Robert’s age, jumped nimbly from the aft deck to the dock with an aft line while Captain Bill had made his way down to the bow and was securing a bow line.

Standing and stretching, Robert hung the binoculars over his neck and grabbing what was now an empty glass started walking down a small footpath. Ingenious really, the small trail only led to one place and literally couldn’t be seen. Hidden by palms and gardenias and lord knows what greenery would grow on the tiny island, it allowed the walker complete privacy.

Past the four small bungalows he knew to be on his left, he approached a building that was as much a part of the island as it was on top of the island. Built of coquina rock, teak, and bamboo it was designed to be as nearly invisible as possible.  Glancing at his watch he knew his potential clients would be off the Viking now and being shown to their bungalows where they could freshen up before their meeting with Robert. It had cost them a pretty penny – some thirty thousand dollars – just to meet, much less agree to do business.

Pressing the numbered key pad on the door in front of him, he heard the locks quietly disengage and opening the door he really had to smile to himself. Yes vacation was now officially over but he was at peace with the world. And why not? He owned the island and had just stepped into his home.

Letting Go Ain't Easy

For some people, myself included it hasn’t been easy letting go as my sons have entered young adulthood. In fact I’ve decided that it’s not likely I will ever completely let go. Maybe that’s what parenthood is all about: Letting go just enough but never entirely. I don’t know – they didn’t come with owner’s manuals or instruction books.

From their first moment in this life we watch over them. We try to teach and guide and protect. Just as our parents before us, we’ve been there done that. It’s my job. As Dad, it’s what I do.

As they grow, ultimately they start forming their own ideas of who they are and who they are not. This is normal; this is healthy – for them. I knew this even without an owner’s manual but it proved trying to me at least. The very bumps and bruises I took they seemed destined to take as well. Why would you do that son? I did that and it did NOT work out. I know Dad but this is different. What each of them was saying in effect was, I am not you Dad.


For only a moment I wonder if that is how I was with my Dad but I know the answer even before I’ve finished posing the question. Of course I was. As a consequence I’ve fallen down more times than I care to remember.  My Dad was right more often than not – if only I had listened.

In retrospect he knew the balancing act that I just can’t seem to master. He knew there were things I would have to learn the hard way on my own as he let go and let me find my way. He also knew when to be there for me – and he always was. I made poor choices in girlfriends and poor choices of first jobs and first cars. He knew of course that in the grand scheme of life, things like these were just part of growing up.

Both boys moved out far too young¸ married far too young and one certainly had a child far too young. Dad’s opinion as both are only in their early twenties. My gosh you should be in college having fun! You shouldn’t have a care in the world! You shouldn’t………..shouldn’t….. Dad’s opinion.


I don’t gloat when I see them fall. It hurts me. I knew this would happen and it didn’t have to happen. I will state again I am not doing well in letting them go. Ironic, since neither of them have lived at home for a while. Only minutes away but not here. I’m not finished teaching you! I haven’t warned you enough! Let me help make your lives easier!


I know there are two schools of thought on this. One being more or less – hey when I was your age I held down 7 jobs and walked to each one. In the snow. Uphill. I had to learn the hard way and so do you. The other school of thought is my own. Unwilling to let go completely, painfully aware of the mistakes they make even before they are made and taking steps in completely the wrong direction. They don’t have to learn that way. Just listen to me. I am the Dad. I know these things. Let me help you.


I would love to be wrong. I really would. Nothing would make me happier than to have one or both of them say, see Dad? It all worked out just fine. You worried for no reason.

So far, not much luck with that. Wrong apartments, wrong car, wrong jobs and dare I say wrong wives? I must have failed somewhere along the line. I didn’t do my Dad role well enough.

It is I who has the “empty nest syndrome” and not my wife. I suffer my angst in silence most days. I should soon be opening the door to the golden years but instead I’m mired in Dad mode. Some things I know they will have to learn on their own. I know this from a logical perspective. Life is all about learning (hopefully) from our mistakes. Still, the Dad in me outweighs logic so far.

I’ll keep looking for their owners’ manual. Maybe the last chapter tells parents like me how to find the balance, how to let go without letting go. If I’m really lucky I’ll find my OWN owner’s manual and on the last page it will say: Love them, do the best you can and always be there for them but remember this parent – they will ultimately lead their own lives of their own choosing.


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