Let’s begin with the obvious — my wife and I are lucky dogs. Duh. Here we are flying to France by way of Amsterdam, we’re watching nonstop movies for seven hours, and we’re requesting red wine when we’re tired of the white. Do we deserve our luck? Of course not. Who does? We are the product of all sorts of entitlements based on skin color, geography, and parents, to name a few. It’s not fair and someone should lodge a complaint with the front office. But … is that chicken pasta on the menu?

My wife and I are not petite. We are from good Iowa stock and our length does not quite fit into economy class airplane seats. And since we are from good Iowa stock, we still think, at nearly 70 years of age, that it is fiscally irresponsible to upgrade out of economy class. Fiscally responsible people wear stocking caps to bed in cold weather and don’t complain if their knees are hitting the airplane seat in front of them. And that crying baby with the solo mom? Of course she will be seated near us and of course my wife wishes she could help in quieting the child. It’s what Iowans do. I, on the other hand, turn up the volume on my movie.

Des Moines to Chicago. Chicago to Amsterdam.

We arrive in Holland and walk out the kissing-Dutch-boy-and-girl doors to our future life in Western Europe. A future life that will need some immediate naps to survive. 

But a nap is not on the horizon. A high speed train to Paris, a high speed train to Strasbourgh, and two local trains to Belfort, France, are on the horizon. Oh my.

So with my wife’s green backpack and my red backpack, we stumble through the train stations into the eastern heart of France.

I love the trains. Silent. Smooth. Quick. Their presence all over Europe seems to echo back to an older time of elegance and romance and brown fedoras with sharply creased crowns — all of this with a futuristic, George Jetson-flying-car feel. The train no longer speaks with a clickety-clack like the old days, but gives an emphatic whoosh that propels you from Amsterdam to Paris to Strasbourg in the blink of an eye. 

With packs stored overhead, I sit back in the roomy seat and study the train car. Men, women, children — all of us bundled together at nearly 200 mph. The iron works of the train yards quickly give way to fields of bright yellow zooming past the window. These rapeseed or mustard fields (I can only identify corn or soybean fields, like any good Iowan) are just cheerful and splashy under the overcast skies. Add these colorful fields to the tiny roads and low sloping red rooflines and it looks like we have landed on the set of a musical. My wife urges me not to sing.

And then the people on the train start opening their “picnics.” Oh, now I get it. A sign in the train station at Gare de l’Est in Paris invited us to bring along our picnic for the train ride because there is no bar car in this French budget train, Ouigo. Really. And at the train stations they sell all sorts of baguettes with sandwich fillings — with ham and butter as the hands-down choice for this crusty bread. For a little over 3 euros you can eat like royalty, or is it eat like a peasant per Marie-Antoinette? No matter, like many a French person, I am in love.

So as the train whisks along, I spread out my napkin, pull out my French coffee, set a pastry to the side for dessert, and reach for my delicious butter and ham sandwich. But . . . it is gone. My train picnic is ruined.

Although it would be nice to blame my wife, I must confess this problem has happened to me before. It is why whenever I pick up a pizza, I always return home with one slice missing. Get a dozen donuts as a treat for the family, and there is always only 11 in the box when I plop them on the counter. Clearly, the sandwich was eaten BEFORE boarding the train. Someone is stealing my food. 

But let’s not point fingers. Isn’t that the trouble with our judging world today? The lesson from this trip is clear — always bring an extra sandwich on your train picnic. 

You can write that down.

Joe

The graves sprawl over the bright green and faded brown grass like grazing cattle over the stubble of an Iowa corn field. Narrow blacktop roads meander here and there across the 65 acres. Pools of sunshine dance on the white granite tombstones and the half-buried markers of grey river rock. While the many trees with small leafing buds stand quietly in respect. 

Woodland Cemetery on the cusp of spring.

Mike Rowley tells a story. 

Over a hundred years ago, there was an undertaker preparing a body, and this dog appeared and always seemed to be underfoot. So the days go by and they have the funeral at the cemetery. Again they see the dog off to the side. The burial takes place. The caretaker at Woodland Cemetery notices this dog still hanging around this guy’s grave. So they try to give the dog food and water. 

Mike Rowley is a big man. Broad shoulders. Wide smile. Well spoken. Unsurprisingly, a retired pharmaceutical salesman; surprisingly, a collector of stories, a curious historian, and the savior of many a grave in Woodland Cemetery.

Days go by and the dog will not leave. It’s really getting famished. Finally, the caretakers wife gets the dog to come home with them. The dog’s name is Queen. 

Mary Christopher, a realtor in the Des Moines area with VIA (a group of “mature realtors who help each other rather than compete,” according to Mary), just wrote a book with Mike — “Woodland Cemetery in Des Moines: A History.”

“I decided to do this book on Woodland Cemetery because there really wasn’t a book of all the stories. I approached Mike by accident — he was leaning over a grave — and we were introduced.”

How appropriate. 

Mary smiles easily and speaks of cemeteries with the bright eyes of a young kid showing you their favorite toy. 

“I love cemeteries. I can’t travel without stopping at every cemetery. I don’t know why I love it. It’s a little creepy, but I love it.”

But Mary’s no dreaming kid, she is a “get it done” person. Without a doubt, she’s who you want organizing your life. Mary roped in Mike as her coauthor and then put together a team of eight or nine people to flesh out their research. And several years later, voila  — a book of stories about Woodland Cemetery. 

“Has this book made me think of my own death?” Mary pauses, “My sister told me that even though I’m to be cremated I should really have a stone at Woodland . . . I thought about it and that’s what I did.”

Mary smiles, looking off into space.

“This book has made me appreciate people more. Here’s all these people gone, some not forgotten who were famous, but many of them forgotten for over 150 years. To think that someone will remember me for 150 years, that’s cool. At least people might remember a couple of books I’ve written.” Mary laughs at herself. 

A legacy then?

“I feel like life is really short. But, as someone said, as long as someone keeps saying your name, you’re still alive.” 

Two or three years later, the caretaker’s wife is sitting at home and the dog is agitated trying to get her attention. Finally, the dog is making such a fuss that she follows the dog out of her bedroom. Minutes later, the ceiling crashes down. The house has been on fire. Both of them made it out alive. 

“I thought I’d never live to be 66,” says Mike. “I don’t think death is good or bad. However, as one of the stones has inscribed on it, ‘Words suggest, actions show.’ And the action doesn’t have to be grandiose. We started putting in stones for veterans whose graves hadn’t been marked and we set a goal for five. Now we’ve done over 300. I tell people not to be intimidated by the numbers — just do one.”

So if you go to Woodland Cemetery, and if you’re walking along the street, there is a little step and it says McBride on it. The step is the gravesite of the caretaker of long ago who took Queen home. We thought, as the step was so small, it was too small for you or me to step on, but perfect for Queen to rest upon. We like that thought. 

So there you have it. Two characters and a dog leaving their mark on Woodland Cemetery. 

Joe

My dermatologist slowly goes over my bald head with gentle fingers and a calm voice. He dictates to his assistant as he goes — much like an explorer taking notes on the unusual flora and fauna found in this remote and inhospitable landscape: 

Blah blah blah, and here’s a blah.

Oh my, more blah blah. Ouch, look at that blah.

And this would be a blah also. Please note that. Some people call this a barnacle. Now let’s go to the other side of the head.  

Although I am merely part of the undergrowth, I startle to hear the word “barnacle” somewhere in there.  

Without a doubt, as you age strange things happen. What was once physically up there is now down here; or, hold on to your pants, completely vanished from the face of the earth. But, really? A barnacle? I guess my head now looks like the bottom of a boat too long in the water.

Of course, I don’t tell my dermatologist that I am not surprised to have a barnacle or two up there. As I edge my seventh decade, I have immersed myself in books about aging, death and dying, health and longevity, moral and spiritual rebirth, and whether it is better to eat buttery popcorn or a cream donut. Trust me, these books range from Seneca’s How to Die (a fun, catchy title) to Counterclockwise by Ellen Langer. I particularly love the Langer book because its unstated conclusion is so bold — it is YOUR OWN FAULT if you die. Yup, you just didn’t have the right mindset to turn back the clock. Oh well, better luck next time, you loser. 

But a barnacle? 

Well, sure, I’m either a guy with a crustacean cemented to the side of my head or it’s a sign that I’m a pirate. I’m going with the pirate. And not the crazy Barnacle Bill the Sailor type of pirate, but the more waggish Captain Jack Sparrow type of pirate.

In other words, isn’t it time to morally pillage and plunder regardless of popular opinion? Since I have a barnacle on the side of my head already, I might as well wear shorts in the winter, and five-toed shoes year round, and listen to John Prine songs in public, and let anyone use my bathroom without proof of gender. How about that, you crustacean-free landlubbers.  

But my dermatologist doesn’t stop with barnacles. He gently feels around the parameters of another bump, dictating all the while: 

Blah blah blah blah. What do you think? Blah blah blah fatty tumor. Blah blah. Harmless. 

The indignity of it all. If I’m going to have a harmless tumor, do we have to call it names? In the downhill ski world, they call a raised protuberance a mogul, not a fatty tumor. Skiers love to cut back and forth carving these bumps deeper and deeper. They are as challenging and fun as this person demonstrates at Winter Park, Colorado. I know this because I am safely on the ground looking up while eating a cheeseburger. 

But, honestly, how many bumps have we all had in our lives? Too many for sure. Have I skied around them all with laughter and joy? Hah, I don’t think so. I’ve plowed into a few with a direct hit and barely made it out the other side.

But I sort of admire that dude, the Preacher, of Ecclesiastes fame. Besides inspiring the song “Turn, Turn, Turn” by Pete Seeger, the Preacher does have a great message — eat, drink, and enjoy the moment, because there ain’t much else but moguls ahead. Oddly enough, I find that inspiring and can get my head around it. Especially my fatty tumor head. 

Back in the dermatologist’s office: 

“As for this,” my dermatologist pauses touching my head, “this is a spot caused by sun exposure.”

 

“Oh, a liver spot?”

For starters, I don’t think the liver gets quite the star turn it should in our society. In my family, I suspect this bad rap was due to my dad, who ate pickled pigs’ feet and dined on liver and onions. Gross and traumatic. And, yes, I’m a hypocrite. When I found myself in France in front of a plate of fois gras — goose liver made into a paste that is not in any way approved by PETA  — I swooned with delight.

Dining aside, Mayo Clinic weighs into the liver fray: “The liver has the greatest regenerative capacity of any organ in the body.” In other words, if they cut out part of your liver for a transplant to help someone else, it grows back for you and for the guy with no liver. Amazing. 

So, a liver spot on my noodle? I’m going to go with it is a mark of regeneration, growth, and scrappiness. Why not? Pickled pigs’ feet in my future? Undoubtably. 

My dermatologist pats me on the back with a smile, chitchats for a moment, but needs to get to the next patient. The expedition to the top of my head comes to an end. I am left sitting on the examining table in my underwear. Alone.

There are few things more special than sitting in a doctor’s office alone in your underwear, which is why I always carry a snack pack. My granddaughter taught me this, and you should do it too. And don’t forget, nuts and dried fruit aren’t all you include in your doctor-visit snack pack — “Grandpa, we can also have two marshmallows in our snack pack. The big ones.”  

So I nod with my recently explored head and have a marshmallow. Or two. 

Joe

Cityview Best Beaverdale Area Store

Once again taking home Best Beaverdale Area Store … Beaverdale Books. 

Runners-up: Back Country

We do love to compete, don’t we? Probably due to some Darwinian gamble about Bob and Jack outracing the T-Rex to the safety of a cave. The loser’s gene pool ended up as sushi, and the winner’s gene pool? Well, that’s us. Bob lost, we won, and now as a result we have professional hot-dog eating contests. Competition is in our blood. 

So, you may THINK you are a great worker, mother, father, son, daughter, friend, or Best Beaverdale Area Store,  but . . . how do you stack up against the competition? Now there’s the real test of your value as a person, or your value as a business, or really, whether you have any value at all. 

And don’t look behind the curtain at the negative arguments against competition. How can we tell the score if we don’t compare and judge and give prizes? As Dan Greenburg said in his 1966 book, How to Make Yourself Miserable, comparison is our go-to source for those special feelings of inadequacy. For example, Greenburg suggests comparing yourself with eight-year-old Mozart (he’d already written a symphony and three sonatas), or comparing yourself with 26-year-old Einstein (he had by then developed the theory of relativity), or superimposing your own face with the face on a Greek statute and measuring the difference (is that Adonis or Captain Crunch in the mirror?). Now that is the perfect mindset for judging and competition. There is a winner and there is a loser. The message for you, my friend, is that you are either cutting the mustard or not. 

Now, in case you were wondering, I don’t cut the mustard. I am not a “winner winner, chicken dinner.” I lean more toward “loser loser, jello with canned peas at lunch.” Yup, the staple of my Catholic grade school cafeteria defines my personality. You are what you eat. And I eat jello with unusual vegetables embedded. See? Loser. I know that.

But what about Jay Cox-Kozel, the owner of Back Country in Beaverdale? Is he a loser?

Well, Jay Cox-Kozel is certainly winningly dapper — skinny jeans artfully torn, well-trimmed beard with matching glasses, leather ankle boots scuffed just so, and very fun-loving, mischievous eyes. Yup, this guy is up to no good, folks, which is probably why he is a do-gooder and nonstop giving of his time and energy to all things Beaverdale. He speaks up and speaks out and is wickedly sharp-tongued.

“Can you tell folks what you sell at Back Country?” I ask.

“Not much successfully.” Jay deadpans. Bada bing. 

“No, really,” I try again.

“We are an outdoor lifestyle and travel boutique with an emphasis on sustainability and ethical production. And if you can’t get your head around that I don’t know how I can help you. It’s pretty straightforward to me.” Bada boom.

“So, Jay, you lost for the second time to Beaverdale Books as the Best Beaverdale Area Store in 2024. What do you think of that?”

“You have to consider who’s giving the award out — Cityview. Cityview is an entity that prints a print product, much like Beaverdale Books. Birds of a feather flock together. The good folks at Cityview were looking out for their print brethren, part of the Big Print Media Cabal. So they stacked the deck in favor of the book store.”

Jay somberly stares at me.

“Really?” 

“There’s more. When you’re a bookstore you can cater to every esoteric passion and subgroups. The bookstore has something for everyone. It is not an even playing field. And they have so many events — they host absolutely anyone. They’d host an author on the guide to left-handed herpatologists. And they engender so much passion and enthusiasm from every little subculture in the city.”

“So?” I say.

“Frankly, I think that’s cheating.” Jay shakes his head. “Really, we are the only legitimate candidate.” 

Jay smiles.

Jay wrote a sendup of Beaverdale Books last year when they beat Back Country. He is in good form again this year.

And what does he really think of Beaverdale Books?

“I’ve known the owners of the bookstore forever. We’ve all served the Beaverdale Business Community. We all support each other. I am so immensely proud of the bookstore. The way they persevered through the hard times, and the way they act as a community center is remarkable. They are a true community institution. Every person who works there is so passionate about literature and helping you find what you want. It’s got to be one of the best small businesses in the city. We are so lucky to have them here. And, listen, Cityview gives us the opportunity to recognize them.”

There you go, straight from the horse’s mouth. Who better deserves the CITYVIEW BEST LOSER award than Back Country and Jay Cox-Kozel, who are clearly the WINNERS at losing.

Speaking of WIENERS, where is that professional hot-dog eating contest?

Joe

My oldest son texted the other day congratulating my wife and me on our wedding anniversary.

Happy 43rd!! You two are such an inspiration across the ages.

Lovely sentiment. And I love that “across the ages” feels like a charcoal tombstone rubbing. It’s never too soon to start thinking about epitaphs for us old folks. Unfortunately, I’m fairly certain we’ve inspired, let’s see . . . absolutely no one.

But my son’s words gave me pause. So I went out to shovel snow, a well-known activity for deep thinking. And I began to think deeply about my marriage, or as deeply as one who wears elastic-waist pants can think.

And these are my thoughts. 

As for our inspiring marriage, it is inspiring. It is so inspiring that I did a little research on what makes a good marriage. Here’s what the University of Rochester Medical Center said:

Marriage therapist and researcher John Gottman, Ph.D., has found that criticism, contempt, defensiveness, and stonewalling are serious threats to a marriage. The more a couple engages in these destructive activities, the more likely they are to divorce. His decades of research and of working with couples have shown that spouses who stay together know how to fight without being hostile and to take responsibility for their actions. content.aspx

Hah! Get real. We’re talking two married lawyers here. Folks, our bread and butter is criticism and contempt. And we try to only fight with hostility — otherwise, what’s the point?

Here’s an example barely two-hours old. I express to my wife my worry about the living situation of my ancient mother. My wife’s response is to point out that I am in this pickle because I’ve enabled my mother for a lifetime. Of course, my wife’s hostile response is factually spot on. So what? Do I take responsibility? Please, in what fantasy world do you live? Instead, I blame my wife for being unhelpful. Yup, criticism by her and contempt by me. Check and check. 

Lord, should we be talking about who gets the dog?

Okay, fine, what about compatible zodiac signs? My wife is a Taurus and I’m a Leo. Perhaps this is our secret to a long marriage. Brides.com says:

Tauruses and Leos might have a hard time. Leos need a lot of attention, compliments, and ego bolstering. Tauruses will not give them the attention they seek, choosing to get attention in their own way. Leos also like to get their way, while Tauruses want to be the one in control of the relationship. least-compatible-zodiac-signs

Ouch! Not only is this surprisingly accurate about our personalities, but it is another vote for modifying traditional marriage vows — “until death, or sometime much sooner, do us part.”  

Okay, one last gasp. How about that we both worked as lawyers? You know, two peas in a pod. A shared interest. Shop talk in the kitchen. That’s got to count for something. The Telegraph reports that it does count for something: 

Workers should never marry someone in same profession because couples with very different careers have a better work-life balance, psychologists claim. Partners-in-same-professions-have-worse-work-life-balance.html

Wow! We are a wreck of a marriage. Forty-three years of pure garbage. Our marriage is a superfund site. Oh no! 

But what about that horrible three-letter word . . . FUN? (I know what your gutter mind thought, and that works too.) 

WE JUST HAVE FUN! And fun isn’t found just at the footlong hot dog at the Iowa State Fair. It’s found at the back of a prairie cemetery somewhere off I-80 in Nebraska while driving back to Iowa. We are tossing a frisbee for Charlie the Dog to stretch his legs. We are laughing with pure delight as the frisbee flies, and Charlie runs, and we run after him. Just nonsense. But fun nonsense.

Or fun is found this last year somewhere in France, where we have gotten off a train with our heavy packs and are leaning with our backs against a fountain, exhausted. We look at each other wondering if we can continue these European adventures as we age. And then we laugh, realizing in our deepest hearts that what is enjoyable is doing this together. Who cares how old we are? We can have fun sitting in rockers on a porch. Especially if French fries are served. See, fun. 

Or fun is this Christmas and we are up in the early morning having coffee together, while our youngest and her partner are asleep in the spare bedroom, our middle son is asleep in the den, and our oldest son and his partner are asleep in the basement, all together for the first time since 2017. Charlie the Dog is barking furiously outside. Lily the Cat is vomiting on some rug somewhere. And we both realize it doesn’t get any better than this. We smile. That is fun.

That’s all l’ve got. No words of wisdom for a long marriage. No secret recipe. No 10-step program. I do love a bromide more than the average person, but even I don’t have a magic pill. Sorry.

So . . . superfund site or super-fun site? As the carnival barker says: “You pay your money and you take your chance.” 

Joe

Bad luck is bad luck. True enough. But there are certainly different types of bad luck. There’s the really bad luck of being in the wrong place at the wrong time and it’s a matter of life or death. Like getting trapped by a falling boulder and having to cut off your arm to survive. Ouch, that’s what happened to motivational speaker Aron Ralston. Or the bad luck of being caught out in a winter storm with no visibility and freezing winds and having to hold onto an ice-covered rope to get from the barn to the house, aka Little House on the Prairie. Who wants that. And it is certainly bad luck to stumble upon a bull shark that travels 700 miles up the Mississippi River only to snack on you during Shark Week. That’s such bad luck that it weirdly seems like just desserts — for the shark.  

But then there is the other kind of bad luck that’s just . . . mildly unlucky.  

The cry comes from upstairs.

“Joe, can you come fast,” my wife said in a high voice, tinged with controlled panic.

I do . . . and I find my wife with a knitting needle sticking in her butt.

By the way, my very precise granddaughter informs me that I cannot say the word “butt.”

Really, Juliette, so what can I say? Derriere? Fanny?

No, grandpa, ‘tushy.’

Okay, folks, there’s a knitting needle sticking in my wife’s tushy (a very skinny, US size 1 — for you crazy knitters out there).

You are probably not very sympathetic to this scenario. But knitting needles are long and sharp and are essentially a stiletto knife, which is automatically considered a “dangerous weapon” under Iowa Code section 702.7. And there’s a reason for that. 

Stilettos were developed in late Medieval and Renaissance Italy as anti-armour knives. The slenderness of a stiletto blade focuses the force of the attack into a tiny area, which multiplies its pressure enormously. This means it could pierce plate armour or cut through chain mail rings.

index.html

Yup, a knitting needle is an anti-armour weapon just waiting for an unsuspecting knitter to blindly impale herself or himself.

In fact, a search online revealed how dangerous this dangerous weapon can be. The British Medical Journal reported a fatal brain injury caused by a baby rolling off a changing table onto a knitting needle (807). ABC News reported a knitting needle piercing a woman’s heart after she tripped on the stairs (story). And the Journal of Cardiothoracic Surgery reported a knitting needle ascended the body of a woman for 33 years after a self-induced abortion (PMC4966788). My goodness, who knew? Story after story after story. And I don’t even count all the articles about knitters poking themselves in the thigh. That seems like a prerequisite to even being called a knitter. 

Okay, a knitting needle is no joke.

But a knitting needle in your tushy?

In a few days, it will be forty-three years since I married my wife. It was a forced marriage, of course. Forced by me. Here’s a surprise for my reader, I am not quite the catch my wife is. Therefore, I had to propose quickly (two weeks after we met) so as to lock down the sale before my wife could reflect on my personality and good looks and her future in-laws. So I tread lightly in the arena of wife humor. But . . .

. . . a knitting needle in the tushy? I wanted to take a photo — but my guardian angel cautioned against that clever idea. And I wanted to suggest we call the neighbors and charge admission — I might have done so in the early years of our marriage, but forty-three years later? Perhaps too soon. So I bit the inside of my lip and treated the puncture wound, as any good husband would do, and bided my time. Well, I’ve bided long enough.

But now I’m having second thoughts about becoming Mr. Jokester. I remember back in law school an old professor would always ask us students to consider “whose ox is being gored?” In other words, who is really paying the price for what happened. Isn’t the person with the knitting needle in their tushy really the one being gored? How dare I make fun of someone else’s pain? Particularly if that someone is my sweetie?

But . . . .

Knock, knock. 

Who’s there?

Needle.

Needle who?

Needle a little more target practice before your next sweater.

Yup, I crack myself up. 

Joe — formerly married to Theresa

The tightly sealed cardboard box from the attic is an accumulation of orphaned items too dear to trash. There’s a first communion missal, a holy water font to hang on my wall, a kindergarten report card from St. Thomas Aquinas (with nine graded categories, one being the “Ability to talk to God,” for which my heretical soul got an “A,” you doubters), old passports, and . . . . what’s this? Concert tickets?

The line stretches long and meandering from the entrance to Hilton Coliseum in Ames, Iowa, through the east parking lot, across the South Skunk River, to eventually come to rest in my memory more than 50 years later. I do remember the smell — the pungency of marijuana as it drifts from the crowd while my buddy and I try unsuccessfully to look cool standing in line with our eyes down and our hands deep in our pockets. Once we are seated, everyone around us is laughing and talking and passing drinks back and forth. College kids for sure. We sit in our brand-new bellbottom pants, eyes wide, and pass pop back and forth. Yup, high school kids for sure.

From stage left comes our man. Alone. Shadowed. Quiet. He sits at the piano and pauses. Then he bends over the keys and plays. Gradually the music loops around and his voice joins in: 

Blue-jean baby
L.A. lady
Seamstress for the band
Pretty-eyed
Pirate smile
You’ll marry a music man 

Elton John’s Tiny Dancer. And we forget all our anxieties, worries, cares, and desires. We are no longer separate from the crowd. We are floating in the air, driven by this strange man on the big stage wearing cartoonish glasses. We are transported.

And the cost of this ecstasy? Well, back in 1972 it was $4. 

Yes, four big ones. Tax included. That’s not happening today I’m afraid — even accounting for the increase of the minimum wage from $1.60 an hour in 1972 to $7.25 an hour in 2023. Three hours of work actually paid for my ticket back in 1972. Three hours of work today would barely pay for a reusable water bottle sold at a Taylor Swift concert. 

Taylor Swift brings her “Eras” tour to Kansas City in less than a month, and resale tickets have only shot up in price since they sold out on Ticketmaster in November 2022. According to StubHub, prices range from $1,047 to $7,166 for the remaining 473 tickets for July 7 and $1,100 to $10,890 for one of 509 tickets available for July 8.

 (emphasis added) (How much do Taylor Swift Kansas City resale tickets cost?The Kansas City Starhttps://www.kansascity.com › tips › article276378311).

Craziness has happened. Two high school boys from Iowa City are not buying two tickets for $10,890 each. Please.

Of course, the Taylor Swift ticket sales were outsized. We all know that. But even to see Elton John in Denver last year would have been a hard swallow:

Elton John’s Farewell Yellow Brick Road Tour, which he says will be his last, is coming to Denver’s Ball Arena at 8 p.m. this Friday. Last-minute ticket grabbers will pay about $300 at the cheapest end, or upward of $4,800 at the most expensive. (emphasis added) (Want to see Taylor Swift or Elton John in Colorado? It’ll cost …The Gazettehttps://gazette.com › arts-entertainment › music › want-t…).

What has happened here? Who can possibly afford this?

So I asked a pro.  

“I’ve been doing radio since God was just a little girl.” Ron Sorenson laughingly explains in his deep, melodious voice with the calming notes of a meditation guru at a day-long retreat.

Ron Sorenson is General Manager of KFMG radio and president of the board of directors.

“Essentially, I run the store.”

Which means?

“That means I’m general manager, staff announcer, principal underwriting sales person, fundraiser, copywriter, production director, I do promotions, and I take out the trash.”

Okay, Ron, based on your long years in the music world what’s going on with these music concert ticket prices?

“I did some digging, mainly because I was curious. Today average concert ticket price is $252. But in 1970, a big name show, a Beatles show or a Led Zeppelin show, was charging $10 to $12. But remember that gasoline in 1970 was 36 cents a gallon. So, one cause for what’s happening today is clearly inflation.”

And?

“Well, another factor is that 32% of ticket costs are currently fees and services. And don’t forget the resellers. They want to sell for more than they paid. It’s Stubhub, but also individuals just trying to make a buck.” 

Yikes, that’s a chunk.

“Another factor I believe, especially for Baby Boomers, are that they are doing pretty well and are willing to pay $1000 to $1500 to see Paul McCartney for the last time. So they get the VIP treatment and don’t have to mingle with the hoi polloi.”

But what about all the young people attending a concert like Taylor Swift? 

“Hah, those concert goers have grandparents who are baby boomers. I wouldn’t be surprised if there isn’t substantial parental and grandparental support. And don’t forget that Taylor Swift is a phenomenon — it’s a show, a circus, not just a band up there playing.”

I thank Ron for his thoughts and he returns to his microphone, while I return home to my box of memories and old concert tickets. 

Wow. Look at this. Don McLean of American Pie fame at C.Y. Stephens Auditorium in 1973! Who knew? And the cost? Three bucks. 

Shaking my head, and deciding once again not to trash all these treasures, I seal up the box and take it back to the attic. Then I sit on the attic stairs, an old man perch, and consider the wonderfully sweet smell of melancholy.

A long, long time ago

I can still remember

how that music

used to make me smile . . .

Don McLean, American Pie

Joe

My friend and I kneel clumsily on the side of the altar in the early morning dark before school begins. Our shoes are covered by our black cassocks, which are straight jackets for squirmy 11-year-olds. So we tug and pull at the cassocks until the priest, bending over the chalice, gives us a side-eye that promises everlasting hellfire. Being more comfortable with our long and well-deserved stint in purgatory, we stop squirming. 

“Dominus vobiscum,” says the priest.

“Et cum spiritu tuo,” we chant quickly and without any inkling as to the meaning. 

And so go the instructions in How to Serve Low Mass, by Rev. William A. O’Brien (published in 1931), and made available to us boys at St. Mary’s School in Iowa City in 1964. By the next year, Latin was out the door, the altar was turned around to face the congregation, and the nuns were leading us in Woodie Guthrie songs about equality and revolution. Vatican II was a tsunami for believers at that time, even though it turned into a small ripple in later years. 

But it was too late for me. Not only was I taking my first steps down the teenage rebellion path, but, worse, I had my first Long John.

It began innocently enough. The priest gave each of us altar boys a quarter after mass. Clutching it tight, we ran down North Linn Street to Hamburg Inn No. 2. Inside the entrance and at the head of the servers’ island was a glass case full of donuts and other pastries.

“I’ll have one Long John, please.”

Delivered with a pat of butter, I swooned. It was salvation without Latin. I became a believer. Then I became buddies with Mike Panther. Come to find out his mom and dad OWNED Hamburg Inn No. 2. Free Long Johns, here I come. 

So now, nearly 60 years later, I stop in at Alok Oberoi’s place, the Donut Hut on Douglas Avenue in Des Moines, my new place of worship. 

“Alok, what do you have for Long Johns today?”

Alok has made Long Johns since he bought the business 13 years ago.

“When people come to buy donuts they look for the value. The Long John has more for the buck. I have several customers who just buy Long Johns. And they rave about them too. They are larger and the dough is special.”

And Alok, do you have any kids stop by for donuts?

“A lot of students come here to buy donuts, early morning, after school, and during breaks. I have three schools that are near — an elementary school across the street, a middle school and a high school just up the street.”

Do they talk to you?

“I have regular kids come in. Ninety percent of my customers know me. Everybody wants to talk a little bit.”

And what do you say to them?`

“My question for a young person is always how are your grades? And if they are doing well in school I give them a free donut.”

I’m doing well in school, I say. 

Alok smiles. 

“Also if I see some kids holding the door for other people, I reward them with a donut and make sure to tell them that was really nice that they did that. I want the kids who come in here to be respectful. And my goal with them is to make sure they go to school and complete their education. I tell all the kids to not give up on their education, just keep going as long as they can. Life is not easy.”

So I drive off with a box full of Long Johns and Alok’s warm goodby . . .  and I think of my buddy Mike Panther and our love of Long Johns. For no good reason, he and I lost touch after high school and went on with our lives. Years later I find out that in December 1985, three weeks before Mike’s wedding, a drunk driver crossed the center line and killed Mike in a head-on collision.

As Alok says, life is not easy. 

According to my manual, How to Serve Low Mass, the altar boys at a Mass for the dead are to respond with Amen when the priest says Requiescant in pace. 

So, Mike, although it is 38 years late . . .   

“Requiescat in pace,” says the robed priest in my mind.

To which the young altar boy from over half a century ago answers: “Amen.”

And I take a bite of my Long John. 

Joe

The cardboard box is tucked under the eaves in the attic. Spiderwebs and insulation cling to the top. Old baby beds and suitcases and containers of long-abused toys surround it. Stale, warm air drifts down from the rafters. I breathe slowly. 

Dusting off the flaps, I open it to see old diaries, all ones I wrote over 50 years ago. And all with pretty much the same observations about myself and pretty much the same solutions to those observations. Year after year after year. I bore even myself.

DIARY ENTRY — NOVEMBER 14, 1978: My acne seems to be a physical manifestation of my inner weakness. My response to the acne is to make it worse. I’ve got to grow up and become sure within myself. There must be a way to achieve this area of manhood. First, let’s try following my moral standards. Try honesty — try courage — try love — try humor.

Okay, “acne is a physical manifestation of inner weakness”? This kid is a mess. The craziness of shame and guilt is on full display in these lines. But then it gets worse. The “cure” for this “physical manifestation” is apparently honesty, courage, love, and humor. Who knew that the tremendous market for acne treatments is missing these four key ingredients.

I wrote these lines in late fall many years ago. My 49-year-old father had recently died, after a three-year illness. I took to the road to figure it all out. I was at that moment in Ibiza, Spain, long before Ibiza became the “Party Capital of the World.” (https://www.businessinsider.com/ibiza-spain-party-capital-of-the-world-2018-9). Ibiza was isolated and undeveloped, and very few people lived on the island. I had gotten there from Iowa by hitchhiking to New York, flying to Luxembourg, bicycling into France, taking Eurail to Barcelona, and ferrying to Ibiza. I had little money. I was dead lonely. And I was debating whether to go work in a kibbutz in Israel. 

This was not a high point.

DIARY ENTRY — NOVEMBER 12, 1978: I feel in myself an insecurity. It is present at all times but mostly when I’m with people in dialogue. When I’m alone, traveling in a foreign land, the insecurity is gone. Rationally, I cannot justify such a fear: how can one fear inadequacies within oneself in relation to another when we are all going to die. 

I can’t believe I didn’t have friends! Who talks like this? I especially appreciate that all the overblown blather ends with (surprise, surprise) a nod toward death. Please, put this kid out of his misery. 

In Ibiza, I’m staying up the stairs in an adobe building in a small room with windows on two sides. No window screens. Very un-Iowan. I buy fresh yogurt from a women with her cart in the square, which I mix with uncooked oatmeal for most meals to save money, of course. And during the day, I wander the long, undeveloped beaches. For what? An answer to an unasked question I suspect. 

So I pass my days in an island paradise until don’t. And finally I come home. 

So, dude, 33 years later you do return to Europe. This time to The Hague, Netherlands, where your wife goes off for long days to prosecute war criminals and you are left alone again in a foreign country. Hah. Can you believe this? And you will be in The Hague off and on for nine years. Yup, get your head around that.

And again, you start your time in The Hague with your days lonely, searching for meaning, trying to figure out how to live the moral life. Same old, same old. Except this time the existential crisis is over a latte in a coffee shop, not over a bowl of uncooked oatmeal. And there is that small difference of now having a wife who loves you, a career full of good things, three kids you generally like, innumerable cats and dogs you can’t stand, and one fish — all safely under your metaphysical belt. But you are still a mess.

Until you write.  

And you write and write. And you begin to share your writing with others. And you write and write some more. And suddenly, at the prodding of your wife, you have a column in Cityview (https://www.dmcityview.com/). Now it’s off to the races. 

You interview people and write about their lives. You go to museums and write about art. You sit on the edge of canals and write about the people living in boats on the canal. You write about Pilgrims in Leiden, Anne Frank’s house in Amsterdam, a witch living in The Hague. And this writing doesn’t stop in Europe. My goodness. 

DIARY ENTRY — THANKSGIVING, NOVEMBER 23, 1978: Today is Thanksgiving back home. I miss it. I know I’m probably making it mean more in my memories than it meant in actuality, but what else do I have but the past. 

There I was, stuck in memories of mashed potatoes and bread stuffing and young man angst, not knowing the answer was no further than the end of my pen.

So the diaries go back in the cardboard box, which I seal tight with fresh tape. I carry the box up to the attic and put it again under the eaves next to the old baby beds. Straightening my back, I brush off my hands. Stale, warm air drifts down from the rafters. I breathe slowly.   

Joe

Listen, this is truly going somewhere. I promise. But the journey requires that we play Candy Land, which means we have to get past Peppermint Forest and Gumdrop Mountains and survive Molasses Swamp, all to hopefully arrive at King Kandy. You don’t want to do that? Sorry, those are just the rules of the game. 

And to even start the game you need to understand the problem: I’ve always loved a list. For example, today I have a list carefully itemizing the five chores I want to complete before tomorrow. This list is separate from the two calendars with travel plans and doctor appointments and writing commitments. And I have a list on my phone with groceries and where to find them. And then there are the daily diaries setting out personal goals and aspirations and dreams. Yup, list upon list upon list, until I’m  hopelessly stuck in Licorice Castle with Lord Licorice. Now that’s a sticky mess. 

Then, of course, there are the self-help programs that fill my bookcase. Before the advent of spellcheck, my bedside reading was 20 Days to Better Spelling, by Norman Lewis — even my wife shook her head at that futile effort. No matter, I particularly like any self-help program that can be completed in 30 days so I can start my next 30-day self-help program to coincide with the beginning of my next 30-day workout program. And let’s not forget my calming meditation programs . . .   

This is not only crazy but exhausting. And really, I am a retired old man who needs to get it together before all my list-making and personal striving find me on my deathbed, miles away from Candy Castle with all the good cards already dealt. 

I recently re-read Daniel Klein’s book, Travels with Epicurus. Klein wrestles with the question of what to do as an old man when life is in the last quarter and you’ve used up your time-outs. He gives several wonderfully humorous and thought-provoking suggestions. But one that caught my fancy is steeped in the notion that we are terrified of boredom even though we are inescapably bored.

Nothing appears quite so potentially boring as being an old man without any new goals or upcoming exciting experiences, an old man without the buzz of a hungry libido, an old man whose energy level is gradually sinking to the point where the prospect of camping out in the woods seems more like an ordeal than recreation.

The boredom that Klein is talking about is existential boredom, where you can’t find meaning in anything: “With nothing meaningful in life, nothing is interesting. Enter boredom.”

So what are we left with if everything is boring? Klein claims we are left with distractions from boredom — goals, lists, calendars. In other words, I am the poster child of distractions from boredom.

Okay, fine, my life is a meaningless sideshow. So, Daniel, what’s the plan here? 

“For many philosophers, idleness . . . is actually one of old age’s greatest gifts. It gives us time for that wondrous human activity, play.”

What the heck? That’s the plan? I’m supposed to go play? Like what? Kickball with the neighbor kids? Build a house out of cardboard boxes? Cannonballs in the public pool?

Klein says that “play” needs to be pointless, not in any way associated with how many steps I have just walked (as I jiggle my Fitbit while writing so as to get steps without walking) or my won/loss record at competitive pickleball. Play requires losing oneself without any purpose. 

Me oh my.

So, today I am trying to act without my lists. No calendars. No commitments. No goals. Just play. I sit in my chair. Whistle a little. Look around. I wonder what my wife is doing? Mmmm, does the dog need to go out? Whistle some more. Lord, I’m hungry. What is that noise? It sure is hot today. My shoulder is itchy. Look, my granddaughter is putting all her dolls down for a nap. Maybe I should take a nap?

Then my granddaughter sets a game in my lap: Candy Land with Disney Princesses.

Really? Are you kidding? I hate games. Not just Candy Land, but all games. What’s the point? Seriously. While all of you are playing games, I’m getting things DONE! I’m getting ahead! I’m achieving! Games are a waste of my time. No thank you. No games for me. 

“You be Sleeping Beauty,” my granddaughter says as she hands me a blue figurine with puffed sleeves, opera gloves, and a tiara balanced on her blonde hair.  

“Sleeping Beauty? But I really wanted to be Snow White.”

“I’m Snow White,” she says smugly. 

And we play. I immediately stall out on single blue cards, whereas my granddaughter starts jumping ahead with double cards and a light spirit. I’m not sure I like Snow White. What’s she hiding behind that red bow? And her questionable relationships with strangers in the forest? Give me a break. 

Unsurprisingly, I get trounced at Candy Land. My granddaughter wanders off to play with my much more interesting wife. Who wouldn’t?

But . . . doesn’t this Candy Land thingy qualify as play? I think so. I think I just played. In fact, I’m marking it down on my calendar that I successfully played. Whew. Now how many more times do I need to play before I can get back to my lists?

Joe