The Gilis -- How You Say Island Bliss

(Dec. 22) I know it would be an exaggeration to say that here on Gili Air we have truly reached the other side of the planet, in all things literal and figurative. But, we are getting close. Gili Air is a tiny island, maybe 4 miles around. It sits in the South China Sea about a 4 hour ferry ride east of Bali alongside its island sisters Gili Meno and Gili Trawangan. These tiny islands serve as stepping stones off the coast of Lombok, an Indonesian province that will soon be a rising star for savvy jet setters. Stepping off the longboat that brings us to Gili Air, your personal decompression process begins to take hold. Not that what preceded this destination was stressful, but this place sets the standard for all that is laid back. It is one thing to say that there are no roads here or cars as was the case in Koh Phi Phi, but the difference between Phi Phi and Gili is the difference between New York and Mayberry RFD. There is only a dirt path that hugs the shore around the island, and the only thing that moves faster than the always strolling humans is the occasional pony-drawn cart and a random bike. There are a few bungalow-dotted “resorts,” a string of beach front bars and eateries, and, after that…..nothing.

This is an island devoted largely to divers. There is really nothing else to keep you here except perhaps a driving ambition to lower your blood pressure. No credit cards here, no ATMs. Things here are pretty much a half step ahead of the barter system. Our hotel, Gili Air Bungalows, offers 4 steeply roofed thatched bungalows, each with a front deck and a bathroom in the rear that is open to the sky. Sink, shower, and toilet -- all alfresco. Pretty cool. The pool is salt water as is the tap and shower water. Bottled water is, naturally, essential. The beach bars offer covered, raised thatched platforms each with overstuffed pillows you can lean against while you throw down your Bintang beer and your shrimp or calamari schnitzel. There you can while away the afternoons between dives or after dinner hours, reading, sipping cocktails, playing hearts and trading stories. And the dress code? Let me just say that dressing for dinner means putting a tank top over that bathing suit. And, if you simply insist on footwear, let it be flipflops.

Oh yeah, there’s stress here -- will it be tequila or beer, red snapper or calamari? It really doesn't get much more complicated than that.

Mayhem on Main Street

(Dec. 20) A word about the traffic here. Astounding. Beyond comprehension. There is simply no analog in the western world for this particular brand of hysteria. I grew up thinking that the mad dash urban traffic scenes of Paris and Rome were the benchmarks for madness -- where the rule of law evaporated in the no man’s land beyond the city’s sidewalks. What I didn’t know then was that these traffic models would be mere child’s play -- a stroll in the park -- compared to what southeast Asians engage in every day. To say the streets are crowded goes without saying, of course. The roads are blanketed by cars, trucks, buses, cyclists, and the ever-present scooters and motorcycles that soon take on the feel of swarming mosquitoes rather than machines. Scooters, often loaded with 3 or 4 people, dart among each other and between cars with a hair-raising optimism that their sudden movements will be injury-free. Helmets, though common, are hardly universal. Unhelmeted, small kids, in particular, who are sandwiched (indeed, seemingly suffocated) between parents, appear oblivious to the harm that I believe is not just apt to happen, but a dead on certainty. Cars, like the ones we traveled in, come up on the bumpers of these two-wheeled vehicles so damn closely that so often you can see what kinds of screws hold their license plates on -- and this is at cruising speeds. Add to this mix the suicidal brand of pedestrians who actually deign to enter this war zone and you have the dictionary definition of chaos.

The notion of lanes is not even paid lip service. Are you kidding me? I’m telling you, it’s a huge waste of paint. Sure, there is oncoming traffic. But, that gives no assurance whatsoever that the oncomers own their lane. They must share it with the cars and scooters that pass from the other lane, sometimes three abreast, in what I can only describe as a fiendish game of chicken. I am amazed as much as I have ever been that accidents are not just more frequent, but hellishly repetitive.

It is truly a video game on wheels, but I hesitate to learn in whose hands the controller rests.

A Day in Full

(Dec. 19) Days can be memorable for so many reasons. The one we had today, I suspect, as wonderful as it was in the moment, will become mythic with the passage of time. The major ingredients were all there. It was the first day in virtually a year that Lily, Jesse, Alex and I had been together in one place. With Alex scampering around the globe and Jesse and Laura encamped in Denver, putting us all together in one place was all but impossible. Yet, here we were together again -- a huge delight without more. Add to this that we were all in Bali, and though we had not much more than a day there, it provided an exotic setting for our reunion.

Our day was hinged around a trip up to Ubud, a slow 2 hour journey up into the hills with our driver, Lele. Ubud is known for its crafts and, while we hoped to absorb as much as we could, our day‘s entertainment came from other pursuits. We stop first at Mandala Wisata Wanara Wana, a lengthy Sanskrit denomination for a monkey sanctuary. Here, the inmates (as it were) run the institution. The macaques who reside here run wild and free. If you’re worried about not getting close enough, worry no more. They find you, believe me. All it takes is a bunch of small bananas in hand to bring them running, and they do like their bananas here. If you want one on your shoulder, no problem. You want a grandpa or maybe a baby, they’re yours. What you realize after several minutes is that you’ve taken 900 pictures many of which you just know you’ll want to delete before sharing. But, this is fun without a doubt.

We follow with a trek through rice paddies, a tougher task than we first realized. Our guide, Made (pronounced “Maddy”) takes us down steep slopes through steamy jungle terrain with slippery rocks and dirt, a chore that us flipflop wearing touristas make more difficult than necessary. But, the beauty we witness is incomparable. What is revealed to us, we all agree, is what we had always believed to be the essence of Indonesia: greens so vivid they render the term “technicolor” woefully inadequate; terraced rice paddies that, taken together, provide a stunning landscape mosaic-- so utterly and exclusively Asian. We are dripping from our efforts after the long climb back up to where Lele is to meet us, but we are unanimous in our delight for what we have just come to see.

We stop for lunch at “Indus” recommended by Lele and this special day continues. Spicy calamari salads, an incredibly flavorful lemongrass chicken, and even a paella. All this served on an elevated open air terrace overlooking the rolling Bali countryside. Perfect.

Returning to our hotel, we can’t wait to hit the pool and then have drinks as we watch sunset over the Indian Ocean. Lastly, again at Lele’s suggestion, we are ferried to another part of the city for a grilled fish dinner on the beach at the Ganesha Café. He said it had the best seafood around, and it didn’t disappoint. Grilled red snapper with garlic sauce, all washed down with Bintang beer.

We all regretted having just this one full day in Bali, but as our heads hit the pillow that night, we did not feel cheated.

Scuba

(Dec. 15) After graduating from our rigorous and amusing introduction to breathing underwater in a pool, and having reviewed endless reams of dive instructions and instructional videos, we are now ready for our first open water dive. We go to Maya Bay, site of “The Beach” with Leonardo DiCaprio. Fantastically beautiful, the bay is surrounded by steep, green limestone cliffs evocative of what we imagine pre-historic times to have looked like. In that moment, as we enter the bay, an appearance by a t-rex does not seem utterly out of the realm of possibility. In our longboat, it is just Lily and me, our dive master, Keira, and our boatman. These long, narrow wooden craft you’ve seen a thousand times in movies set in this part of the world.

We submerge. It is hard to keep from smiling. A whole new world reveals itself. Within minutes, we find ourselves circling a sea turtle which is attacking a huge jellyfish from beneath, essentially trying to eat him alive. The jellyfish tries to move away as quickly as nature permits, but his throbbing hulk is no match for the sea turtle. I root for the jellyfish, the underdog, hoping he will miraculously find breakaway speed, but today is not his day.

I delight in new perspectives. Unlike the “horizontal” world where you pass someone either on the left or right, here you have an additional option. Go over or under. How novel! I find myself passing over Lily and a couple of other divers, all arrayed in a vertical plane. As I look down, I feel like I have the barest appreciation for what it’s like to fly in formation with the Blue Angels. Swimming above Lily, I have the absolutely delightful experience of having her air bubbles drift up and past me. They appear as metallic, shiny inverted saucers, reflecting light as clearly as mirrors. I poke them and they break apart into fifty smaller saucers. This is, at heart, a psychedelic experience.

As part of the test for scuba certification, we are asked to jump out of the boat and swim 200 meters to shore. Forgive me, but I think of myself as Leonardo as he and his friends make the desperate swim ashore to “the beach,” just as I am doing in that moment.

Really, I do apologize for this.

Island Life, Thai Style

(Dec. 12) Koh Phi Phi (pronounced “Pee Pee“) is a small island about a 2 hour ferry ride from Phuket. What Disneyland is to 6 year olds, Phi Phi is to a slightly older population. There’s no Donald or Goofy here, and no rides, but if you are, let’s say, 25, all you want is right here. The village is a grid richly crowded with open-air bars with small tables and chairs spilling out onto the “street.” Internet cafes, t-shirt shops, dive shops, massage venues, and an amazing array of eateries fight for your attention. It is an assault on your senses, but not an unpleasant one. As you make your way up the congested walkways, you are invited to all manner of evening parties and shows. All that’s missing is a carnival barker. The streets -- some paved, some not -- give the appearance that Koh Phi Phi is crowded. But, I believe this impression is created only because the walkways -- there are no cars here -- are narrow forcing whoever’s here to share limited walking space. The many locals who try to navigate this maze on bikes are, fittingly, candidates for cirque de soleil. They make 90 degree turns on a dime, routinely stop motionless while remaining upright and somehow (mostly) avoid pedestrians with magical consistency even though those on foot always seem mere centimeters from their front wheels. This task is complicated by the steady infusion of small children, running and biking with no apparent pattern, often without an adult in view. Cyclists gamely blurt out “beep beep” as they make their way through as if fair notice has been given. Really, we are all players in a life-sized video game here.

If there were a flag for Phi Phi it would most certainly feature a large flip flop since that is all you see here. They are not just ubiquitous; they are universal. Ok, ok I did see a couple of guys in worn out running shoes and one eastern european dude wearing combat boots, but these were very much the exception.

Along the alleyways, there is almost always the strains of some music, but not the minor chords of thai music as you might expect. Rather, from somewhere, you hear the voices of Cat Stevens, Bob Marley and Janice Joplin. It’s weird, but somehow it fits. This theme picks up at the Millie and Tia Sunflower Beach Bar on the sand on the other side of the island. It doesn't take too much imagination to picture this place in Key West, or maybe San Diego. You take a seat at one of the curved carved tables facing the ocean, Singha beer in hand, awaiting the sunset. Stray cats jump up on your table. The longboats are now dormant providing a picture postcard foreground for the sunset that is soon to appear painting the sky in the reddest reds and the bluest blues. The ambient music is all acoustic, naturally. My camera does not even remotely do justice to all this.

This is a beer commercial, right?

Paradise Lost

(Dec. 10) There are few things as sweet as being reminded of a wonderful, but long ago, experience. Sometimes this is triggered by smells (maybe the cooking of some cherished comfort food), or sounds (like hearing a song that once had great meaning). But, most often, and most powerfully, the sensation is the greatest when you return to a place that holds some of your warmest memories. And, so it was yesterday with Lily and me. We found ourselves in the same exact spot we had not seen for 30 years: Patong Beach in Phuket, Thailand.

The interesting thing, I think, about these encounters is trying to resist re-living the experience since, after all, so many things have changed. You can “re-acquaint” but you cannot “re-live.” Here, in Phuket, we knew things would be different. But, would it matter? What was once a relatively undiscovered backwater unknown to most of the western world, was now a bustling, crowded destination resort polka-dotted by high rises and replete with wave upon wave of European tourists, tattoo parlors, and the ubiquitous t-shirt shops. Hello civilization; goodbye paradise. This was a far cry from the place we once knew that promised on the beach bungalows for $6 a night and grilled fresh fish dinners for $3. But, when you looked seaward, out into the Andaman Sea, we could see what we loved so much: fluffy white sand, water as warm as a bath, and a succession of changing tints of blue -- like a blue rainbow -- from almost clear to turquoise to the deepest navy. The crescent-shaped bay was still guarded by green hills diving down to the shoreline. And, the hot sun served as an open invitation to spend the day submerged in that wonderful water.

We returned to the place that we had once stayed, Phuket Cabanas, now completely transformed into an upscale and beautiful hotel, and had cocktails at sunset and a fabulous alfresco Thai dinner. The starter was a soup so beautifully aromatic it could do well in a perfume competition. The catch? It was laced with paralyzingly hot chilies that, as they say, cures what ails you. Not for the timid, this soup. What followed was everything from red snapper to chicken to shrimp to a seafood salad of shrimp, octopus and ginger. All of it fabulously delicious.

So, it wasn’t the old Phuket. So what? We're not the old Lily and Jeff either.

When Are We?

(Dec. 9, although possibly Dec. 8 or 10) Lily and I have had our fannies firmly planted in airline seats for 22 hours today. Count ‘em: 22 -- Charleston to Dulles (1 hour), Dulles to Tokyo (13½ hours), Tokyo to Singapore (7½ hours). Trust me, our fannies are not pleased with this arrangement, and our backs aren’t entirely thrilled either. Like so many others, we have experienced this before -- these long trips -- which tells you how strong the pull is of our chosen destination that we would endure this numbing, voluntary incarceration. We mentally wave out our window at Ontario, the Yukon, the Northern Slopes of Alaska, the Aleutians, Vladivostok, Okinawa, Guam, and Borneo. From 35,000 feet, it’s all the same. We not only endure, but look forward to, the airline’s less than elegant attempts at food service since, if nothing else, it provides a break in the otherwise totally stalled and bland action of air travel.

It is a matter of some hilarity that we attempt, futilely, to figure out what time it is, which is, of course, impossible. Time is a moving target up here. Do we look at our watches and say to ourselves it’s 5 p.m. when that’s eastern standard time, or do we keep track of the ever-changing time zones below? Like the intrepid, but confused, heroes in “Lost,” it is far better not to ask “where are we?,” but rather “when are we?”

Walking the aisles at “night” in our jumbo jet, it is amusing to see how others meet the challenge. There are, of course, the stubborn few with open books or laptops, and others watching, glazed over, their sixth movie. Mostly, folks try -- vainly, I believe -- to find a position where sleep will provide a much needed escape from this seemingly endless monotony. You have your folks with sleep masks, face masks, and many others with blankets pulled over their heads. Others appear as comfortable as one might when bracing for a head-on collision, but with their eyes closed, as if by jamming their eyelids shut they can force unconsciousness upon themselves. Some say you should set your watch to that of your destination and start adjusting to that when you take your seat. Yeah, good luck with that.

Oh, the joy! After a 6 hour layover in Singapore, we head out in the early a.m. again, only this time for another multi-hour aerial hike, this time to Phuket.

I’m thinking even Cary Grant would look a bit disheveled after this, don’t you?

The Last Man on Earth (or so it seemed)

Around these parts, once the last suggestion of summer leaves for more southern climes, folks around here perform an exodus as if they were fully expecting an imminent, winter-long convention of mastodons and t-rex at Wild Dunes. To say this place becomes a ghost town is, in truth, doing a disservice to ghosts because this place would make even ghosts feel a tad lonely. We are told that one-quarter of property owners live here full-time, but I’m convinced either that this is a grotesque overstatement or these guys are most comfortable riding out winter in their basements, far from human view, madly at work on the great American novel or, perhaps, a challenging video game.

So -- tonight, as Mojo and I took our evening constitutional, I was struck by the notion that it would not be such a reach to play the role as last man on planet earth. We wandered empty street after empty street, and as the twilight gave way to darkness, I was reminded again how resoundingly black it gets here with street lights appearing maybe once every half mile. We ventured down to the ocean because from a block away you could hear the waves crashing, and this was most certainly worth a view. It was the kind of sound that made you think that something important was happening there. There was but one soul on the beach, a truly forlorn looking cyclist leaning into the wind, which was now just a bit shy of furious. He could not have been enjoying himself. Otherwise, the expanse was free of any life form. Just the waves, the sand, the full moon and Mojo and me. The day had played out in a way that invited this air of isolation as the weather gurus spoke of high winds, pounding rain, flooding, severe thunderstorms, and even some tornado warnings. It was a day best suited to browsing Amazon.com in search of a well-priced ark.

While the streets were empty, there were actually a few cars that ventured by, their lights an annoying distraction from my last man on earth fantasies. An intrusion, really. May I say that Mojo could not have been more pleased? Or, that he could not have been more oblivious to the encroaching darkness which made him all but invisible. As usual, he pranced through our entire human-free walk, leash firmly planted in his mouth as if to make sure I understood that it was he, not I, who was taking the other for a walk.

As serene and uncomplicated as this walk was, I would not wish for this experience every night. I am far too social for that. I enjoy the repartee with total strangers, some with dogs, some without. It doesn’t matter.

I do not want to be the last man standing, thank you very much.

A New York Moment

We spent the weekend in New York and it was filled with the sensations you would want in such a visit: lots of bagels and lox, a smashing performance by Hugh Jackman and Daniel Craig in “A Steady Rain,” French food, Cuban food, Italian food, and wonderfully visual (and tasty) jaunts through Soho and Chelsea. Through it all, you could not help but be so impressed by the diversity, energy, and sheer numbers of persons out on the streets soaking up all things New York. It truly is an amazing place. And, sharing it with our friends Maggie, Vernon, Leslie, Tom and Ellen only enhanced the pleasure.

While all of this sensory stimulation was exactly what we were looking for, I was not prepared for what appeared to be an inconsequential turn on Sunday. We had just parted company with our friends, Vernon and Leslie, and were headed over to Maggie’s office near Bryant Park. As we headed up Broadway, I mentioned how a thousand years ago, my father’s business was located at 1412 Broadway, on the corner of 39th Street. We decided to do a “drive-by” so I could peek into the lobby of the place that had once in my life been a very familiar haunt since it was not only my father’s place of business, but a place where I had worked a few summers as a messenger boy in my early teens.

We tried the front doors of the building but they were all locked….except one. We entered the lobby. Some of those old memories started reeling through my mind. At the elevator bank was the guard, a young fellow named Muhammad. I introduced myself and, when I told him how I worked there a half century ago, he leaned back, eyes widened, and looked at me as though he was talking to a living Civil War hero. I told him how way back then the elevators had human operators -- old guys who would spit on the floor if they could get away with it, and grumpy. When I asked Muhammad if we could take a peek at the old place -- up in the rooftop offices on the 25th floor -- he said that would not be permitted. But, a few moments later, he relented -- perhaps caught up in the moment. He locked the sole open door to the building and took us up the one elevator that went to the roof.

We emerged and there it was -- the old site of Victory Studios, Inc., the business that had paid for our family home, our college educations and the food on our table. Of course, the old business was long gone, now replaced by a beauty supply house. But, interestingly, a peek inside the door revealed essentially the same layout as the one I had known so many years ago. And, even better, there was actually someone working in there who spotted us and generously let us in to look around.

How weird. Now, all the old memories came flooding back. I noted the reception area where Helen, my father’s old secretary, sat. To the right and rear was the space where the designers worked, punching out their designs for sale to the garment district’s fabric firms. Then, the showroom where Oscar, Vic, and Paul would ply their skills in selling those designs. And, in the rear left, my father’s office. I walked in there and was thrilled and moved. It had all been so very long ago.

What I didn’t tell Muhammad was that so many years ago, I used to go out on the roof and look down on what was then the old site of the Metropolitan Opera House. Every now and then, they would host a posh roof top event at the Met -- an afternoon cocktail party for the cognoscenti of the city. My adolescent urges led me to make hundreds of paper airplanes with droll messages inscribed on them, like “I see what you’re doing” or, “what are you drinking anyway?” I would toss these airborne missives off in droves hoping that just one would sail amid the swirling air currents above Broadway and land across the street on the rooftop garden many stories below. And, in rare but wonderful moments, a plane would land among the partyers who would cast semi-frantic glances skyward, aghast that they were being spied upon.

It doesn’t get much better than that.

All Politics is Local, Right?

Health care reform wasn’t on the table. Neither were troop levels in Afghanistan. Ditto for global warming. Other, more weighty, matters were in the forefront. Like, where to put the next cross walk. And, whether speed limits on local streets should be uniform. And, whether rental property signs announcing to renters rules on maximum occupancy should be conspicuously posted within 15 feet of the front door. And, most importantly to me, the issue of whether dogs might be allowed more off-leash time on the beach during the off-season. Such were the issues du jour for the intrepid members of the Isle of Palms City Council last night. For me, my first glimpse into the local political arena, and judging from the healthy crowd in the hearing room, I knew I was not alone in my intense interest in something that would be of absolutely no consequence anywhere else on planet earth.

The councilmen, mostly white men with a smattering of women, plodded on trying to muster as much dignity as they could to offset the impossibly trivial matters they believed ruled their personal universes. Mostly, they wore suits -- a brave gesture in the overheated hearing room. Their body language was worth noting as well. Like the frustrated guy who never opened his mouth while all around him others were flapping theirs. Finally, in what I sensed was a spontaneous outburst to show he was a player to be reckoned with, his remarks were greeted by vacant stares from the semi-circular panel as if they were thinking, “Did he really say that?”

The measure on speed limits was tabled for want of more research on the matter. Why am I thinking the Brookings Institution will not be invited to opine on this one? The measure on posting maximum occupancy signs in rental properties was met with thinly veiled sarcasm by one Council guy who wondered whether the police ought to be fitted with new belts that would accommodate a tape measure so they could get into the business of measuring whether the signs were, in fact, posted within 15 feet of the front door. And, oh yes, the Council decided unanimously to approve a sole source contract to a guy who does the fireworks show for the July 4th celebration. What? Why? I’m thinking there may be an extra firecracker in these guys’ stocking this Christmas, if you get my drift.

And, the dog measure? Passed in a breeze. “Island friendly, “ they called it.

As for my future at local political events, I’m sensing a possible write-in campaign for me: "Golland for City Council. Maybe not the sharpest tool in the shed, but a guy who's likely to amuse us."

Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?

Yes, Mojo, They Call This Rain

I slept in today. This can mean only one thing: it’s raining. This is eventful on the Isle of Palms where rain seems to come as seldom as snow no matter how hard it may be raining inland. Something about the prevailing winds and ocean currents -- don’t ask. For only the second time in about four months I did not pop out of bed at 7 a.m. so that Mojo and I could get to the beach for our early morning romp. How strange to turn over. Mojo, to his undying credit, was similarly hypnotized by the rain as he slept in his usual fashion - on his back, legs wide and spread in the air in a pose that suggests nothing short of complete surrender to Morpheus. Getting up at 8:30, which normally almost feels like lunch time to me, I felt not only the moist air, but the chill too. This is not good news. I know it’s October, but in these parts there’s plenty of “summer” left and I am not done with that season just yet. When I had completed drying off all the rain that had come through the windows, I found myself reaching for long pants and socks -- each for the first time in five months. And, a fleece! So depressing.

Soon, however, I would learn that these new climatic conditions could teach me new skills. Like how to balance an umbrella, a leash with a diabolically energetic dog at the far end, a cup of coffee, and a bag of dog poop -- all in a driving rain. This will take some practice if this morning’s performance is any indicator. Mojo’s penchant for diving between my legs as we walk caused me a couple of drops of both umbrella and poop bag. Not a pretty picture. There was no one in the streets, though. No witnesses. There aren’t that many folks here at this stage of the season, and the rain certainly provided no incentive to venture outdoors. Wimps.

The downside of all this? As we returned, and Mojo inhaled his breakfast, he wasted not one moment in finding one of his favorite toys inviting me to chase him to wrest it away from him. It was the least I could do since the little guy was deprived of his normally exhausting expenditure of energy at the beach. And, so we spent our morning. Mojo, head cocked in a playful attempt at gamesmanship, ran laps through the house as I gamely (and futilely) chased him. Maybe I should wear my running shoes when I do this.

We’re going to the beach tomorrow no matter what.

It's a Good Thing They Weren't Served Drinks

Imagine you’re attending a cocktail party. Everyone around you is dressed nicely. Not to the nines, but definitely cleaned up for the occasion. You’re in a nice sized room; people are mingling with cabernets in hand and nibbling on a nice array of finger food like roasted pork crostini with raspberry mustard, shrimp, meatballs, and black bean and corn salsa. You get the picture. Now -- introduce into this lovely atmosphere thirty dogs... running free! Changes your image a bit, doesn’t it? Civility gives way to chaos. Wine refills occur at higher than normal intervals to replace the cups unhanded from folks who think they’re dodging bullets or freight trains. Dogs ricochet off legs, human legs that is. “Keep your knees bent” is the advice of the moment.

This was the scene I found myself in the other evening at “Planet Bark,” the place we board Mojo when we’re out of town. The irrepressible new owner, Mary, wants to more actively market Planet Bark in what has become a fairly competitive market for such places in suburban Charleston. When I arrive, I applaud her bravery. She acknowledges that she’s not sure the event might spin out of control, but she’s all smiles. And, she’s right. A good time will be had by all. Or, almost all.

And, the dogs? My God -- so many butts to sniff, so many legs to bite, so much rolling on the floor to be done! So much humping to be had! Mojo, not -- how you say -- calm when in the company of other canines, bursts at warp speed from one corner of the room to another as if he is on the receiving end of a life sentence to cease and desist from any butt sniffing except what he can take in over the next hour or so. Many are willing. Sunny, a lab mix and Sanford, an English bulldog apparently experience the same ecstasy Mojo has found as they roll around the floor in one undifferentiated hairy mass, teeth gnashing, tails wagging. Bliss doggy-style. Others are not so thrilled. Threading their way around and through the legs of the human guests, the more timid dogs -- with mixed success -- try to elude the more aggressive four-legged party animals (if I may use that term). They whine, sometimes growl in mock anger while their owners down their crostini hoping that it is not their dogs who are engaging in overly boorish behavior. Mojo assumes the always pleasing submissive legs-up position in wrestling bouts which appears to earn him a pass from most, if not all, party attendees. Mojo -- regardless of his many endearing traits -- earns me special attention from a couple of dog trainers in attendance who apparently believe my dog is -- shall we say-- a good candidate for behavior modification. Puppy exuberance, I assure them.

After almost two hours of this mayhem, I take my leave, probably to the relief of some. Mojo is wet from the absurd amount of saliva he’s been smeared with from the other dogs. His tongue is hanging out the side of his mouth and his countenance is oddly similar to that of a mad bomber’s. I get him into the back seat of my car. As I turn around to see where I’m backing out, I note he is dead asleep.

Richly earned, my friend.

Bringing Back a Memory

When I was a kid -- maybe 9 or 10, my family used to take weekend day trips from White Plains to Atlantic Beach out on Long Island. A real schlep, but my folks had the ocean in their veins, a character trait that would soon be hard-wired in me as well. The place we went had a pool, and while I was apt to spend my time on the beach, one weekend we found ourselves at the pool with the intent of swimming laps. I was not a swimmer, but my sister, Susan, was. She was a wonderful swimmer having done some time swimming competitively. A natural. Baseball was more my thing. Susan took to the pool and effortlessly did her laps. I got in and with some labor made it up and back several times, but I was clearly tiring. My father did not want me to quit. He kept urging me to do “just one more” and he walked alongside the pool as I swam cajoling, encouraging, and cheerleading to get me to finish 10 laps. I was getting exhausted; my body felt like lead. I thought there was a distinct chance I would sink. Why I kept going, I really will never know. But, I do know I will never forget that moment in my life. When I amazingly finished my 10 laps, I fell like a wet noodle into my father’s arms who gave me a big hug and then bought me a toasted bagel. Nothing ever tasted so good.

We flash forward a half century. I have been swimming laps of late, but I always have alternated the crawl with the breast stroke, mostly so I would have the lasting power to swim about an hour. But, part of me felt that I was in some way “cheating” in not swimming the crawl for all, not just half, my laps. This morning, alone in the pool, I set out to do only the crawl hoping to go as long as I could, but clearly understanding that I might not have the stamina to do very much.

The laps floated by. After the first few, I was in a zone, a rhythm. Some might have called it a kind of zen-like state of mind. It was wonderful. I just kept rolling. I swam fifty laps and by the time I had gone maybe 20 my mind was full of the memories of that day long ago bringing back, as best I could, the emotions and sensations of that day. It has been years since I've thought so much of my father, but, in a way, he was there this morning.

This one’s for you, Dad.

When Necessity is the Mother of Invention

Alex loves all things sports. As whacked out as he is in this very specialized domain of human pursuit, his love for NFL football dwarfs all other passions. It makes his love of basketball, which is almost unsurpassed, seem passive by comparison. When he left on his year long sojourn around the globe, his abiding concern was how he would get to watch football games from the other side of the planet. He got edgy when asked about it. And, here we are at the onset of the 2009 NFL schedule and Alex finds himself in Perth, Australia -- perhaps better known for its kangaroo steaks than its opinions on how to run the wildcat offense. Alex’s feverish pursuit of football mania included his recent all-nighter when he participated in not one, but two, fantasy league drafts that were actually taking place in far more civilized timeframes in the western hemisphere.

Opening day: Sunday, September 13. Alex is so pumped because he has discovered a website that will enable him to watch any and all NFL games online, and in hi-def to boot. The fact that, for him, these contests will take place in the dark of Perth nights when most normal Aussies are sound asleep is irrelevant. Alex has taken long naps during the day to prepare himself for his night-long, pass-happy vigil.

And then, disaster strikes: the website crashes leaving him -- in a football sense -- deaf, blind and mute. He stalks the streets of Perth, a pilgrim in search of answers and none are forthcoming. In a desperate "fourth and long" attempt to salvage a fighting chance to watch his beloved Washington Redskins, he reaches me on Skype knowing that in Charleston the Skins game is being televised locally. He asks whether he can watch the game with me by me arranging my laptop in front of the TV so he can watch on his computer screen Down Under. I oblige. I wrangle a crude platform about two feet in front of my very large TV, turn up the volume, adjust the laptop so it is taking in the full TV picture, and sit down “with” Alex to watch the game.

It is an odd experience. I am in Charleston; Alex is in the lobby of a sketchy hostel in Perth about as far away as one human can be from another and still inhabit the same planet. And yet, we are reacting to the same event -- which is taking place in New York -- as if we are in the same room. Which we are, sort of. Alex yells and so do I. We react to the same incident on the field and confer although when I catch myself I realize I am speaking to some disembodied voice coming out of a small computer sitting oddly in the middle of my living room.

We stick with this arrangement until the end of the first quarter when his sorely missed NFL website comes back online. I say good-bye to the voice coming from the computer, and put my laptop back on the dining room table from whence it came.

I confess for the rest of the game, when I hurled some epithet at the screen I would sometimes look over to the dormant laptop looking for a reaction.

Hell on Wheels

Why do they say -- when referring to a long lost skill -- it’s “like riding a bike,” as if this is something you never forget? Well, I forgot. It had been 35 years since I rode a bike. I guess the statute of limitations had run because this was an alien form of movement to me. When I was a kid I never had a bike. My mother made no bones about it. She had lost a younger brother to a bike accident when he was a late teen, and so I was not to have one. She fully confessed that this was irrational, but this was to be the law of the land in the Golland household. As a young lawyer I actually bought a bike in an effort to self-teach, but that was 35 years ago, and it was not a smashing success.

A couple of weeks ago, Lily bought a bike and encouraged me to do the same so we could share this activity. I asked her why she was in such a hurry to get her hands on the proceeds of my life insurance policy. She assured me she harbored no such thoughts. This morning, with our friend Maggie in town, the three of us set out on bikes --Maggie and I on rentals -- to explore the Isle of Palms. Why the bike rental folks let me have this contraption is beyond me. I took off in a style that can only be described most generously as “wobbly.” Madly over-correcting, and otherwise displaying the kind of erratic behavior that most sane folks steer clear of like the plague, I tried to make my way out of the small parking lot.

Allow me to get the bad news out of the way right away. Over the course of the next three hours, I fell four times. Once when I simply could not negotiate a left turn in the time allotted and spilled over into someone’s front yard. A second time when I ran headlong into an oncoming cyclist because of my paralyzing indecision of whether to stop or turn. This one was on concrete and left me suitably bloodied. It is a tribute to the other cyclist that he didn’t flatten me. The third and fourth spills were on the beach where diabolically placed pools of water appeared out of nowhere causing me to exit my bike as if it were fitted with an ejection seat.

I will say that once I got my sea legs, I loved seeing what was for me previously unseen parts of Wild Dunes and other parts of the Isle of Palms. Some pretty gorgeous neighborhoods, great views of the marshlands, and the picturesque intercoastal waterway and local marina.

I also came away with a vastly higher level of respect for Lance Armstrong.

I love thee not!

The legend grows. Mojo has by now firmly established himself as a force of nature on the beach during our early morning romps, but every now and then he accentuates his reputation with an exclamation point that is as large and black as he is. This morning was such a time. It is not unusual, especially over holiday weekends, for families having re-unions here to gather at the beach for an early morning photo shoot. Everyone is dressed to the nines; the kids are scrubbed; the photographer is restless to get the job done before the sunlight becomes too bright. Today, Mojo and I spotted what appeared to be one of these groups arrayed near the shore line, and we headed in that direction up the beach, as we always do. Unfortunately, Mojo took off to get closer to what he hoped would be “new friends” and he frantically dove into the mix. What I did not realize was that this group was a wedding party, and they were in the midst of the ceremony when Mojo crashed it! Naturally, he shook off all the loose water on him in the space between him and the bride and pastor, and he deftly dropped his tennis ball at the bride’s feet with clearly great expectations for further play. Some were amused; others were not. The bride’s maid and best man, in particular, were doing whatever they could to unceremoniously and forcibly usher Mojo to the exit.

As I approached the assembled wedding party, I knew I could not pretend to feign ignorance of the ownership of this beast. The ball launcher in my hand and a sandy leash were pretty much a smoking gun, if you know what I mean. So, I did my best sheepish routine but did not slow my pace. I will say that the bride -- in the midst of the ongoing ceremony -- gave me a furtive wave as if to allay my horror at the poor etiquette of my very own wedding crasher.

On the return trip down the beach, the wedding group was breaking up giving me an opportunity to apologize in a more personal way. Most everyone assured me it was all copasetic, except, that is, for the bride’s maid. I don’t know that she thought my apology was all that sincere.

Maybe it was the two bags of dog shit I was toting that dampened the mood.

Comfort Food, Jeff Style

For some people it’s oatmeal. For others it’s clam chowder. And, for others still it’s meat loaf and mashed potatoes or maybe some brownies. For me, though, it’s something much closer to what I prepared last night. A sumptuous bed of Israeli couscous laced with sautéed peppers, toasted pine nuts, and some chopped scallion. Atop this mouth watering base sit some sautéed shrimp which have just shared a pan with shallots and garlic. As a side, I roasted some leeks and grape tomatoes, and added the always welcome crusty bread that’s been sprinkled with olive oil. Oh yeah, this is good. And, really, not hard to put together. You will want to do this, I’m telling you. Well, that is if you like to eat.

Ok, here’s what you need: a box of Israeli couscous (sometimes called toasted pasta pearls -- it‘s larger and rounder than the more standard couscous you tend to see), maybe a pound of shrimp, one leek, chopped, a good handful of grape tomatoes, a chopped shallot, a couple of chopped garlic cloves, one red pepper, chopped, 2 cups of chicken or vegetable broth, maybe three scallions, a nice chopped chunk from a seedless cucumber, some chopped chives, a healthy handful of pine nuts, course ground pepper, and the ever-popular olive oil and balsamic vinegar.

As I am wont to do, I did all my chopping first, and so should you. You’ll be glad you did. That means your chives, shallot, garlic, red pepper, cucumber, and scallions. Shell and devein the shrimp (or, better yet, have a kindly friend do this). Pre-heat your oven to 450 degrees, and on a tinfoil covered pan, array your chopped leek and your grape tomatoes. Sprinkle the leeks and tomatoes with olive oil and balsamic vinegar and top with some ground black pepper and salt (if you like). Then, roast the leeks and tomatoes for maybe 10 minutes. Cook the couscous using the broth instead of water, following the directions on the box. Sauté the chopped red pepper in a pan with some olive oil until it starts turning dark. When the peppers are done, add into the couscous, and add in as well the chopped cucumber and scallion. In a pan, sauté the chopped shallot and garlic in some olive oil until nicely translucent. At the same time, separately toast the pine nuts in a little olive oil and add them to the couscous mix. (These little guys can burn easily so keep an eye on them.) Add in the shelled shrimp to your shallot and garlic mix and top with a healthy coating of ground pepper. The shrimp shouldn’t take long to cook -- maybe 2 minutes. While you’re turning the shrimp, heat up that crusty bread.

Place a nice mound of the couscous mix on the plate (next to the leeks and tomatoes) and top with as many shrimp as you dare to eat, and, finally, top the shrimp with your chopped chives.

That’s how you spell comfort!

Bruschetta, American Style

Everyone loves bruschetta, right? Crunchy bread with ample flavors of garlic and tomatoes and basil. The Italians have perfected it, and I am not at all inclined to mess with a formula that has had a successful run pretty much since Julius Caeser. Ok, so maybe I am. I can’t help myself. I’m calling my version.... bruschetta, American style.

What you need: all the things you normally need -- a good, crunchy bread. Personally, I like a fresh ciabatta, but, really, there are so many freshly baked loaves that will do. Plenty of fresh basil, several cloves of garlic, a package of grape tomatoes. (stay away from large tomatoes -- they get too mushy when you saute them.) add in some sliced up sun dried tomatoes, shallots, maybe two scallion, and -- for the American wrinkle -- get a package of chicken tenders and a ripe avocado.

To prepare: marinate your chicken in whatever prepared marinade you like. Truly, it hardly matters. In my case, I used Mrs. Dash’s Lemon Herb Peppercorn, but knock yourself out here. Use whatever you like. Saute the marinated chicken in a little olive oil. While the chicken is getting happy, chop your garlic cloves and shallots and place in a pan with some olive oil. Chop up your grape tomatoes and add those to the mix along with the chopped scallion and sundried tomatoes. Chop your basil and add to the saute mix. Cut the avocado into small squares.

When the chicken is almost fully cooked, remove the tenders from the pan and cut into small pieces. For maybe a minute or so, add the chicken to the saute mix of tomatoes, garlic, shallots, etc. Throw the whole mix into a large bowl and add in the chopped avocado. Cut your bread into thin slices and toast. When the toast is done, rub with a garlic clove and spread with a bit of olive oil. Top with the chicken, garlic, tomato mix piling it as high as you dare. If you're a cheesy kind of guy, feel free to sprinkle some shredded romano cheese over the this gorgeous creation. Understand that this will provide you with a messy dining experience, so don’t wear your Sunday finest when enjoying this.

Wine is a must with this. Amazing how either red or white will do the trick. You decide.

The French would say, “bon apetit.” I don’t know what the Italians would say.

Now I know why they call them fire ants

Because they hurt like hell, that’s why. We’ve just spent a kingly sum on fixing up the “estate.” Let’s just say, we spent enough to keep a small third world economy afloat for a bit. So, as you might imagine, when the landscaper encouraged us to give extra water to the newly planted trees, shrubs, and flowers, we were more than willing. And, mind you, this does not come naturally to us. Our idea of gardening is watching someone else do it. There is no Plan B. The trouble with gardening in the semi-tropics, as you have here, is that you have the constant company of scorching heat and humidity that can peel any man-made substance off any surface exposed to the atmosphere. Plus, there are the bugs. For example, the mosquitoes here are required to have drivers’ licenses. The palmetto bugs are so large they can be drafted to pull small carts, if you have that need. No one warned me about the fire ants though.

So there I was trying to be manly about ignoring the pothole sized mosquito bites I was actively collecting on my shins and back when I could not help but notice that my feet were on fire even though I couldn’t see the flames. I looked down to see a populous nation of black ants literally covering my feet. If it was human flesh they sought, they had hit the mother lode. The yelp I emitted got Mojo’s attention, although only for a moment as he turned over on the driveway to continue his mid-day snooze. I did what any fire department would do -- I hosed down my feet, but the burning would now have to run its course.

I mentioned this experience to the guys who were finishing up with the landscaping and their eyes and mine simultaneously gazed down at their feet: combat boots that would make Attila the Hun proud. Impenetrable.

I’m off to the shoe store.

Dinner Tonight (and, yes, I'm talking to you)

Here’s what you need: some shrimp, some red chili linguini (although, frankly, any pasta will do), a shallot, as many garlic cloves as your mate will tolerate, a scallion or two, white wine you like, the juice of maybe half a lemon, a nice handful of pine nuts, some fresh basil, olive oil, shredded romano cheese, and the obligatory freshly ground pepper.

Here’s what you do:

1) boil your shrimp erring perhaps on undercooking them a bit. Shouldn’t take more than a minute.
2) chop your shallot and garlic and saute in a bit of olive oil until they become translucent. When they do, add in a nice soaking of the white wine and allow the mixture to reduce. When reduced, add to this mixture some chopped scallion.
3) separately toast the pine nuts either dry or in a bit of olive oil. Be careful not to burn -- use a low heat.
4) cook your pasta. In the case of the chili linguini I used, it took 3 minutes. Drain the pasta.
5) If you haven't done it already, chop your basil leaves.
6) after you’ve shelled the cooked shrimp, add the shrimp to the saute mixture for maybe a minute. No more. Sprinkle liberally with the ground pepper. Add in the pasta and stir.
7) to this shrimp and pasta mix, add in the toasted pine nuts and chopped basil. Squeeze in the lemon juice, and, if you like, drizzle some more olive oil over the mix.
8) top the whole shebang with as much shredded romano cheese as you like. (Yes, yes, I know. Italians would frown and mumble not so subdued expletives at adding cheese to a seafood pasta dish, but folks this isn’t Italy.)

Be prepared to chow down on a multi-textured, tasty melange of flavors.

You got better plans?

No, that wasn't Michael Phelps

I’ve taken to the pool. It was a reluctant embrace. I’m a runner, not a swimmer. But, an assortment of back and hamstring ills drove me to do whatever I could to fulfill my need for exercise in the morning. The problem is I am very slow. I imagine a visit by the folks from the Guinness Book of World Records informing me that I am the third slowest swimmer on the planet, faster only than a 96 year old woman in Brooklyn and an Argentine amputee. There are leaves floating in the pool that, shockingly, seem to keep up with my less than torrid pace.

The thing about swimming laps is that there may be almost no other human endeavor that forces you to be alone with your thoughts for so long. There is truly nothing to distract you unless you consider watching the black tile line on the bottom of the pool a “distraction.” Running is a solitary sport, but at least then your eyes can scan the scenery or, if on the treadmill, you can lose yourself in sports highlights, the news, or the latest culinary concoction from the Food Network. No, the closest things to this experience are those sleepless nights when you lay in bed in the dark and let your brain do somersaults making you crazy with irrational thoughts. So - I’m learning that to be a successful lap swimmer you need to be comfortable in your own skin and okay to be alone with your thoughts. So far, so good.

To keep track of where I am in this monotonous wet universe, I have strangely adopted a system of remembering my lap count by labeling them with a uniform number of a Yankee of ages gone by. Thus, lap 3 is Babe Ruth; lap 7, Mickey Mantle; lap 14, “Moose” Skowren; lap 25, Joe Pepitone, and so on. Yes, I know it’s a bit embarrassing, but it is effective, if juvenile.

I started out doing 10 laps (Tony Kubek). Then got to 19 (“Bullet” Bob Turley), and last week, the much sought after lap 33 (David Wells) which denotes 66 times up and back -- a full mile! Of course, it took me almost an hour and a half to do it. That’s enough time for some empires to rise and fall. But, I was stoked hitting that magical mark. Now, I’m thinking of going for two miles, but the folks here had better turn on the flood lights for that adventure.

It could take me that long.

Corkie and Frank

Corkie and Frank are sweet guys, really. They may seem like they’re 109, but they’re not. Retired military guys: a bit salty but, as they say, true as the day is long. These guys meet every morning at 7 a.m. sharp, and I mean every morning like since the Coolidge Adminstration where they proceed to stroll to the beach figuratively arm in arm (although they’d be embarrassed by that notion). not only can you set your watch by these guys, but they always wear the same thing: Corkie is in his khaki shorts, white polo and green cap while Frank is partial to his faded U.S. Open t-shirt and blue swim trunks. every day. Corkie and Frank are notable for a number of reasons, but in my world, they are noteworthy because of their love for Mojo. They take great delight in seeing my somewhat unruly pup, maybe because as former dog owners they miss their own companions, or maybe because they are just smitten with Mojo.

It has become a ritual, this daily early morning meeting. Mojo knows they’re lurking about because his sense of anticipation is acute. This may be because Mojo likes these guys as they like him, or (as is more likely) it is because Corkie and Frank bring dog treats every day which Mojo looks forward to the way you and I look forward to breathing. If the guys have reached the beach before us, I spend all my efforts in trying to keep my arm from being torn out of its socket as Mojo urges us forward to the beach in much the same way you and I would run if free $100 bills were being given away fifty feet in front of us. To avoid unnecessary surgery, I simply let Mojo off the leash and watch him tear off like the proverbial bat out of hell as he heads for the sand in search of what apparently is the world’s most heavenly and delicious tasty tidbits available to canines. I mean, how good can they be? When Mojo reaches the guys, he sits dutifully -- closer than a shadow -- and waits in frantic anticipation of what comes out of the old guys’ pockets. I hear their laughter as I slowly catch up to this truly comical and endearing scene, and then -- once his dog treat habit has been satisfied -- brace myself for Mojo’s totally predictable fixation on the tennis balls I bring that will exercise his virtually endless desire to chase moving objects.

Not a bad way to start the morning.

Lost and Found

All in all, it lasted only about an hour, but I swear in my heart it lasted much, much longer. I left Mojo on the deck, walled in (or so I thought) eliminating the possibility of escape. Lily was inside no more than 15 feet away. I ran off to hit some golf balls content that Mojo would be pleased to stay on the deck with a full bowl of water and lots of sunshine. Life is good, right? I returned to find the deck empty and then, to my horror, discovered he was not in the house either. Lily and I went to red alert (more frequently known as panic mode) as we frantically decided to scan the neighborhood and beach, she on foot, me in the car. And, here’s where the stress really ramps up. Is he safe? Has he been taken? Has he left the area? Will he walk into oncoming traffic? Is he suffering in this heat without water? Has an alligator gotten to him -- not an idle worry in these parts. Then the thoughts turn to: Will we ever see him again? He’s such a great dog. How can we lose him so quickly, just as he’s hitting his stride as a member of our family and as part of the larger community here. Can he just disappear into thin air?

After driving the neighborhoods and asking every living soul if they’ve seen a wayward black lab, I head back to the house certain he must be there. It has to be a mistake. There’s no logical explanation for his escape. Nothing but empty, quiet space. He is truly gone. I head to the Community Association which alerts the area security and the local police. I am aware that my mind is working much faster than my consciousness can keep up with it. I am reacting, not really thinking, at least not analytically.

Then the break comes. Lily picks up a phone message from a voice belonging to a young girl who asks that we pick up Mojo as quickly as possible. The problem is the call is from a cell phone and is so garbled we really can’t decipher the words to make out an address or phone number. Infuriating! So frustrating! As I head back to the Community Association for a look at the Directory, Lily calls me and thinks she has figured out the name and address of our rescuers. I call them and a young girl tells me her sister is working her way on foot toward our house. I don’t wait. I get in the car and head in their direction only to spot the rogue Mojo and his ever so young rescuer. She apologizes for allowing him to follow her dogs (an Irish setter and a golden retriever) and for allowing Mojo to roll in the mud. She has cleaned him up the best she can. I spend the next minute falling all over myself to assure her there’s nothing for her to apologize about; that we are very, very grateful for her efforts. I ask her for her name and in an instant forget it. Maybe we will see her again, maybe not. Mojo jumps into the car. I believe he looks guilty, but I might have been reading a bit too much into it.

And Mojo? He’s in the dog house. Big time.

Mojitos R Us

People are funny when it comes to describing what their vision of heaven is. For some, it’s the proverbial pearly gates, angels cooing, trumpets blaring. For others, it’s whatever their personal vision of what peace and tranquility might be -- maybe a seductive, secluded beach or perhaps an inspiring and cooling mountain lake. My sense is a bit different. For me, it’s an eternal Mojito Challenge of the type just served up here in Charleston, just as it is every year when one’s thoughts turn to tropical drinks.

This year’s affair was set at the Charleston Aquarium, a brilliant choice for a venue when you think about it: a fabulous array of all things aquatic from sharks to snakes to seahorses to jellyfish and all things in between. Plus, the totally pleasurable option of the outside verandas where one can seek refuge from the teeming and wonderfully boisterous crowds who have come to share in the exact pursuit that brought you here -- the perfect mojito. What was once a simple and pleasing concoction of rum, simple syrup and some muddled mint now becomes a feverish (and highly entertaining) smack down among the city’s best bartenders to catch that special edge that will earn them the much sought after bragging rights of the best mojito maker in town.

And, make no mistake about it, these combatants will go to considerable lengths to get your attention. No fruit is left unexplored. You have your strawberry, kiwi, peach, watermelon, passion fruit, and banana, naturally. But, have you wondered what your mojito might taste like with a shot of elderberry, rosemary, cucumber, agave, dragonfruit, or --perhaps most exotic of all -- the yuzu? the yuzu? You know -- a Japanese fruit somewhat resembling the grapefruit. Somewhat. Introduce into this sublime ocean of vitamin C some ginger, a tannic lime meringue, or a poblano infused simple syrup or a simple splash of vanilla and you begin to see how demonic the pursuit of a prize winner can be. No stone is left unturned; no essence is left unexplored.

I concede my judgment may have become a bit clouded after sampling 14 different concoctions. My recollection is that they were all good. Some too sweet. Some too obviously gimmicky. Some bearing absolutely no resemblance to the mojito that inspired this event. But, what a fabulous evening.

Oh. The winner? A zesty concoction from “Coast,” a restaurant that has experienced more than its share of success at this event in the past. This year’s entry: a potion of strawberry, rhubarb and rosemary and -- the clincher -- a shot of strawberry pop rocks thrown in at the last moment that effervesce up your nose for a most memorable and sensory mojito experience. Ta da!

Enter Mojo

It was a difficult start. I mean, just imagine: you are separated from your family and friends; you are put to sleep and then awaken only to find that your balls have been cut off; you are in considerable pain; people come to greet you who are total strangers, but who act like they know you; you are whisked off to a strange place; you poop on the floor. Is this not the bottom, or what? And, so it was with Mojo the newest member of our family. Hello!

We should have seen it coming, but the next morning we saw a new dog: tail wagging, plainly happy to see us, eager to get outside to relieve himself there rather than re-enact his performance of the evening before. And, brandishing a furious appetite like any self-respecting lab puppy. We take him to the beach where he freaks out (although not really in a bad way) at the wave action at the shoreline, leaping straight up in the air as if the waves were electrically charged. Forty-eight hours later he is leaping into the waves, again, like any self-respecting lab. He is as black as night, his coat as shiny as a penguin’s. we are told he was thrown out of a car in the back roads of south carolina only to be rescued by a near-by hunter who sees this and who swoops him up and takes him to the local vet. He is fostered by a family and named Miller after the vet who saved him from a bout with parvo, deadly to most puppies.

A word on his name. No, he is not named as a cutsey salute to Austin Powers. Mojo is a throwback to old slave jargon meaning “black magic.” knowing what this little guy has been through, who can argue with that?

Meeting up with the king

I was about 8 or 9 feet from two 400 pound lions today. they were sound asleep. at first. but, when one of them raised his head, turned, and looked me straight in the eye, my fight or flight impulses raged out of control. it was exhilirating and unnerving all at the same time. I don't recall an event that so focused my senses. while I took the lion's stare with all the gravity owing in such encounters, I must say that the king of beasts was at best bored, and at worst absolutely oblivious. as much as I cared about where I found myself, he could not have cared less. total insouciance! shaun, our guide, was as calm and unconcerned as "big boy," as they called him. he assured us that as long as we didn't approach them head on (which they perceive as a threat), and as long as we didn't stand up or make sudden movements we would be fine. by staying seated, shaun said, the lions would not distinguish us from the land rover, which I guess is not threatening to them. standing up, however, would be a game changer. then, we would be perceived as humans and the rules would change instantly. I must have asked shaun several times about how these "rules of engagement" were agreed to. was there some memo that set all this out that the lions confirmed in some regal signing ceremony? how could he be absolutely certain it would work like this in all cases? in any event, as I sat in the very open and exposed land rover, I tried to become physically and psychically merged with my seat.

shaun stopped the rover and we watched these huge lions for about 20 minutes. I prayed the car would start when it was time to go.

How to have fun and be nervous at the same time

we experience today what they call a "walking" safari. sounds simple enough. but, then again, maybe not. we are met by our guide, samson, a local tribesman who doubles as our tracker on our morning and evening safaris. I cannot help but notice the large weapon he is shouldering. I begin to appreciate the earnestness of the threat out there when he shows us his bullets which are larger than most toes. we are about to walk out into the bush and samson is our first and last line of defense. on today's walk, it's just samson, lily, alex and me.

samson tells us to walk single file behind him. when I ask why, he calmly tells me it's so he has a better field of vision should he need to shoot an attacking animal. my breathing becomes a bit shallower. alex and I jostle for position to see who can adhere as closely as possible to the back of samson's shirt. lily, however, thinking she's out for a walk on the beach -- head down, looking for the perfect seashell -- lags behind apparently content to become an amuse bouche for a lurking predator.

samson is delightful as he introduces us to his wide ranging knowledge of all things flora and fauna in the bush. under any other circumstance, this would be a joyful experience, but I get a stiff neck craning it in every possible direction checking to see if there might be a 4 legged beast tagging along, stalking. we are told that under no circumstances are we to run if we see one of the big guys: lion, cheetah, leopard, buffalo. apparently, that act rings their dinner bell. thanks for the heads up, samson.

Game On!

you gotta be kidding me! we're still on the airplane doing a slow taxi to the terminal in Hoedspruit when we spot 3 warthogs in the tall grass next to the runway. and, get this. they're being stalked by a cheetah! we see the tail of the cheetah as it makes its move -- a nano-glimpse of a high arching jump that we know to be the attack -- only to have the plane continue on toward the terminal, leaving the fate of the warthogs..........uncertain.

we leave our porcine friends to head out to the Pondoro Game Lodge, some miles north. on the 10 mile dirt, and heavily rutted, road to this private reserve we see giraffes by the side of the road, impala, wildebeast, and zebra. crazy. and, we have yet to go on our first game drive.

a word about the lodge: outrageous! check it out online (http://www.pondoro.co.za/). canopied beds in their 6 mini-lodges; a bath tub out on a deck overlooking the Oliphants River; a shower with a full glass wall revealing another nice view of the river; a shower head reminiscent of the one that almost killed Kramer; 3 gourmet meals a day; 2 4-hour driving safaris per day, one at 5:30 a.m., the other at 4 p.m.; a walking safari after breakfast; and a full menu of spa offerings. (alex gets his first ever full body massage and a pedicure!)

on our first game drive the afternoon we arrive, the giraffes, zebras, wildebeast and impala show up in earnest. they are simply everywhere. oddly, though, the comic star of the afternoon is a quirky bird they call the helmeted guinea fowl. apparently, these sorrowful birds are seriously contending for the honor of most stupid animal on planet earth. unlike most flocks of birds who flee in a flash when one of their tribe is either threatened (or even thinks he's threatened), these bozos -- we are told -- actually are happy to sit on a branch while the friend immediately next to him or her is shot out of the tree, completely oblivious to the notion of danger. we take note that as our land rover approaches them, it doesn't occur to them to get out of the way. no, no. they run -- imagine what a bird on fire might run like -- skirting the front wheels of the rover as if a place squarely under the tires would be the safest place to be! Darwin is definitely scratching his head at these evolutionary outliers.

as darkness falls, we spot a leopard, not an easy sighting, we are told. it's a young male. about 15 feet away. he's wary at first at our presence, but soon enough emerges from the bush to continue his nocturnal hunt. beautiful.

Riding an Ostrich vs. a 4x4: Compare and Contrast

All kidding aside, surmounting an ostrich who has other plans is no mean feat. they may be incredibly stupid, but they know what they don't like, and that includes having homo sapiens on their backs. first, ostriches do not provide the same level of comfort as most other modes of transport, such as the 4x4. Instead of the nice wide soft seat in the 4x4, the ostrich offers a bony, narrow "saddle" area. In the case of the ostrich, I seriously underestimated its ability to accelerate. While I similarly underestimated the power behind the throttle of the 4x4, I never sensed its desire to throw me from the vehicle. rather, I felt firmly astride a very grounded machine with a low center of gravity and which had many fewer feathers. I was tossed almost immediately by the ostrich. he quite literally zoomed out from under me. I had no chance. with the 4x4 I couldn't fall off except with great effort on my part even as we flew up deeply rutted hills and down steep embankments occasionally pocked with hubcap high water hazards.

When riding an ostrich, one must grab hold of its wings and lean back, almost like water skiing. with the 4x4, you grab the much more user friendly handle bars around which one can easily wrap one's fingers without wondering if you're choking the bejesus out of it as was the case with the understandably stressed ostrich. with the 4x4, you gently hit the throttle and easily control your rate of speed. In contrast, the ostrich simply can't wait to get you off his back.

but, in the end, there's no denying that the 4x4 just doesn't have those long eyelashes so prominently visible on the ostrich. it's tough not to like these critters even if they do want to kill you.

The Jump

Thirteen years ago, when we were in New Zealand, we permitted a 13 year old, jesse, to bungy jump. It was his driving ambition (to the extent someone of that age can have such a thing) and we, caught up in the moment, the so-called adults (lily and me), permitted this insanity. I recall that after our return, people whose judgment we normally trusted looked at us agog and muttered that Family Services or the ASPCA or someone in authority should know about this.

We flash forward now to 2009. alex is 22, hoping to see 23. In front of us looms the allegedly highest bungy jump on earth. this would put it at about 216 meters, or roughly the same as jumping off a 65 story building. It's located in Bloukrans along the southern coast of south africa. let me tell you, it is one thing to contemplate a jump like this, and quite another to stare into the maw of the endless descent that awaits you. yet, here we are and alex's bravado is now tinged with a trace of "oh, my god. what was I thinking?" charlie, alex's traveling buddy, who joins in on the mayhem, appears to be preternaturally calm, but admits to an elevated pulse rate.

lily and I join the two masochists as sane holdout witnesses. the jumping off point is the underside of a bridge that spans a deep-cut gorge. It is the largest bridge in south africa. to get to the jump, one must first traverse a walkway that inconveniently has only a widely spaced metal grate for a floor, so that with each passing step, if you look down, you see the increasing depths, both literal and figurative, alex and charlie are about to jump into. I unconsciously find myself holding on too much to the mesh "walls" of the walkway.

as the time arrives, alex and charlie are bound up with harnesses, braces, ropes and pads. the similarities to an execution are too numerous to ignore. with their legs bound together, they must literally hop to the precipice where they await the mercifully short countdown. alex, unconsciously grasps the sleeve of a staff member who instantly orders him in no uncertain terms to let go. alex holds his arms wide and, in his best effort to replicate a swan dive, he steps off into the nothingness. my stomach flip flops.

we watch a live video feed of his descent and hold our breath as he recoils several times with skyward bounces each time the bungy cord is fully stretched. I am aware that I am breathing again. when he is back on the bridge, his grin could not be wider. you know, the kind of grin one can only have when you feel you have cheated death.

later that day, I am introduced to a wonderful Cuban rum. I conclude that the two events are not entirely unrelated.

End Points

I do not believe myself to be an obsessive person, but I do own up to one obsession: end points of land. those spots beyond which you cannot step on terra firma and which constitute the most western or southern point, etc. of a land mass. there's an allure in it for me -- the ability to say at that moment no man is further south, east, north or west of me. it's a bit silly, I know, and most definitely self-congratulatory, but I persist. Key West was one of these; Cabo de la Roca in Portugal another (western most point in europe). and, this trip has delightfully provided two. the first was a few days ago on the trip down to the Cape of Good Hope at the bottom of the peninsula stretching south from Capetown. Its spectacular setting of craggy mountains and crashing waves only enhanced the fact that you could stand on a spot and claim in that moment that no man could stand more southwest than you and still be on the African continent.

A few minutes ago, we had a similar experience at Cape Agulhas. It is here that you can stand on the absolute southernmost point of the African continent, and also where you can figuratively have one foot in the Atlantic Ocean and one on the Indian Ocean. perfection.

Next, I want to straddle the equator, but that's for another time.

How to Greet a Cheetah

It's somewhat more elaborate than you might think. first, our "handlers" at the cheetah sanctuary we visited outside Stellenbosch advised us not to approach these beasts from the front. apparently, they consider this way too threatening, so this is a good thing to know. second, you should stroke them only with a flat hand, and, for God's sake, stay away from the groin area. third, do not reach for their heads. I don't know what the problem is with that, but I considered it sage advice nevertheless. fourth, stay in a crouched position with one knee on the ground so you can jump back fairly quickly should the big guy get a sudden hunger pang.

It appears that while sitting next to a grown cheetah is really quite safe, they can get "boisterous" (their term, not mine). And, you don't want a boisterous cheetah whose claws are maybe 18 inches from your jugular, if you get my drift. In this case, it was Hemingway, a 4 year old male. Hemingway seemed calm enough, but when there's no fence between you and a cheetah, your imagination can become very vivid, if you know what I mean. we learned that cheetahs sleep about 22 hours per day -- the consummate 4 legged couch potato -- but when they want to hunt (which, oddly, is solely a day-time activity for them), they earn their title as fastest animal on the planet.

I'll bet you didn't know that the hair where a cheetah's black spots are of a different consistency than the rest of its coat, giving the black spots a slightly raised appearance to better camouflage them. yeah, it was new to me too.

So it Begins With the Animals

we were headed south to the Cape of Good Hope. you know -- the point of land immortalized by Vasco de Gama a half millennium ago. the peninsula leading down to the Cape is now park land. mile after mile of breathtaking emptiness. not barrenness, mind you. just endless miles of dramatic land and seascapes with absolutely no hint that humans walk the earth. fabulous.

apparently, alot of animals think so too since they pop up like "whack-a-moles" when you least expect them. on today's program, we had the pleasure of meeting up with baboons, penguins, ostriches, and dassies (more on these latter creatures later). First, the baboons. they are fearless. we came upon them first on the open road -- and I mean literally on the road -- where they nonchalantly occupied the center of the roadway causing something of a traffic back-up. I'm not thinking "cute" or "adorable" when in their presence. these guys are big, let me tell you. and, as the phrase goes, if looks could kill, these guys would be doing jail time. their laser-like stare would cause the most hardened mafia hit man to blink. people, such as myself, would get within a couple of feet of them, and we might as well have been invisible. they just didn't care. the signs in the area promised that baboons were dangerous and so we discretely ceded them the right of way until they would let us pass.

then came the penguins. not your regal emperor bird found in antartica, but the south african penguin. much smaller, but again, almost fearless. we came upon them on a path to the beach and allowed us to come within inches of them. I touched one and found how surprised I was at how feathery they are. like birds. (oh, right. they are birds.) what was more amazing, however, was a scene in which penguins and people shared a beach together. I'm talking sunbathers and their kids, with people playing paddleball. the penguins, while not exactly dodging beach blankets, would literally swim around splashing kids and scolding parents as if they were some sort of fixture, like a tree. amazing.

In a somewhat more secluded spot, we watched one penguin come up from taking a dip in the water to where his or her spouse was sitting on a couple of babies. while I couldn't be entirely sure of this, it appeared that the squawking going on between them was in the manner of one saying to the other, "where the hell have you been? I've been sitting on these guys for hours while you're out joyriding!" male and female penguins are very hard to distinguish -- at least for me they are -- so, it was hard to know who was griping at who. as if it matters.

a final word about dassies. I had never heard of these creatures before, but have been told they are genetically linked to elephants. this comes as a bit of a surprise to me since dassies look like small groundhogs and weigh about two tons less than their alleged partners-in-evolution, the elephant. additionally, the dassie's ears are tiny while we all know the elephant's ear to be the size of a small station wagon. with some skepticism, I cross examine a park person about this, and she assures me the organic structure and skeletal design of the two creatures are very similar. to my ear, this is like saying that I am biologically linked to a redwood tree. I'm not getting it.

Driving on the Left....

is serious business. what a challenge to your senses. everything is so thoroughly counterintuitive. steering wheel on the right, turn signal and lights on the right side of the wheel, manual shift on the left! clockwise moving traffic circles! you must supress every driving instinct you have because the alternative is not good, my friend. So - to repeat the mantra my friend, marcus, left me with, "left is right and right is wrong." I know he meant to be helpful with this, but given the split seconds in which some driving decisions must be made, I've reduced this most essential guidance to "left!!" Can't wait to get out of Capetown to make this mental and physical effort simpler. my advice: do not multi-task while attempting this fretful activity. this means no music, talking, maybe even no gum chewing. and, never, I repeat, never do this when jet lagged. I am at red alert all the time.

(yes, it does get better. but, that's much later.)

Capetown

As Alex said to me, Capetown is one of those few places on the planet that exceeds already unrealistically high expectations. What a vibrant mix this place is! It is, first, beautiful; a jewel of a city nestled into the protective shadow of Table Mountain, an enormous, awe-inspiring colossus of a stone formation that provides a backdrop from almost any sight line in the city. Capetown is chic; it is tropical; it is cosmopolitan; it is diverse, and, at least for our visit, offers air that is crisp and fresh while still managing to bask in almost 90 degree temperatures. As is true for many of the world's great cities, Capetown's diverse population is not so much a source of tension as it is a promoter of energy. Its mix of muslims, whites, blacks and Indians has produced for us in our short stay thus far a visual and cultural vitality that you just don't see every day.

After the hearty and tempting feast offered to us at breakfast at our B&B (De Tafelberg Guest House), Alex literally appeared at my shoulder as I chatted with our host, Kris. Not having seen Alex for 3 months, and having lived vicariously through his vivid emails of his not-so-safe exploits in South America, he was a sight for sore eyes, now with a nicely developing beard. (To add to his colorful bag of exploits -- like skydiving and trekking for days through glaciers and mountains -- he informed us he had spent his time in South Africa getting dropped into the cold waters off Gainsbaai in cages while ravenous great white sharks banged up against the bars looking for dessert. not my idea of a restful morning, but who am I to argue?) Since he had been in town a few days, Alex served as tour guide as he led us through city neighborhoods and parks. We visited the 6th District Museum, a poignant testimonial to the many who suffered under apartheid and, specifically, the thousands who were forcibly evicted from their downtown homes and forced into townships to make way for urban development. I spoke to the man who established the museum, and marveled at the museum's (and his) upbeat message about hope and perseverance.

With a wonderful lunch under our belts at an outdoor cafe, we discovered the city's open air market, an intricate maze filled with a dizzying array of local art, artifacts, clothing and junk. I particularly loved the awesome tribal masks carved from wood that I wish I had room for in my suitcase. All this came complete, of course, with a laughingly funny array of hawkers who would charm, cajole, plead and arm twist any possible sale -- a negotiator's smorgasbord.

This is a very cool place.

An Unending Transit

Those of you who have traveled long distances by air know the weird transformation that takes hold of one's psyche during these encounters. In my case, the current episode is the numbingly long flight from Washington, D.C. to Johannesburg, non stop, which, according to Wikipedia, is the third longest such flight on planet earth. Up here, at 39,000 feet, the notion of day and night evaporates. You sit, watch movies, read, sleep, eat, listen to music, talk. and, repeat and repeat and repeat. In this case, 16 hours' worth of this sedentary dance. (Kudos, by the way, to South African Airways: touch screens with a bevy of movies, TV shows, music options, and games. and, free wine. not bad.) The joy for me came moments ago when it became socially acceptable to open the window shades and below lay Africa. Namibia, to be precise. A vast brownness of the likes I know I've never seen. Africa! Vast stretches of sand dunes, crusty lunarscapes with widely scattered strands of snake-like roads leading absolutely nowhere. No, Toto, we're definitely not in Kansas anymore.

To be honest, notwithstanding the difficulties of such unending transits, they do add something to the experience other than a sore butt. The charm of distance, for one thing, and the palpable feel of the exotic would be diminshed without this "labor." You know you have come a long way to experience something special. And, so it is with me.

deep seated or deep seeded?

Thought you knew, didn’t you? I did too. But, when Lily raised to me the other day the notion that it was not “deep seated” at all but “deep seeded,” well, I won’t say I was rocked to my foundation, but I was taken aback that there was even another option. You would think that when you’ve been saying something all your life and you’ve never been corrected, you feel you’re pretty safe that whatever you’re saying you are saying correctly, right? The funny thing is that both versions of this phrase are virtually indistinguishable from one another to the naked ear, as it were. So - I had to acknowledge that it could have been the case over the years that other folks hearing me say this phrase may well have been thinking to themselves that I was, in fact, saying “deep seeded.” and, when you get to think about it, a solid case could be made for both. “Deep seated” meaning, of course, felt down to your very crotch -- to where it all began, the source of all things, down to one‘s true core. But, “deep seeded” evokes a very similar sentiment: a primeval thought, present almost at the creation. Naturally, the “experts” are all over the place although it does give me some comfort that dictionaries are solidly in my corner. one of life’s enduring mysteries? Probably not. But still…..

hell of a meal

Amazing dinner tonight. Inspired totally by my new cooking environment: new oven, microwave, cooktop, and sink. How could that not be inspiring, right? Sooo, here’s what I did. Sashimi-grade tuna, marinated in a mix of soy sauce, wasabi mustard, and fresh lime juice. Seared in a hot pan so that the tuna is crusty on the outside and raw on the inside. sliced fairly thin and arrayed on a bed of sauted leeks and shallots. Additionally, I roast some broccolini lightly doused in olive oil, balsamic vinegar and sprinkled with freshly ground pepper. Lastly, I do some sweet potato slices enhanced with olive oil, curry powder, cumin, paprika, and ground pepper and roasted to a crisp perfection. These three parts of the dinner have absolutely nothing to do with one another. No harmony here at all, no scheme, no theme. except that each part is delicious and each is what I want to eat. think of it as italian-indian-japanese fusion if you're looking for a label. No rules here, after all. Be governed only by what you want. They call that hedonism, don’t they?

the Charleston Food & Wine Show

With the possible exception of New Orleans, no city in this country defines itself through its food more than Charleston. So -- when the city hosts its annual Food & Wine Festival, you drop everything and go. No excuses. And so I went.

I had a plan. I would be disciplined. I would start with appetizers and salads, work through the heartier offerings, and then do a dessert round (or rounds). Well, that plan lasted about 9 seconds as I began with a microbrew beer followed almost immediately by a caramel gelato. From that point on, it was essentially pure, random chaos. The gloves were off. all normal dietary rules were abandoned. Prepare yourself for what follows: pig head remoulade, tomato basil soup, couscous with leeks and shrimp, artichoke relish, praline pecans, banana pudding, catfish stew, sweet tea vodka bloody mary, coconut jasmine rice pudding (getting dizzy yet?), pinots run amok: noir, gris, and grigio. Double duck salad of confit and breast, blueberries, strawberries, and a vanilla bean vinaigrette; chilled Yukon potato soup with leeks and pickled crab salad, sauvignon blancs and malbecs, dark chocolate toffee crunch, pizza on flatbread with prosciutto, arugula and sliced parmesan. And, as they say, so much more. After two full hours of what had long since stopped being a casual grazing but had become instead a food frenzy worthy of your typically ravenous shark, I waddled semi-consciously to my car, hung out the “wide load” sign and got home so I could fall down.

It’s good these events only come once a year.

the Artwalk

I always knew that Charleston has a thriving art community, but I had no idea how user friendly it could be made for relative cultural neanderthals like me. take the Charleston Artwalk, for example. a divine inspiration. so simple in design, so enjoyable in the execution. the premise is that many of the city's galleries, linked together within blocks of one another, form a sort of hedonistic chain as they entice passers by to come inside and not just enjoy their wares, but drink their wine and eat their food as well. they got my attention. and so began my early education in, and introduction to, the low country art universe. sometimes stacked 3 or 4 in a row, these galleries -- now morphed into cocktail party mode -- opened my eyes into a truly entertaining, and sometimes inspiring, creative surrounding. to see this region depicted in so many wildly diverse perspectives is to find new appreciation for the area we now call home. from watercolors to oils to etchings to mixed media to photography, they all reflect a true melange of color and ideas. if you close your eyes and try to synthesize all the different impressions you've just been exposed to, it really does create a sort of 3-D impression of this part of the world. sure, there were moments when gallery owners would drone on long enough to make you want to say, "yes, but are you serving any wine?" but, the show they put on was worth the occasional extended tutorial. and, we won't mention the one gallery where I mortifyingly tripped into one room throwing all of the red wine in my cup against a wall that just moments before was a perfect white. thankfully, my profuse apologies were quickly accepted although I have suspicions they deleted me from their mailing list the moment I walked out the door.

randomly speaking

so, what's this? what self-focussed, fatuous, self-indulgent, narcissistic fantasy is this? as if someone other than I would have any interest in hearing what I have to say. ridiculous. first, it was facebook, now a blog. have I any dignity left? unlikely. but, it could be fun, right?

let me begin with a few casual observations, of interest perhaps only to me.

1) as a recent emigre to Charleston, I have noticed how incredibly friendly the locals are. first, there was the guy, a total stranger, who offered to help me tote my new huge TV from the store to my house even though we had met 9 seconds earlier. this volunteerism included helping me tote this huge box up a flight of steps and into the living room. then, there's the very nice lady at the Piggly Wiggly who blesses me every time I check out on her line. my path to heaven is absolutely insured. and, there's the local postmistress who asked me just the other day to come over and cook dinner for her family on the strength only of a t-shirt I was wearing indicating I might know something about food.

2) the median age of the folks who live in my immediate community full-time appears to be 109. very nice, friendly folks, but not alot of mountain climbers here.

3) I find it a bit unsettling that the "experts" do not appear to agree on whether it's "butt naked" or "buck naked." shouldn't we be sure about this?

4) I discovered the other night how incredibly tasty a tilapia is when it is marinated in a chipotle sauce and, after a good saute, it is topped with sliced kiwi and banana that have been caramelized a bit in a pan with toasted sesame oil. try it.

5) I do believe there are more religious radio stations here than places where you can get shrimp and grits, and that's saying something. you got your religious music stations (traditional and rock), your fire and brimstone stations, your sermon-laden stations, and your chatty moral advice shows. it's all there, and it's a bit of a challenge to find stations to fill up those auto pre-set positions for the car radio, believe me.