Ed Driscoll


Yesterday evening, I “attended” (it was in my home, but my wife and I did little of the actual planning or preparation) a wake for a close friend of mine. He was buried last week in Tennessee, where he was born, but yesterday was an opportunity for his wife and west coast friends to celebrate his life, and mourn his passing, all too soon at age 40, of a heart ailment and diabetes.

Today, on the other hand, was much more fun. Did you ever read the John Cheever story, The Swimmer, or see the 1968 movie version, which starred a surprisingly buff Burt Lancaster as a middle-aged man reliving his life by swimming from pool to pool on a hot Sunday afternoon in his suburban neighborhood? If you didn’t, I’m not surprised, but it’s one of those offbeat 1960s films that Bravo reruns from time to time (the other is the Canadian film version of The Fox, with Keir Dullea, minus Gary Lockwood and HAL 9000).

I did my own version of The Swimmer today, and I didn’t even get wet. As part of our remodeling project, my wife and I are planning to put in a tub-sized Jacuzzi when we renovate our primary bathroom. Because at 6’2″, I’m several inches taller than my wife, and 2/3rds of it are legs, I must have sat in 25 different models in a showroom in Fremont, California today. We think we’ve found a couple of winners, but we’ll need to consult with our plumber.

By the way, is this a great country, or what? Anyone making a middle class income can walk into a warehouse-sized operation filled with a hundred or so Jacuzzis, hot tubs, just plain tubs, and showers, and purchase whichever one strikes his fancy. Try doing that in Iraq, Afghanistan, China, or Cuba.

Regular posting will resume later tonight, or tomorrow.