Both of my parents were professional musicians, so in our house learning to play a musical instrument was assumed, not optional. I was expected to study piano and French horn.  At my parents’ urging, I also studied musical composition.

I was a good composition student in the narrowest sense. I showed up. I listened. I did the assignments.  But I never felt compelled to write my own sonatas.   If there had been a prize for Pleasantly Cooperative Mediocrity, I might have won first place.

But I was there simply because I was supposed to be. (My youthful cooperation did have limits. Unfortunately, I successfully resisted the idea of brushing my teeth, and my winning smile today is based upon two dental implants and veneer throughout.)

My composition instructor was Joseph Oroop, who taught out of his studio in the hills above Barham Boulevard in Los Angeles, not too far from where I live today.  After I had been studying with him for more than three months, Mr. Oroop said he was puzzled. Most of his students either loved composition and started bringing in their own work, or they quit. I did neither, and he wondered why.

It was a fair question.

I thought about it for several weeks. And then I quit. I simply did not have a passion for music and realized I was not destined to be a music composer.  Not a tragedy. Just the truth.

My instructor, however, did teach me one important lesson.

We are often told that persistence is virtue and quitting is failure.  Not necessarily.

Yes, persistence is admirable — but not when you’re stubbornly spending time, effort and resources in pursuing a futile struggle.

To this day, whenever I pass Barham Boulevard on the 101, I still gaze into the hills and remember Joseph Oroop. Not because he turned me into a composer, but because he helped me understand the difference between discipline and desire. He saved me from years of pursuing the wrong vocation.

And now, Mr. Oroop, I have become a composer after all, but my field is words. I’m in love with the beauty, subtlety, and exceptional variety of the English language and I‘m passionate about composing — sentences and paragraphs.

I love one word in particular, and I use it to sign off on every email. Somehow, it always fits.

Thanks.

Alan

The above saying was coined by the humorist Jean Shepherd and served as the title of his best-selling collection of short stories. One of those stories was made into the classic movie “A Christmas Story.” I also understand that the saying has been used as a sign and posted in bars and other business establishments.  With good reason.

 Note that this applies to “human” relationships. That does not include our relationship with Artificial Intelligence, which can be decidedly untrustworthy, because AI often has a mind of its own. Just now, AI, (or perhaps it was my right index finger), conspired with my iPhone to turn the word “trust” into “tryst,” which would give this blog a decidedly different meaning. Tryst me on that one. Tryst is the word with a “try” in it. Repeated “trying” does not engender trust. Trust. That’s the word with an “us” in it and is a concept essential for human survival.

When I leave my house, I trust hundreds of drivers every day. This trust, over 86 years, has been betrayed just three times — by drivers turning left in front of me at an intersection, without the courtesy of a turn signal. My body shops thank them. My body itself thanks seat belts. My auto insurance agents thank everyone.

I reserve my personal trust for people, not institutions or things (note the AI story above). When I drew wills for clients it seemed to me that institutional trustees often did not merit the first five letters of their title. (I know, word play is work but also fun, and, hopefully, rewarding.) (Oh, uh, the machines are at again — just now AI tried to turn rewarding it into rewording — which I suppose is its own kind of wordplay. But AI should take note: I am fully capable of creating my own mistakes.)

Without trust, there can be no real love. With trust we have accomplished a moon landing.

To me trust is knowing that another human being will look out for my interests above their own, even if temporarily.  That’s why I did not expect my law firm — my former law firm, that is — (they shall remain deservedly nameless) — to add a paragraph appointing themselves as a trustee should Daveen ever have the audacity to remarry after my death.

That used to be called malpractice. Today, apparently, it’s merely law practice.

I rarely write about politics. But I do read editorials. The column from which this blog emerged concerned a proposed resolution of the current Iran conflict.

Is the proposal perfect?

No.

Does it require trust?

Yes.

Are both sides completely trustable?

That’s a rhetorical question.

Alan

I asked AI to write a funny limerick about peanuts. That’s P E A N U T S. AI responded that it could not, but it was happy to write a limerick about walnuts or almonds.

Hmmm, I wondered. How is it that AI, which, as we all know, is just a computer, has an aversion to peanuts? And because I’m having fun poking around with AI, I replied in turn, “peanuts seemed like an innocuous request to me.”

AI agreed, then apologized, and then produced three limericks about peanuts. All three were terrible. Perhaps AI has a peanut allergy.

Yesterday I asked AI to recommend an audiologist. After more than a bit of symbolic whirring and clicking, it came up with a well-reasoned list of possible audiologists. All were located in Portland. I assume Portland, Oregon, not Portland Maine (although, there are seventeen cities in the United States named Portland).

Fortunately, there is just one city in the United States named Los Angeles, where I have enjoyed living for 86 years.

I advised AI of my location in LOS ANGELES, and received another creative apology, together with a new list. I may actually use one of the AI-suggested audiologists, but only if their phone is not answered by a robot.

Inadvertently, I may have discovered one of AI’s superpowers — apologizing.  From my own experience, AI has had lots of practice, and has learned that a sincere apology goes a long way toward assuaging a real person.

I hasten to assure you that I have produced this blog all by myself, using only the tools of my right forefinger and my iPhone.  And my own mind.  Unless you count the tool of my looking up how many cities called Portland or Los Angeles there are. Those may be the actual facts. But AI hallucinations can be fun-nier.

With appreciation for those of you who are my human readers, but I hope you don’t plan to use AI to determine the quality of this blog.  It may have put me on some kind of AI internal blacklist.

Alan