Water, Water, All the Time: 80 oz a Day

How much water do you drink every day?

Doubtful you keep track, though many of you, like my daughter Ellie, always has a bottle at hand. So, including liquid accompanying meals, do you swallow 20 ounces? 40? 60 or more? Are you pishing it away all day? All night?

Water is said to be good for you. I accept that, but, honestly, I rarely have a thirst for it. Or for any other drink. I try to stay hydrated when playing pickleball but over the course of a 2-3 hour session I imbibe perhaps 10 ounces in the form of sugar free lemonade flavored Vitamin Water. Over dinner, I often cannot finish a 7.5 ounce can of Diet Coke.

I’m musing about water because I might once again be suffering from either kidney or bladder stones, a condition that may be flushed away, if one is fortunate, by the consumption of what I consider to be a prodigious amount of liquid, 80 ounces per day.

I’ve coped with the alternative medical remedy, details of which I will spare you, except to note that a catheter was involved.

So, one might assume that confronted with the choices I would opt for drinking lots of water. After all, more than half a century ago, in June 1970, drinking 80 ounces of water for 10 straight days kept me away from being drafted during the height of the Vietnam War.

My college deferment had run out. In the draft lottery at the end of 1969 my birth date, March 6, was picked 139th. At the beginning of June a formal letter from the Selective Service System ordered me to show up 10 days later at Fort Hamilton in Brooklyn to take a physical to determine my eligibility to be one of 162,746 young men to be inducted that year into the military, mostly for service in Vietnam.

The Brooklyn College bookstore carried a booklet, “1001 Ways to Beat the Draft.” I had no debilitating disease or condition, nor was I a conscientious objector. I simply had no desire to get shipped to the rice paddies of Indochina. The booklet, however, did offer a glimmer of hope.

Seems the military has a standard of acceptable physicality based on a person’s height and weight. A six foot person—my height—had to weigh at least 131 pounds. I weighed 134. I was really skinny. But my path to survival of the not-necessarily-the-fittest was clear. Get thinner!

I had 10 days to lose enough weight to get under the minimum, and then some, because the booklet also said they could keep me for three days of observation. Read that, time to fatten me up for the kill.

God bless Dr. Stillman, as in Dr. Stillman’s Water Diet. His regimen, much like the latter day Atkins Diet, permitted only proteins and required drinking 80 ounces of water a day. For 10 straight days I avoided all carbohydrates, all fruit, anything but meat, fish, eggs and water. For years my mother had tried to fatten me up, forcing me to drink milk shakes spiked with a raw egg that my sister gleefully recalls preparing, even threatening to send me away to a special camp for the undernourished. Now faced with the prospect of her youngest child being shipped off to Vietnam, she reversed course. She worried I was eating too much of my restricted diet. She removed food from my plate.

The fateful day at Fort Hamilton, the scene played out much as it did to Arlo Guthrie in the film “Alice’s Restaurant.” The sergeant told us no one, absolutely no one, would fail the intelligence test. We walked around the physical area in our skivvies, holding our valuables in see-thru plastic bags. Medical technicians poked our arms to draw blood. They couldn’t find the veins of a really fat guy ahead of me. He fainted. He earned a deferment. At the urine sample station, real or sarcastic offers and requests for extra fluid abounded. At the weigh-in, I tipped the scales at 124 pounds. I was REALLY skinny.

Ten days. Ten pounds. They could still keep me for observation. I cautiously approached the decision desk. They could keep me on base for three days, or ask me back for another physical in six months. They deferred me for a year.

I didn’t know it at the time, but I was forever safe. The draft never reached number 139 again.

To celebrate my immediate victory, I took advantage of the free meal provided in the mess hall. I remember eating breaded, yes, breaded veal cutlet, corn niblets, mashed potatoes, rye bread, banana cream pie, Coca-Cola. Army food was delicious.

Can I discipline myself again to drinking 80 ounces a day? The stakes are not nearly as high. Time will tell … 

Trump's Bravado on Full Display on 60 Minutes

A sitting president enjoys many perks of office, from use of Air Force One to free Washington, D. C., residency at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, to unfettered access to anyone in America if not the world. But a most cherished perk, as demonstrated by Donald Trump for some 75 minutes Sunday night on “60 Minutes Overtime,” is the ability to ramble on, to filibuster, to conflate reality with falsehoods, to denigrate opponents, to inflate accomplishments and reject criticism, without fear of interruption or correction (https://share.google/cuR5gsIUSwZlvwiq9). 

Trump scored 75 minutes of free propaganda. Norah O’Donnell tried to ask probing questions, but her deference to the office of the president, and Trump’s everything-but-the-kitchen-sink responses made the interview an extended commercial for Trumpism. 

Even easy retorts to his contention that the 2020 election was rigged—that more than 60 judges, including Republican jurists,  found no such reality—and that Trump has promised a better healthcare plan than Obamacare for more than a decade without releasing any details, and that ICE raids have failed to seize dangerous illegal immigrants but have gone after hard working, productive, long-time undocumented family members with no criminal records, and that he was wrong to say the inflation rate under Joe Biden was the highest in our history (it was higher in the 1970s-1980s), hardly escaped her lips, and when they did he rejected the counterpoints. 

CBS chose not to simultaneously fact check Trump’s numerous exaggerations, obfuscations and fantasies. Perhaps the White House insisted it would not do the interview if it were fact checked as he spoke. 

I like Norah O’Donnell. But she was overmatched because Trump chose to dominate, not interact. You get to do that when you’re president. Norah was not there to debate. There was no independent commission setting ground rules. 

Trump repeated his favorite talking points from staged events, time and again circling back on attacks that have been debunked while praising actions that have many independent observers worried they have destabilized our constitutional republic and our economy. 

By their nature, politicians are rarely humble. In that respect, Trump is an uber-politician. His extreme bravado was on full display Sunday night.

Seventh Game World Series Memories

The seemingly forever baseball season which began March 27 ends tonight with the ultimate game between the champions of the American and National Leagues, respectively the Toronto Blue Jays and the defending 2024 World Series victor, the Los Angeles Dodgers. 

Have you ever attended the seventh and deciding game of a World Series? 

I have. In 1975. In Fenway Park as the Boston Red Sox tried to end the curse of the Bambino that had suffocated them and their fans since the team sold Babe Ruth to the New York Yankees in 1919. 

On that night in 1975 I was sitting along the third base line with John Membrino, a fellow reporter on The New Haven Register, courtesy of comp tickets from our sports department. John was an ardent Bosox fan. As a lifelong New York Yankees fan I was not. I kept my prejudice to myself as the game against the Cincinnati Reds proceeded. 

 

A cherished edifice of Beantown architecture, Fenway is a bandbox of a ballpark where fans sit so close to the action they feel they can almost touch the players. John and I sat along the third base line, in the lower, covered deck. It was the night after the Red Sox had triumphed in what some people argue was the best World Series game ever, a contest tied in the bottom of the eighth by a three-run home run by Bernie Carbo and won four innings later by a solo shot over the Green Monster down the left field line by Carlton Fisk, a home run forever immortalized in film by Fisk’s willing the ball to stay fair to give Boston a 7-6 victory and a chance to win its first championship in 57 years. (Some might equally argue that the third game of this year’s series, won by Los Angeles in the bottom of the 18th inning via a walk-off home run by Freddie Freeman, topped that 1975 epic, though Fisk’s physical antics surpassed Freeman’s exuberance.)

Despite the exhilaration from the night before, Boston fans, including my friend John, seemed to me to carry an air of resignation on their shoulders, even after the home team took an early 3-0 lead. They seemed to be waiting for someone to foul up, to make the error that opened the floodgates for the Big Red Machine. 

Sure enough, in the sixth inning, second baseman Denny Doyle, a mid-season acquisition based on his defensive skills, made his second error of the game, a miscue that prolonged a Cincinnati at bat. Tony Perez promptly made Boston pay by smacking a two-run homer. From then on the home town crowd’s emotional support never revived. Like prisoners waiting for their turn before the firing squad, the fans waited patiently for the coup de grace. Cincy scored single runs in the seventh and ninth innings to win the game and Series, 4-3.

With the exception of Reds players and their families, I probably was among the few fans to leave Fenway a happy fellow that night. I don’t like the Boston Red Sox. My only regret is I could not openly express my feelings. I’m not stupid, after all. No way would I openly cheer against the home team in Fenway.

If there’s another team that ranks among my despised, it is the Dodgers. I grew up in Brooklyn, but unlike my brother who rooted for the Dodgers, I followed my mother’s devotion to the Yankees, though she also liked the New York Giants (she did, after all, grow up in the Bronx and Manhattan). I was a mere lad of six when “Dem Bums” of Brooklyn beat my Yankees to cop their first crown. 

I was a more devoted, older fan when Sandy Koufax, seen cheering on the Dodgers during this year’s telecasts, began the 1963 series by striking out five straight Yankees including Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris enroute to a 15 strikeout, complete game win, the first of a four game sweep by Los Angeles. Of course, last year’s Yankee loss to the Dodgers also did not sit well with me.

I have another regret, not tied to the Red Sox or the Dodgers, but to baseball in general. My business travels took me to every major league city. I regret not watching a game in each ball park. Too late now.

Only one other time did I possess a ticket to the seventh game of a World Series. It was in 1998. Yankees vs. the San Diego Padres. My employer had four season tickets to Yankees games which accorded the right to purchase two additional seats. As our son, Dan, was celebrating his 20th birthday during the week the series was being played, I asked company president Roger Friedman for two tickets to the seventh game. Roger agreed. I mailed the tickets to Dan at school. He was thrilled. The Yankees, however, finished off the Padres in four games. Dan had to mail back the tickets for Roger to obtain a refund, but I still scored points for the thoughtful gift. 

In the Heartland, No Kings Royally Received

Gilda and I flew to the center of the country last week to participate in a No Kings demonstration Saturday protesting Donald Trump’s autocratic tendencies and actions. 

Well, in truth, we flew to Omaha to spend a week with daughter Ellie and grandchildren Cecilia Jane and Leo. 

Deep in red conservative middle America-Trumpland, Omaha is a blue dot oasis. Aside from the main protest site near the downtown, anti-Trumpers lined main thoroughfares waving signs and eliciting approving car horn blasts. In Turner Park thousands gathered to hear and cheer a slew of speakers blasting Trump’s anti-democratic actions. 

Perhaps the best way to convey their themes is to quote some of their handmade placards and display some photos: 

“Free the national guard”

“Hate will not make us great”

“At second Unitarian Church, we love our neighbors: immigrants, LGBTQ, of color, with disabilities, of all and any faiths”

“No faux king way”

“I’ve seen smarter cabinets at Ikea”

“Silence fuels injustice”

“Health care not wealth care”

“This is not left or right, this is right or wrong”

“Masked police are secret police”

“If you are not outraged you are not paying attention”

From three women dressed in Handmaids’ red capes and white bonnets to a gold-plated Trump-faced giant chicken, here are some of my favorite visuals: 

Trump and Wilson: Peacemakers and Racists

Donald Trump is stretching the limits of domestic abhorrence, even as he receives accolades for a much hoped for, yet previously elusive, cease fire between Israel and Hamas. It is still too early to pronounce his achievement as ever-lasting, for there have been ceasefires in the past that disintegrated from the enmity of the aggrieved and religiously zealous, on both sides of the conflict. But if all the hostages, alive and dead, are returned, and Palestinians are successful in shaking off the repressive rule of Hamas, he is to be commended for exercising the power of the United States in a positive manner. 

Trump must be salivating at the prospect of his being a frontrunner for the 2026 Nobel Peace Prize. Four previous U.S. presidents received the award: Theodore Roosevelt in 1906 for negotiating an end to the Russo-Japanese War; Woodrow Wilson in 1920 for working to end World War I and creating the League of Nations (which the Senate refused to enter); Jimmy Carter in 2002 for his work toward “peaceful solutions to international conflicts (including peace between Israel and Egypt), advancing democracy and human rights, and promoting economic and social development;” and Barack Obama, in 2009 for working to strengthen international diplomacy and cooperation. In addition, former vice president Al Gore in 2007 received the Nobel Peace Prize for expanding knowledge about climate change.

For his part, Trump has been a less than enthusiastic cheerleader for the work of the United Nations, the successor international forum for the League of Nations. And he has been vocal in rejecting scientific truth about climate change. 

Wilson has enjoyed historic credits for his espousal of the League of Nations and his advocacy of a 14 point peace program. After cutting excessive tariffs, he initiated the income tax system and the Federal Reserve System. He supported creation of the Federal Trade Commission and passage of the Clayton Antitrust Act, among other progressive actions by his administration.

But as a son of the South, raised in Virginia by parents who were supporters of slavery and the Confederacy, Wilson held segregationist principles. As president of Princeton University, he discouraged admitting black students. When elected president of the United States he drastically cut back appointments of blacks to administration positions, resulting in dramatic reduction in the growth of the black middle class in Washington. He allowed Jim Crow laws to flourish within the federal bureaucracy. He countenanced and further enabled the segregation of the armed forces.  

Like Wilson, Trump has been eviscerating black representation in civil service, military and administration jobs. Trump’s world view for peace—his repetitive listing of wars he has ended, some real, some imagined—does not manifest itself in the image he projects domestically. He spars with Democratic mayors, many of whom are Afro-Americans in cities like Los Angeles, Chicago and Philadelphia. 

He has removed black leaders from military commands, from educational institutions and from government boards and commissions (https://www.nytimes.com/2025/10/08/us/politics/black-leaders-trump.html?smid=url-share). 

If he were only able to control the demeans of revenge within his psyche and within his zombie-like followers, Trump would ease much of the angst half of the country feels toward him. Barring his execution of a coup toppling our democracy (feared by many of his detractors), Trump and the country would be better served if he sought compromise and comity with Democrats. Keep in mind, we have three more years of his legitimate gold-plated residency in the White House. 

Two years ago Hamas turned one of the most joyous days of the Jewish calendar, Simchat Torah, the joy of Torah, into a day of unspeakable tragedy. It is fitting that the hostages, at least the living ones, will be brought home two days before this year’s Simchat Torah. Tears of joy will replace tears of sadness. But celebration will be tinged with memories of relatives and friends lost forever and lamentations for the thousands of innocents killed in a war started and fueled by extremism. 

***No A.I. was used in the writing and editing of this post. The only intelligence employed was my own.*** 

I Swallowed a Camera Monday Morning

That’s right, I swallowed a camera Monday morning. 

The size of a large multi-vitamin pill, the camera traveled eight hours to regions of my gastrointestinal tract not reachable by the routine endoscopy and colonoscopy (e/c) procedures I underwent months ago. 

As my doctor explained, those procedures only explored the outer portions of their respective entry points into the convoluted world of my intestines. The pill-camera, on the other hand, would navigate its way down, up and around the full 25-30 feet of intestines. In my case it was searching for any signs I was dripping blood anywhere, which might explain why I am slightly anemic despite eating a healthy diet and have not shown any blood during my e/c exams. 

Developed in Israel, the PillCam is another example of Israeli technology making our world easier and safer. Think Waze. Exploding beepers and walkie-talkies. USB flash drives. Drip irrigation systems. Iron Dome missile defense system, to cite just a small sample of Israeli know-how used in peacetime and war. 

For eight hours PillCam bobbed and weaved, tumbling along taking pictures at the rate of two to six frames per second inside my body, causing no discomfort (for revelations, if any, I’ll have to await the doctor doing what Warner Wolf used to say during his sportscasts, “Let’s go to the videotape,” probably by week’s end). 

The PillCam SB 3 capsule is about the size of a Costco brand adult daily multi-vitamin pill. It’s smooth on the outside with a clear dome on one end encasing a light and camera that wirelessly sent pictures to a recorder I wore on a sling next to my right hip (https://www.medtronic.com/en-us/healthcare-professionals/products/digestive-gastrointestinal/capsule-endoscopy/endoscopy-systems/pillcam-sb-3-capsule-endoscopy-system.html). 

Twenty-four hours prior to swallowing the PillCam at 8:30 am I was allowed no solid food (a perfect tune-up for Yom Kippur). The only other prep was drinking a 10 oz. bottle of magnesium citrate at 6 pm Sunday. Yes, the expected flushing of the system transpired, but not as intensely as for a colonoscopy. 

A light meal—two poached eggs and a toasted English muffin—broke my fast at 12:30 pm Tuesday. I was back to eating a regular diet by evening. Good thing, as I had lost about five pounds in the process. 

By the way, for those interested, the PillCam self-disposes like everything else one ingests. 

Hard-Fought Rights Could Be Lost

Clarence Thomas believes Supreme Court decisions are not set in stone. They are not “gospel.” They can be overturned. So everyone, stop citing precedent or stare decisis when theorizing how today’s Supreme Court, or any Supreme Court will rule, he opined Thursday (https://share.google/MGlGRVrXIh7TxnYGj).

You know he’s right about decisions not being forever gospel. After all, the Dred Scott decision of 1857 denying a black man’s right to be a citizen was invalidated by the North’s Civil War victory followed by passage of constitutional amendments ending slavery, granting birthright citizenship and extending voting rights to black citizens.  

Thomas’ no-binding precedent belief even applies to decisions he and his fellow conservatives made just a few years ago. When Joe Biden was president they struck down his actions giving financial relief to millions with college debt. The justices said a president could not unilaterally invalidate a program passed by Congress. Yet, when Donald Trump repeatedly has eviscerated congressional programs the conservative majority has allowed his actions to stand. 

So, don’t be too secure that the rights of LGBTQ couples to marry will continue to be nationally recognized, or that couples of different races could continue to legally marry in all 50 states and territories, or that the right to engage in private homosexual activity is guaranteed in the Constitution. Or that the availability of contraception is legally guaranteed. 

Scary, huh? You betcha! 

But that’s what Thomas and like-minded conservatives believe. Nothing is guaranteed unless specifically stated in the Constitution and its amendments. Even those amendments may be interpreted differently in the present age versus the last century and a half, as we may discover when the conservative majority on the court weighs in on the validity of birthright citizenship that Donald Trump wants to eliminate. 

There’s at least one long-shot silver lining to this world Thomas has imagined, if not in actual word, in contemplation, at the very least. Future courts might review the sweeping powers granted to a sitting president by the current Roberts supremes. A more progressive court might restore appropriate checks and balances to our government. 

I know, it’s a long shot. It would require an extraordinary president willing to cede back powers Trump has been granted by a pliant Supreme Court majority. Electing such a president will be increasingly difficult given the Electoral College tipping more and more to the right. 

But “hope springs eternal,” the saying goes.