Monday, July 29, 2024

Dreaming a Dream of Decades Gone By

“I am at the age, 77, when the death of friends and loved ones is as inevitable and irrevocable as rain. I’ve come to accept that grief will be a major traveling companion in my life until my death.”


I am two years younger than Kareem Abdul-Jabbar who penned those thoughts as the opening of a moving eulogy for his “rival, brother and close friend” Bill Walton who died in May (https://kareem.substack.com/p/bill-walton-was-my-rival-my-brother).


His words were still ruminating inside me when an old iPod my son gave me played “Bob Dylan’s Dream” which starts with the following haunting lyrics: 


“While riding on a train goin’ west

I fell asleep for to take my rest

I dreamed a dream that made me sad

Concerning myself and the first few friends I had”


Dylan was reminiscing about friends of his post-teen years. I, on the other hand, keep thinking about the friends I had when my life was mostly confined to the block I lived on as a youngster in Brooklyn—Avenue W between East 18th and East 19th streets. 


My family lived in the middle of the block. At either corner were my closest similarly aged friends, Lenny Dorfman at East 19th Street, Richie Posner at East 18th. Except when I left Brooklyn for eight weeks of sleepaway summer camp beginning when I was seven, and several years before that for three weeks in a Catskill hotel with my parents, I played non stop with Lenny and Richie almost every day. 


When we were younger our universe was the small plots of grass in front of our attached single family row houses and the spacious T-shaped common driveway behind our homes. The driveway spanned the back of homes on three sides of the streets in our neighborhood (the 600-plus-foot driveway did not extend all the way to Avenue X). 


Halfway down that long driveway, Jeffrey filled out our foursome. But his parents sought greener surroundings around the time we were five. They moved to Long Island, giving Richie, Lenny and me our first taste of loss. 


It was down that flat driveway that I was traumatized when learning to ride a two-wheel bicycle when I was between around seven years old. My father was running slightly behind me, holding the seat of the bike so I would not fall. I turned my head to tell him something. He was not there. I had been pedaling forward on my own. I panicked. I fell hard on the pavement. I cried. I ran home to seek my mother’s comfort. I never got back up on that bicycle. My parents tried to reassure me, to say my friends had all learned to ride and I would be left behind. I countered that I was a fast runner. I would keep up with them. Of course I was wrong, but I was a child, a child without reason. I didn’t learn to ride until I was 40 years old.


In our expansive backyard common driveway we played all types of games. Ringolevio. Johnny on the pony. Blind man’s bluff. Hide and seek. Punchball. Wiffle ball. Skully. In front of our homes, facing Avenue W, we played Stoop ball, Box baseball, Boxball. And a dangerous game of Territory which required players to stand with feet apart as an opponent threw a pen knife into the dirt they were standing upon. If the blade stood upright, the thrower usurped their territory from its edge to the vertical knife. A winner eventually amassed all the territory. I can recall no one being injured in the process. That same pen knife was used to make us blood brothers. In the 1950s little thought was given to transmittable diseases.


We played with either a pink Spalding (pronounced Spaldeen) or Pensy Pinky ball. If the ball fell down a sewer grate at the corner, as it inevitably would, we used a wire hanger manipulated into an elongated fish hook. Whomever had the longest reach would lie flat above the sewer grate to fish out the ball. 


When it rained, play time went indoors. We would combine our Lionel train sets into one large track. We’d play Monopoly, Star Reporter, All-star baseball board game. 


As we grew older we were trusted to cross the street to walk to Public School 254 on Avenue Y, and even play in the street. Avenue W had a canopy of leaves from maple and sycamore trees. If during a stickball game a ball was hit into the leaves it was a “hindoo,” a do-over, unless a fielder was agile enough to catch it for an out before it bounced. 


Games at PS 254, where Lenny and Richie went to school, were more dynamic. At least eight “home plates” were chalked onto the walls of the school. Most players, like me, just fired fastballs at the plate. Lenny mastered the art of the curve ball. Fences in the outfield delineated singles, doubles and home runs. 


The schoolyard even had its own bully—stocky, curly dark-haired Merrill. We never had any money, so he couldn’t shake us down but his mere presence in the schoolyard made it uncomfortable to be there. 


After high school Richie and I attended Brooklyn College, Lenny Stony Brook, where he changed his major from engineering to music. To beat the Vietnam War draft Lenny went to Windsor, Canada, to teach music. He returned at the war’s conclusion to teach on Long Island. I cannot recall how Rich stayed out of the military. Perhaps he had a high draft number. Rich pursued an arts degree. I flunked my physical (too underweight for my six foot frame) and became a journalist. 


I’ve lost touch with them. A Google search proved useless. Our families no longer live on Avenue W. The street has barely changed, a recent drive-by revealed. 


Maybe they will find me through this post. It’s not as strange as you might think. 


Two years ago I received email birthday greetings from Lou-Joe Lozitsky. He lived on the corner of East 19th Street and Avenue X. He joined our threesome in play about the time we were 10. 


He discovered me through a Google search, finding a eulogy I had written of my dearest friend David Banks, a British journalist. 


It was not the first time someone from my past hooked up with me because of something I wrote in a blog. Bernie Kirsner, my high school physical education teacher and coach of our basketball team (he cut me during tryouts as his keen eye saw I could not dribble), contacted me from retirement in Florida. Murray Farber, who hired me for my first reporter’s job at The New Haven Register, reached out from retirement in California. 


Perhaps I’m dreaming. I’m okay with that.

Friday, July 26, 2024

Avoiding The Blob, Repeating Water for Elephants

I do not like science fiction horror movies. I avoid movies like “Alien.” “A Quiet Place.”


My aversion to sci-fi horror films dates back to when I was nine years old. Maybe even younger when I saw “The Wizard of Oz” on television for the first time. When nine, I accompanied my brother and his friends to a double feature showing of “Torpedo Run” starring Glenn Ford and “The Decks Ran Red” starring James Mason. 


Back then, in 1958, movie theaters ran coming attractions between the two featured films. One of the promoted movies was “The Blob,” Steve McQueen’s first leading role. That red jelly blob scared the bejesus out of me. 


I vowed then and there never to see “The Blob,” a vow I have maintained to this day, even as the movie has achieved cult status, especially among residents of Phoenixville, PA, where, as The New York Times noted, much of “The Blob” was shot. Since 2000, Phoenixville has held a three-day festival celebrating the film. This year Blobfest was July 12-14 (https://www.nytimes.com/2024/07/16/movies/blobfest-2024-sci-fi-horror-movie.html?smid=em-share).


Gilda does not share my aversion to scary movies, though she does disdain “The Wizard of Oz.” She liked “A Quiet Place.” One of her favorites is “The Thing from Another World,” with James Arness as The Thing. 


The same year, 1958, that I got turned off by “The Blob,” Gilda enjoyed “The Fly” starring Vincent Price. So when a new version came out in 1986 starring Jeff Goldblum and Geena Davis, she pounced on the chance to take our kids, Dan, 8, and Ellie, 5, to see it. She had no idea there would be a graphic sex scene between the two stars. She quickly tried to cover their eyes. To my knowledge, they were not traumatized. To my knowledge …



More Water for Elephants: Several friends recently saw the new musical “Water for Elephants,” based on the novel and movie of the same name. I haven’t seen the play so I cannot comment on the production, but I believe it appropriate to  revisit a blog I posted on January 4, 2011, under the title, “Before Water for Elephants.”


“If you’ve been to the movies recently you might have seen a coming attraction for Water for Elephants, the film adaptation of the book of the same name by Sara Gruen.


“It’s a beautiful, evocative book. I won’t give away any important plot details for those who might not have read the book, but I do need to bring to your attention some basic parts of the story:


“The protagonist, Jacob Jankowski, runs away to join a traveling circus in the 1930s. He falls in love with a bareback equestrian rider. The circus, Benzini Brothers Most Spectacular Show on Earth, is far from an elite organization. It hovers on the brink of financial ruin. Benzini Brothers is always battling competitors. Rosie the elephant saves it from financial distress after the star animal attraction, a horse, dies. Rosie never before performed in a circus.


“I’m always fascinated by the creative process. In interviews, Gruen claims to have been inspired to write her 2006 novel by pictures of old time circuses she saw in a newspaper.


“Sounds plausible, but several months ago I saw Chad Hanna, a 1940 movie starring Henry Fonda. The protagonist, Chad Hanna, runs away to join a traveling circus in the mid-1800s. He falls in love with a bareback equestrian rider. The circus, Huguenine’s Great and Only International Circus, is far from an elite organization. It hovers on the brink of financial ruin. Huguenine’s is always battling competitors. Van Buren the elephant saves it from financial distress after the star animal attraction, a lion, dies. Van Buren never before performed in a circus.


“There are, of course, differences in the full plot line, in the love story, in the depiction of life within the circus coterie of characters. The circus owners in both stories couldn’t be more diametrically opposite.


“My friend and former art director Milton says there are no new story lines, just different treatments of the same themes. I wouldn’t argue with that.


“(PS—Chad Hanna is based on a series of articles in The Saturday Evening Post entitled Red Wheels Rolling by Walter D. Edmonds. Edmonds also wrote Drums Along the Mohawk, another book made into a movie starring Henry Fonda.)” 

Wednesday, July 24, 2024

Oh, To Be a Fly on the Wall; Childless Cat People Include Jesus

I wish I could be a fly on the wall for two meetings Israeli Prime Minister Bibi Netanyahu will have this week.


The first is with President Joe Biden and his hoped-for successor, Vice President Kamala Harris. During that meeting I can only wonder if, after advocating for a ceasefire in Gaza, Biden will press Netanyahu to emulate him to “do the right thing” by announcing his departure from leadership of his country. I doubt it will happen, but I can hope, can’t I? 


I have less doubt that in his meeting with Donald Trump later this week Bibi will be pressed to keep the war going at least through November 5 so as not to give Biden/Harris a success story before the election. Earlier this year Trump selfishly torpedoed a bipartisan congressional immigration deal to keep Biden from attaining a desired solution to the southern border crisis. 


For a more in-depth analysis of Netanyahu’s visit, read Thomas Friedman’s column “A Small Man in a Big Time, or Not” (https://www.nytimes.com/2024/07/23/opinion/netanyahu-israel-gaza-congress.html?smid=url-share).



Childless Cat People: JD Vance is discovering that his penchant for writing and speaking his mind has consequences, especially now that he is seeking national office as our next vice president. Take, for instance, misogynistic comments made on Fox News in 2021 about women, specifically Democratic women who have not delivered children.


As AP reported, Vance said Democrats, including Harris, who run the country are “a bunch of childless cat ladies who are miserable at their own lives and the choices that they’ve made and so they want to make the rest of the country miserable, too.”


“How does it make any sense that we’ve turned our country over to people who don’t really have a direct stake in it?” Vance added.


One of my former colleagues emailed me the following:


“I was taken aback on the news circuit this morning when I heard that JD said childless politicians (and by inference, human beings) without progeny have little to no stake in the future. Yikes! What a heartless, low thrust at the perceived enemies of the Republican state!


“I feel a list coming on of all the childless (by intention or fate) people who have had a dramatic, positive, maybe historic effect on the future of humanity, despite their social or political rank. The first person who came to mind is Anne Frank. Come to think of it, Jesus had no children either.


“And at the unit level, every living person has known a childless relative, teacher or friend who gave hope to the future for children or one child at a time.”


Amen. Thanks, Barbara. 

Tuesday, July 23, 2024

Losing a Big Name from My Past

I don’t spend every day reading the obituaries section of The New York Times. I’m not one of those people who ascribe to the joke that if I don’t see my name in the section I go about living another day. 


Which is a long-winded way of saying I missed the July 11 obituary for Dan Collins (https://www.nytimes.com/2024/07/11/books/dan-collins-dead.html?smid=em-share).


I only discovered news of Dan’s passing when reading The Conversation, Tuesday’s back and forth discussion in The Times between columnists Bret Stephens and Gail Collins, Dan’s wife of more than half a century. 


“Gail,” wrote Stephens, “I often wrap up our conversations by pointing to a piece in The Times that I especially admired. This week the admiration comes wrapped in heartbreak. Your wonderful husband, Dan Collins, passed away this month — much, much too soon. Our friend Sam Roberts wrote a moving obituary for him,  which I thought captured him beautifully. He was a brilliant journalist who loved a contrarian take, an indefatigable scoop getter, a hilarious dinner companion, a man who put everyone at ease with wit and kindness and a glass of really good wine. Also: twinkly-eyed handsome as only the Irish can be. Your partner of more than a half-century. May his memory be for a blessing.”


I met Dan and Gail back in 1972 shortly after I joined The New Haven Register. My beat was covering the Lower Naugatuck Valley towns of Seymour and Derby, adjacent to Dan’s assignment in nearby Shelton. A year later, Dan was promoted to coverage of New Haven. I took over Shelton, followed a year later by becoming the bureau chief for West Haven, Bethany, Orange and Woodbridge.


My time at The Register encompassed four years of camaraderie with young, hungry reporters—Tom Hall, Walter Platteborze, Jeff Belmont, Jack Millea, John Membrino and Dan. Most of Gilda’s and my socializing those years was with these fellow reporters and their partners. 


Socializing back then for reporters, much as it is today, meant enjoying liquid refreshments. Lots of beer, tequila, vodka and wine. Hardly a weekend went by without some such socializing. 


Gail and Dan kept two guinea pigs in their apartment. They named the fur balls Lionel and Stewart, after the then owners of The Register, Lionel Jackson, and his son, Stewart. It was not meant as a compliment. 


Dan was the tallest among us, tallest in physical and reportorial stature. There never was a doubt that any story he covered would include any and all relevant facts. He was hard-driving, but with a sense of humor, an Irish wit, that endeared him to all. 


Dan was the first of our group to find greener pastures, moving to United Press International in New York. A few years later I transitioned to New York as well, but our paths never crossed again. I’ve lost track of my reporter/drinking buddies. My only connection to that part of my past is reading Gail Collins in The Times. 

Sunday, July 21, 2024

Kamala Brings Energy and Enthusiasm

For three and a half years Kamala Harris has been seated at the foot of a master politician who crafted a platform of bipartisan accomplishment in economic resurgence, infrastructure funding, college debt relief, improved health care benefits, foreign relations coalitions and pandemic relief. 


For sure Harris is no Joe Biden. There are few politicians who are. She is younger. Just 59. She served as a senator, but not as long as Biden did. She has met with more than a hundred heads of state, but has not nearly as much foreign relations credibility as Biden. No one does. 


On the other hand, compared to Biden she has energy and enthusiasm, factors he has lost. 


She is vulnerable on the illegal immigration issue, even as the number of crossings decreases. But compared to Donald Trump who separated children from parents, who demonized all illegals as criminals, she offers a more understanding viewpoint. She is, after all, the daughter of immigrants (legal immigrants, Donald!) from India and Jamaica. She was born in Oakland, Calif., October 20, 1964. (Personal aside—our son Dan also was born on October 20.)


Her career as a district attorney in San Francisco and then as the state’s attorney general puts her squarely on the right side of law and order, a stark contrast to Trump’s career circumventing local, state and federal regulations, being convicted of rape, being twice impeached by the House of Representatives, being accused of trying to overturn a fair election and of repeatedly using bankruptcy statutes to avoid paying creditors. 


Harris might not be everyone’s first choice, but she is a tireless advocate for the right of women to choose their own medical needs, for clean energy and environmental  protections. 


Who will she select as her running mate? I see two leading candidates, both governors: Andy Beshear of Kentucky and Gretchen Whitmer of Michigan.  


Either one would more than offset the presumed appeal of JD Vance, Trump’s choice for vice president, who is more reactionary than Trump. 


Though the eventual ticket is a formality that must await the Democratic Party convention next month, the race to November 5 is all but officially on. 

Nixon's Deep-Fake Apollo 11 Eulogy

 Fifty-five years ago on this very same July date, humans were walking, sometimes bounding, on the surface of the moon. Today, movie audiences are being treated to a spoof suggesting a fake version of the successful mission was filmed just in case Apollo 11 astronauts Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin met a tragic ending. 


“Fly Me to the Moon,” starring Scarlett Johansson and Channing Tatum, has received good, not great, reviews. The premise of the film is entirely fictitious. There is no evidence an alternate depiction of the historic moon landing was created. 


But, did government leaders truly not consider a worst case scenario? And what should be the reaction by public officials, especially the president, Richard Nixon? 


Oh, but they did. A short speech was written for Nixon by William Safire should the astronauts be unable to return from the moon. 


Nowadays, through the magic of deep-fake technology, you can watch a 7:46 minute film clip of the voyage to the moon and see Nixon deliver somber news to the nation (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LWLadJFI8Pk). 


See if you can detect what is real, what is not. And the next time you are in Boston (actually Kendall Square, Cambridge) visit, as my family did, the MIT Museum to visualize yourself seated in a 1969-style living room in front of a console television screen broadcasting news of man’s ascent to the heavens

Friday, July 19, 2024

Coronation Complete, Now Onto "Succession"

The coronation of Donald Trump and JD Vance is over. The “Succession” watch over Joe Biden’s failing candidacy and who might replace him atop the Democratic Party ticket continues as the dispirited soap opera it has become. 


You might have noticed I did not link the Trump/Vance coronation to the Republican Party, for in truth what they stand for bears no resemblance to traditional GOP positions, both domestic and international. So let’s just identify the gaga-eyed masses as belonging to the Trump MAGA cult, applauding without reservations when he cast current economic conditions under Joe Biden as deplorable—despite low unemployment, huge investments in infrastructure, the highest ever level of oil production of any country in the world, a 50% rise in stock market valuation under Biden. 


But let’s not quibble. Conventions are not meant to be truth conferences. A little hyperbole is to be expected. I just hope those watching Trump pontificate appreciated the difference between truth and exaggeration. 


The MAGA faithful are against elites. To be sure, all elites do not pop out of the womb as elites. Some, like Donald Trump, inherited wealth and connections. Many, on the other hand, work hard to rise above humble beginnings. Like JD Vance.


Vance might have grown up a hillbilly but he earned degrees from Ohio State University and Yale Law School, worked as a tech venture capitalist and made tons of money from his “Hillbilly Elegy” memoir and movie rights sale. He married a Hindu woman, Usha Chilukuri, a daughter of Indian immigrants with impressive teaching positions in the University of California system. 


Usha Vance continued her elite status by graduating from Yale, earning a master’s degree of philosophy from Cambridge University in England, and then graduating with a law degree from Yale Law School. She subsequently clerked for Brett Kavanaugh before he became a Supreme Court justice and for Chief Justice John Roberts. 


Dynasty? Some might think Trump picked 39-year-old Vance as his running mate to be the person to carry on his legacy once he leaves office (whenever that may be—I’m among those who wonder whether Trump would leave office voluntarily in January 2029 if he wins this year’s election). 


Not so quick, JD. I believe Trump would prefer a legacy of a familial dynasty. I believe he wants his 46-year-old first born, Donald J. Trump Jr., to be the 2028 Republican nominee. 


Do I have any evidence to sustain this belief? None. Just remember, if it comes to pass, you first heard about it here. 



Big Tent? In his acceptance speech Thursday night Trump made a point of espousing a bright future “for every citizen, whether you’re a young or old, man or woman, Democrat, Republican or Independent, Black or white, Asian or Hispanic.” 


He better hope lots of minorities were part of the television viewing audience because as the camera panned the delegates over the last four days, nary a black face could be seen, except the ones reporters corralled for interviews. 



A Decent Man: Joe Biden is a decent man. He needs to do one more decent act—decline his party’s nomination and let it venture forth with candidates immersed in 21st century thoughts. And energy.


Take a well-deserved ovation next month during the Democratic Party convention for a lifetime of service, Joe, particularly the last four years when you accomplished more than almost all other presidents. Accept accolades for choosing country and party over personal aggrandizement. 


Just do it quickly. Each day lost to equivocation represents countless lost votes needed to keep Trump from turning America into his personal fiefdom.  

Wednesday, July 17, 2024

Read It and Weep: Our Violent History

Victims of Actual and Planned Domestic Assassinations of Presidents, Candidates, Elected Officials and Public Figures (* represents successful assassinations)


President Andrew Jackson (1835)

President Abraham Lincoln (1865)*

President James A. Garfield (1881)*

President William McKinley (1901)*

Presidential candidate and former president Theodore Roosevelt (1912)

President-elect Franklin Delano Roosevelt (1933)

President Harry S. Truman (1950)

Civil Rights Activist Medgar Evers (1963)*

President John F. Kennedy (1963)*

Civil Rights Activist Malcolm X (1965)*

Civil Rights Activist Martin Luther King (1968)*

Senator and presidential candidate Robert F. Kennedy (1968)

Governor and presidential candidate George Wallace (1972)

President Gerald Ford (1975 and 1975)

Politician Harvey Milk (1978)*

Beatle John Lennon (1980)*

President Ronald Reagan (1981)

President Bill Clinton (1994)

President George W. Bush (2005)

Congresswoman Gabby Giffords (2011)

President Barack Obama (2011 and 2018)

Congressman Steve Scalise (2017)

Governor Gretchen Whitmer (2020)

Presidential candidate and former president Donald Trump (2017 and 2024)


It’s a formidable list, no doubt incomplete. But even so, a depressingly long refutation to the bromide many politicians and commentators have spouted since Thomas Crooks tried to kill Trump during a Saturday rally in Butler, PA, that American values are the antithesis of an assassination culture. 


I prefer the following from one of my favorite observers of today’s America: 


“An election cycle in a democracy is always a necessary cauldron of disunity because that is when we argue about political beliefs. The election itself is what unifies us. If Trump is elected, I will feel an enormous disappointment in the American people and a profound embarrassment for our country. But I will not question the legitimacy of his office. That is how we unite.


“I don’t want Trump killed. I want him to stand trial for his crimes. I want America to resoundingly reject him at the polls to announce to the world—and ourselves—that we have political and moral values that cannot be overturned by a criminal conman and a mob of self-righteous cultists. I want America to be the America we are capable of becoming rather than a huddle of fear that feeds off nostalgia and hate. 


“An unbalanced 20-year-old kid shooting at the president doesn’t define America, it’s our reaction that defines us.”


Those words were from Kareem Abdul-Jabbar whose writings on Substack about the intersection of sports, politics and popular culture define a persona far beyond his accomplishments as one of basketball’s greatest players.



Imperial Presidency? Now that the Supreme Court has in effect made our next president the equivalent of a king, I can imagine imperial accoutrements to the White House if Trump takes up residence there once more. 


Older readers might recall Richard Nixon’s beleaguered attempt to turn White House security guards into a version of a Victor Herbert operetta chorus.


According to the the web site wearethemighty.com, in January 1970 Nixon sought to emulate foreign uniforms he saw during his travels abroad.


“The new Secret Service uniforms included a white double-breasted tunic with golden shoulder trim and a thin-brimmed firm shako hat with a peaked front. It also featured black leather belts to match the hat, with a matching black leather holster for the Secret Service issue sidearm. The tunic was topped off with a gold ceremonial shoulder braid, black pants with a white stripe down the legs and black leather shoes” (https://images.app.goo.gl/GUALUUwZxT2jxdvj9).


Incessant mockery foiled the transformation. The uniforms were mothballed shortly after their introduction.


“The Secret Service wasn’t the last group to use the uniforms, however. After a decade of sitting in storage, the U.S. government decided to remove them and put them up for sale (at a deep, deep discount) to a school district marching band in Iowa who was having trouble procuring uniforms of their own. For around $5, the Iowa high schoolers were now able to wear the finest in government-made uniforms.” 


Don’t expect Trump to capitulate if he and Melania (if she deigns to return to the White House) decide to renovate their surroundings more to their imperial liking, critics be damned.