Belated New Year Thoughts on Blogging, Water, Solar, Lost Hats, Blimps, Guns and Foreign Students

Happy belated New Year. 

If it seems more time is passing between postings, you’d be correct. Last year I wrote 79 rants, er, blogs, compared to 85 in 2014, which was a reduction from 107 in 2013, which was 49 fewer than the 156 posted in 2012 and even that was 31 below my all-time production high of 187 in 2011.

Can I explain away this verbal shortfall? Somewhat, though some might discount my excuses. First in my mind is that for the last 16 months I have been driving Gilda to and from work Monday through Wednesday. That’s four to six hours behind the wheel each day, depending on traffic. Writing takes time, and, more to the point, the driving is exhausting. So blame Gilda if you crave but don’t get more blogging.

Second, for the last three years I have had a real estate license. I mostly help my friend Linda, occasionally co-hosting an open house, or erecting For Sale signs, or securing information from city/town hall records. Maybe I work a couple hours each week, not a lot, but enough to carve into my writing time. So blame Linda, as she’s the one who talked me into getting my realtor’s license.

Third, in response to several comments, I’ve reduced the number of blogs devoted to sports. After all, no one has replaced Derek Jeter on the New York Yankees as copy-worthy. 

Fourth, I’m to blame for just being … lazy. Lord knows there’s enough craziness out there, especially during this presidential election cycle, to keep me busy multiple times each week. Yet I too often fail to exert myself. Lethargy prevails. But what good is retirement if you can’t be excused for just goofing off? 

Okay, now that I’ve explained myself, here are some thoughts I hope interest you:

Water, Water Everywhere: Amid all the rainfall out West and the flooding along the Mississippi, not to mention how my backyard looks after last night’s and this morning’s monsoon, we should not lose sight of the real water problem that exists around the world—there’s a growing scarcity of potable water that threatens to be the next reason nations go to war or regions within our country dispute federal water management policies. 

Water has become more expensive than oil. Not really. Just seems that way. While clearing out some old files, I came across our city water bills for 2003. For the full year we used 10,200 cubic feet of water, equivalent to 76,301 gallons, at a cost of $73.80, or .0009672 cents per gallon. For 2015 we used 11,000 cubic feet of water, 82,285 gallons, at an annual cost of $220.60, or .0026809 cents per gallon—a 177.2% increase per gallon over the last 12 years. 

Had the price just increased by the cumulative rate of inflation (29%), our price per gallon of water would have been .0012476 cents for a grand total of $102.66. 

Solar Savings: At least we are saving money on our electricity usage thanks to our solar electric panels. Eight months into the program we’ve saved nearly $700. Equally important, we’ve reduced our ConEd dependence by nearly 5,000 kilowatts.  

Hats Off: I’m bummed out. I lost one of my favorite baseball hats, a promotional gift I received back in 1994 to celebrate the release of That’s Entertainment III by Metro Goldwyn Mayer. Actually, three hats came my way. I kept two and gave one to my art director, Milton, after he said he’d like one. 

The hats are quite pliable, making it easy to fold into a winter jacket pocket. I think I lost the hat in a movie theater while watching the new Star Wars flick. 

Bottom line—I preferred the hat over the movie. and by that I mean both Star Wars VII and That’s Entertainment III.

Hot Air Rising: Today’s CBS Sunday Morning aired a piece on the evolution of the Goodyear blimp. It reminded me of my quixotic attempt to bum a ride on a blimp moored in Miami.

Back in 1972, as part of a graduate journalism program at the Newhouse School of Public Communications of Syracuse University, my class covered the Florida presidential primary. We were stationed in Miami. I was assigned to follow the campaign of John Ashbrook, a conservative Republican congressman from Ohio. He had little chance of winning, especially in the Miami area, so I had lots of free time. Two of my classmates and I came upon a Goodyear blimp moored at a field. The blimp was there for coverage of a sporting event some days later. We talked up the crew who promised us a free ride the next day. When we arrived Tuesday morning at the mooring site, the blimp was not there. Seems Walter Cronkite’s crew had been ordered to film Miami vistas for that evening’s election coverage. I never forgave Cronkite for pre-empting my chance to float in air.

Bang Bang: Christmas Day I headlined a blog post asking if you found an AR-15 under your tree, Seems I wasn’t too far off from the truth. 

Click on this article from Britain’s The Daily Mail and you’ll see some extraordinary pictures of “Americans showing off their new weapons at the firing range the day after Christmas - including a woman’s custom-made pink anti-tank rifle”: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-3380575/

I fail to understand why anyone needs such personal firepower. 

Finally, Some International Humor you might identify with, courtesy of my brother-in-law David, who along with my sister Lee, has participated for several years in a university program to house foreign students in the Los Angeles area. Here are three “thank-you” notes received from Chinese parents by one program host:

“Thank you for teaching my son to wash dishes.”

“Thank you for teaching my daughter to make her own bed.”

“Thank you for teaching my son to cook and heat up his own food.”

New Year's Thoughts, Some Old, Some New

Nothing says the start of a new year like…a reprise of a previous blog posting! I was inspired to repeat myself by an article in the New Year’s Day New York Times (“Grand Arcade Is Once Again a Sight All Can See”) about public tours of the magnificent lobby of the Woolworth Building at 233 Broadway (http://www.nytimes.com/2015/01/01/nyregion/off-limits-for-over-a-decade-lobby-of-woolworth-building-is-open-for-tours.html?module=Search&mabReward=relbias%3Ar%2C{%221%22%3A%22RI%3A5%22}&_r=0). Thanks to my enterprising wife, I didn’t have to wait for a most fascinating tour of the lobby. She arranged a captivating 90 minute group viewing for three couples last April. 

So, without further ado, here’s what I wrote in August 2012, followed by some new thoughts as we embark on 2015:

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 8, 2012

An Empire Built on Nickels and Dimes  

Ever been inside the Woolworth Building at 233 Broadway in lower Manhattan? During my early days reporting on the retail industry, I went there often to meet with executives of what at the time was one of the most diversified international retailers, though not one of the most successful. Today, all that remains of that empire are memories, folklore and just one enterprise, Foot Locker.

Today’s nostalgia is prompted by reports the top 30 floors of the 57-story, Cass Gilbert-designed landmark building have been bought, to be turned into high-priced condominiums (http://www.nytimes.com/2012/08/08/realestate/top-floors-of-woolworth-building-to-be-remade-as-luxury-apartments.html?_r=1&hpw). How ironic these multi-million dollar residences will sit atop a building paid for from the proceeds of a nickel and dime store chain. Frank W. Woolworth paid for his edifice in cash, $13.5 million, what today would be the equivalent of nearly $300 million. 

The neo-Gothic structure, tallest in the world when it opened in 1913, was never meant to be solely the province of the Woolworth Corporation. Its headquarters staff used just a few of the floors, 44, 45 and 46, as I faintly recall. Some of its divisions, including Kinney Shoe Corp. from which Foot Locker sprang, had offices elsewhere in Manhattan. 

I first entered the Woolworth Building in late 1978, as part of research for a January 1979 feature on the company’s 100th anniversary. The building was nicknamed the “cathedral of commerce” the day it opened. Like the Gothic churches of Europe, the lobby’s vaulted ceilings, mosaics and stained glass made one feel insignificant. See for yourself: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:WTM3_PAT_M_IN_NYC_0021.jpg  

It inspired awe. And wonder, not the wonder of reverence, but rather the wonder of consternation. How could any company that produced such magnificence sink to a level of mediocrity and even insignificance? How could its executives fail to recognize changes within the retail industry? 

To be sure, the variety-store oriented Woolworth brain trust had diversified, investing in discount stores (Woolco), specialty stores (Susie’s Casuals, Anderson-Little, Richman Bros., Kinney), off-price stores (*J. Brannam), and international divisions (Canada, Mexico, Germany, Spain, Great Britain). Without going into an exhaustive explanation of what went wrong with each, the short story is they all underachieved. They were either closed down or sold off, save Foot Locker. (After shuttering the variety stores, Woolworth changed its name to Venator Group, then Foot Locker.)

Here’s one example that encapsulates the mentality of what went wrong. As they had for decades during the heyday of the five and dime store era, everyone took their 30-minute lunch break at 12 noon sharp. Executives and secretaries. It was impossible to reach anyone there by phone during that half hour. Nor was it possible to reach anyone after 4:30 pm., even if you were calling from the West Coast. They all went home. 

Modern day retailing needs found no home at 233 Broadway. No doubt, the new homeowners atop the Woolworth tower can expect to have all their modern day housing needs fulfilled. 

New Year Thoughts: Now that the holiday gift-giving season is over, we have about 30 days of silence before we hear again one of the most obnoxious radio commercials ever transmitted, the voice of Rocky Moselle pitching the Star Register “gift that lasts a lifetime” for just $34.99. Next time he’ll be hawking his star-naming scheme as an eternally loving Valentine’s Day gift.

I’m amazed that people, real people, actually respond to this shpiel, but I guess the aphorism about a sucker being born every minute is right (FYI, P.T. Barnum did not say it; rather it is widely believed to have been uttered by David Hannum, a contemporary and competitor of Barnum the showman). 

Aside from envy (“why didn’t I think of such a money-making scam?”), the Star Registry has generated its fair share of criticism and, thankfully, some amusing parodies including this one from Derfmagazine.com:

NEW YORK - Rocky Moselle, Spokesman for the international Star Registry, reported this week star names for all of the stars in the universe were sold out during this busy Christmas shopping season. Because experts believed the star inventory in the universe was infinite, the company was shocked by this sudden inventory depletion. In response to this crisis, the International Star Registry has announced plans to launch a new venture entitled, “International Grain of Sand Registry” which will allow the same gullible customer base to purchase and copyright a name for a grain of sand somewhere on earth. Also being market tested is the, “International Blade of Grass Registry”. 

Enough Already: I’ve written about liberties scriptwriters take with my given name, using it for characters as varied as inept, funny policemen to docile family dogs. For my 65th birthday last March my sister sent me a birthday card with a picture of a cat on the front with the following message: “This is Murray. Murray loves to be treated, pampered and be the center of attention.” On the inside it said, “So on your birthday, eat, drink and be Murray.”

I had previously seen this card, as well as a Christmas card that portrayed a Jewish looking Santa Claus shrugging his shoulders and saying “Murray Christmas.” I actually bought hundreds of them and sent them out to business associates many years ago.

The latest “ecumenical” stab at my name came from the animated TV show, “How Murray Saved Christmas,” broadcast in early December. Just so I’d know what I was writing about I taped it and watched a few minutes at the front and back of the show. Ugh. Please, Hollywood, can’t you find another funny name?

Biting My Tongue and Making Me Handsome, Again

So there I was in the waiting room of a Mohs surgeon late Thursday morning. Two elderly ladies (and that’s coming from a 64-1/2 year old) were sitting at a table across the room. One was filling out Christmas cards when she turned to the other, apparently a nun because the nurses kept referring to her as Sister Mary, and asked her to pick between two Christmas cards to send to a mixed marriage family with a Jewish father. She refused to compromise and get a Happy Holidays card. The nun scrutinized the cards and said neither would be appropriate. I resisted offering my advice.

They continued talking. The card bearer said the husband was a wonderful man. Sister Mary responded that Jewish people are nice, it's just that they stopped believing in the most wonderful person their religion produced. Again, I bit my tongue. She did, after all, acknowledge that Jesus was Jewish. Too many people don't realize this.

They talked a little longer about the couple’s child, a seventh grader in a Catholic school in Manhattan, a very bright girl who receives three hours of homework every night, six hours over the weekend. The girl was being pressed to take some SAT courses and she's just in seventh grade, but I say nothing, the card lady said. To the nun, however, she worried that all that work might turn the girl off from school.

They retreated into silence. I kept quiet. I’m not sure which was more of a challenge, staying silent or sitting through four and a half hours of Mohs surgery, enduring progressive slicing into my nose. Three times. 

The procedure wasn't painful. Indeed, the total time under the scalpel was probably less than five minutes. The rest of the ordeal was waiting for each slice to be analyzed to determine if any more basal cells resided in my schnozzle. When no more offensive corpuscles showed their colors, the surgeon said it was time to “make you look handsome again.” I thanked him for using the word “again.” 

At Gilda’s prodding I took a selfie of my nose, pre-surgery. I took another after the bandage was put on, along with another bandage in the area between my left ear and sideburn where the doctor nipped off a piece of skin for a graft for my nose. Be thankful the policy of this blog is not to include pictures.

More Medical News: Didn’t tell you about this last week, but I’ve apparently pulled a muscle in my left leg. As I don’t exercise, and didn’t play tennis last Wednesday, I really cannot tell you how I did this. Only thing I know is that after driving into the city last Friday and parking the car, I felt a sharp pain in my left calf within two blocks of walking. After that, until even today, I have been limping along.

In temple on Saturday, concerned congregants (mis)diagnosed me. Do I take statins?, they asked. Yes. Then for sure you have a condition called myopathy and need to take Coenzyme Q10. As I had a previously scheduled appointment with my internist on Wednesday I resisted following any of their advice. 

My internist diagnosed the leg pain as a plantaris muscle strain or pull. There’s dispute about how important the plantaris muscle is, but one thing’s for sure, he said—injury is not related to taking statins.

On another note, daughter-in-law Allison reminded me that not everyone should ingest nuts. Those with allergies, such as OUR GRANDSON FINLEY, should avoid all things nutty. Yeah, I forgot to update y’all that his allergy tests revealed he’s allergic to nuts. 

Let the Gift-Giving Begin

With the lighting of the first Hanukkah candle tonight, the annual gift-giving holiday season officially begins, not to end until Kwanza arrives one day after Christmas. Our material world seemingly knows no bounds.

I’m no innocent in this gorgefest of trinkets, toys and trifles. I have a primal need to acquire, though I must say that since retirement I have vastly curtailed my personal material gluttony. I used to enjoy visiting stores not just because it was part of my job but also because I would go on a quest to find something to indulge my desires. Now I mostly relieve my bank account of extra cash by buying “stuff” for our kids and their mates, our grandchildren, grand nieces and grand nephews. 

We overindulge Finley and Dagny, buying eight days’ worth of presents for each for Hanukkah. To be honest, it’s a lot easier choosing presents—clothing aside— for four-year-old Finley than 17-month-old Dagny. Aside from buying for the second child who already has access to Finley’s stash of goods, it’s tough tiptoeing through the minefield of gender neutrality when it comes to toys for a young girl. 

If you haven't been following it, most recently spurred by Goldieblox’s controversial use of a parody of the Beastie Boys song “Girls” (http://artsbeat.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/11/27/toy-company-pulls-beastie-boys-song-from-viral-video/), there's been quite a lively discussion on gender neutrality when raising a child. It's part of the overall debate on whether environment or heredity has more sway in a child's development. Last December, The NY Times ran an Op-Ed piece on gender-based toy marketing (http://www.nytimes.com/2012/12/23/opinion/sunday/gender-based-toy-marketing-returns.html?_r=0), followed by an interesting Letter to the Editor from a woman from Tarpon Springs, FL, which I will reproduce here: 

“I once thought that biological gender preferences were ‘ridiculous’ until I raised a girl and a boy born in 1983 and 1990, respectively. I raised my children — to the best of my feminist knowledge — without stereotypes and with a minimum of television.        

“But as a toddler, my daughter would mostly ignore the cars and trucks and spend hours with the dolls, while my son, seven years later, would discard within minutes his sister’s leftover dolls and find the cars and trucks — and most disconcertingly, form a gun with his pointer and thumb and shoot at things. His drive for toy guns, swords and light sabers knew no bounds, yet he has always been sweet and gentle.        

“The fact that toy marketers tap into biological preferences does not necessarily mean that we are being pushed back into an ‘unequal past’ or homophobia or ‘gender conformity.’

Our experience in raising Ellie parallels the author’s. Gilda was determined to avoid imprinting any feminist mystique into Ellie’s brain. She’d be raised as gender neutral as we could. No Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty stories for her, nothing to suggest that it would take a Prince Charming to fulfill her destiny. Ellie could play with any of her older brother’s toys, be they trucks or blocks, balls or Legos. She would not be given dolls, for sure no Barbies. 

Ellie did play with Dan’s toys, but it was obvious to Gilda’s friends she lacked a certain joie de vivre. At Ellie’s third birthday they took matters into their own hands, bestowing on her a torrent of dolls and frilly accessories. Ellie immediately transformed into a happy princess.   

Twas the Week After Christmas

Twas the week after Christmas, there wasn’t a whiff

Of congressmen rushing to avoid the cliff.

They bloviated, they blew, lots of hot air,

Leaving the country full of despair.

Grover Norquist smiled, severe in his stance,

No tax increase, not even a chance.

While families wondered how much more they will pay,

Uncle Sam stroked his beard all through the day.

From the shores of Hawaii the president rose,

To the microphones he stepped on tippy-tip toes.

“Now boys, and some girls, my vacation is done,

I’m returning to deal with you in Washington.

“Can’t we find some new common ground,

To keep most taxes low. Now, how does that sound?

Come Boehner, come Cantor, come McDonnell and more,

It’s time we talked some more to explore

A new fiscal plan that’s not all as stiff

As that Draconian plan that’s beyond the cliff.

We need to agree for the sake of the country

On measures to keep our fiscal sanity.”

Twas the week before New Year when all millionaires

Fretted and wondered if Congress would dare.

What plan could be hatched to take some more tax

From those who could pay, but always say “nay.”

It’s too soon to tell the end of this tale,

Be of good cheer, we have nothing to fear

But falling over a deep fiscal cliff,

Leaving the nation only slightly adrift.

Yule Be Sorry Edition

Pity the poor celebrant who is allergic to Christmas. Trees, that is. That tannenbaum—a real one, not an artificial evergreen—standing majestically in the corner of the living room carries mold and other allergens into the house, making sniffling or wheezing as common a holiday sound as carolers singing before your front door (at least in my Frank Capra version of the wonderful life we all live). 

Oh, and let’s not forget allergies also can be triggered by stress. Few times of year are more stressful than the end of year holidays. Notice I didn’t single out Christmas. As if they didn’t need more tsuris in their lives, Jews get agita from picking the right Hanukkah presents for their loved ones and from having to fight crowds in stores. The Chosen People don’t all buy at wholesale. Some of those fantastic retail discounts really are worth the ride to the shopping center. 

Of course, getting to the store is among the most dreaded activities. Today, for example, is a gridlock alert day in New York City. Moreover, according to a Consumer Reports online survey of 1,100 consumers, 40% rated “aggressive, thoughtless driving in parking lots” as among their most dreaded aspects of the Yuletide season. It trailed only “crowds, long lines” at 58% and “weight gain”, 41%. (Totals exceeded 100% because multiple responses were allowed.) 

Consumer Reports also found “60% of shoppers would rather receive cash as a present than a gift card. And 8-in-10 would rather receive something practical over something ostentatious as a gift.”

By the way, as irksome as seasonal music can be to some, only 14% said it bothered them, just slightly more than the 12% who said they dreaded “seeing certain relatives.”

One aspect of the holiday the CR survey did not measure was annoying commercials. Today I heard for the umpteenth time a spot for Hoodie-Footie pajamas, “the most talked about gift” of the year. For sure it was most talked about, given all the ad time the company has bought. It’s doubtful anyone but someone paid to talk about the hoodie-footie is talking about it.

I also have problems with an ad for a not-so-typical Christmas gift, that of an electric garage door opener. LiftMaster is advertising the ability to remotely access your garage from anywhere in the world just in case you realize from afar  your need to open or close your garage door. Don’t bother wondering why you could be halfway around the world before realizing your garage door may be open. Wonder instead why you are so detached from society that you don’t have a relative or friend who lives nearby whom you would not trust with your garage door code. 

Holiday Notes: Shopping, Woody Allen, Huckabee

Were you one of the 247 million Americans who trudged down to the mall over the 4-day Thanksgiving holiday to celebrate our collective good fortune by spending a record $59.1 billion? I wasn’t. Not that I don’t have lots to be thankful for, but I make it a point to abstain from the in-store frenzy. I didn’t even participate in the $1.5 billion Cyber Monday buy-fest. 

Perhaps because for 32 years I had to report on this ultra-patriotic shopping activity I developed a certain disdain for Black Friday, followed by Saturday and Sunday at the shopping center. Coverage of consumers fighting over Xboxes or big screen TVs or Ugg boots was all too predictable. Also predictable was the supposition that strong Thanksgiving weekend sales presaged an overall strong holiday shopping season. Yes, that could happen. But what usually transpired was a lull in spending that picked up only in the last 10 days before Christmas. Meanwhile, newspapers and electronic media wondered who would win the game of chicken between retailers who did not want to reduce prices and hurt their profit margins and consumers who wanted to wait until extreme discounts opened up their tight hold on their wallets. I’ll be very surprised if such stories don’t start appearing in about a week.

Too Awed to Ask: I’m a little behind in my reading, so I finally looked at a NY Times conversation with Robert De Niro printed November 18 in the magazine section. Written by the film critic A.O. Scott, the article highlighted a challenge many journalists confront when interviewing a famous person. Scott wrote, “I confess, however, that it took all my professional discipline to resist squandering the time I spent with De Niro on a recent Saturday afternoon in a slack-jawed fanboy recitation of his greatest hits. Oh, my God, you’re Jake Lamotta! You’re Johnny Boy! Your Travis Bickle! I’m talking to you.”

That paragraph reminded me of my year at Syracuse University earning a master’s degree in newspaper journalism. One of my classmates and best friends, Steve Kreinberg, got a freelance gig as a movie critic on the Syracuse New Times, an alternative lifestyle newspaper launched just two years earlier in 1969 (and still around today). After we laughed our way through Woody Allen’s Bananas in a suburban Syracuse movie theater—there is nothing that makes you feel more Jewish, and alone in the world, than guffawing at Woody Allen shtick when the rest of the audience is sitting cold, stone silent—Steve announced in the parking lot that he landed an interview with Allen the following week in New York City. Though Allen was in the middle of editing Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex* But Were Afraid to Ask, he agreed to meet Steve at his studio.

He drove down to Manhattan. When Steve returned he was uncharacteristically quiet. When the next edition did not run his interview I demanded an explanation. Sheepishly he admitted he lost all professional composure in the presence of the great man. He just kept gushing, “You’re Woody Allen. I love your work.” There’s only so many times he could say that before Woody determined this interview was going nowhere. 

Steve eventually recovered his moxie and went on to become one of the five question writers for the old Hollywood Squares show (the one that featured Paul Lynde in the center square). He was expected to write 50 acceptable questions per day, and yes, celebrities were counseled before each show on topics they would be asked. After Hollywood Squares Steve and his writing partner Andy became staff writers for Archie Bunker’s Place (Carroll O’Connor’s successor show to All in the Family) as well as for Herman’s Head, Saved by the Bell, Head of the Class, Nine to Five and Mork & Mindy. 

Funny, He Doesn’t Look Jewish: I’m always amused when out of left field a famous person has it revealed that deep in their past a Jewish gene lurks. Think former secretary of state Madeleine Albright (though how an intelligent woman like she could not figure out her parents chose to flee Prague in 1938 because of their Jewish origins is beyond my ken). 

Anyway, I was reading this week’s NY Times magazine when I came across this response from Mike Huckabee, the former governor of Arkansas, also-ran 2008 Republican presidential primary candidate, Southern Baptist minister and Fox News Channel talk show host. Asked how to celebrate the holidays, Huckabee said, “On Christmas Eve, we go to the service at our church, and when it’s over, we go out for Chinese food.” 

Funny, I didn’t know Huckabee was Jewish (for my non-Jewish readers, ask a Jewish friend why it's funny). 

Is Sears Worth Holding?

It’s the post-Christmas season, that favorite time of year for stock analysts and business journalists to bang out on their keyboards early obituaries for Sears Holdings, operator of Sears and Kmart stores. The latest hospice vigil comes on the heels of the company’s announcement it would close 120 stores after disappointing holiday sales.

For more years than not over the last nearly four decades, I have been part of the annual exercise of wondering just how long these two venerable retail chains could survive. Seemingly year after year, customers have abandoned Sears and Kmart for fresher, more nimble, more price sensitive competitors, be they Wal-Mart, Target, Best Buy, Bed Bath and Beyond, Old Navy or Amazon.com.

A true test of whether a company can, or should, survive, is the answer to the following question—would you miss it if closed its doors forever? Syms and its subsidiary Filene’s Basement are in the process of shuttering. I was a frequent Syms shopper. I must have bought at least 20 suits from Syms over the years. Though I haven’t bought a suit in about five years, I still liked walking the stores, both the one across the street from my former office and the outlet in Westchester. Just last week, for old times sake, I stopped by the Syms in Westchester. It was a depressing visit. Customers were picking over the bones of the remaining merchandise and fixtures. I’ll miss it. Maybe Century 21 will take its place. That would be nice.

Would you miss Sears or Kmart? I would. More Sears than Kmart. I’ve bought many a tool from Sears. Craftsman tools. Break them and get a free replacement. I broke the shaft of an awl back in my firewood-splitting days. Brought it back to Sears for a replacement, no questions asked. I’ve bought washing machines, dryers, a freezer and a refrigerator. I’ve bought apparel there as well, nothing fancy, just some shirts, underwear, Levi’s jeans. Everything I’ve bought at Sears, it seems to me, I bought on sale, perhaps even clearance. And that’s part of the company’s problem. Almost nothing in Sears is worth buying at full price, nothing enticing to make me want to go to Sears. Even its Consumer Reports top-rated laundry machines weren’t appealing until they went on sale and the salesman had to throw in added incentives.

Still, knowing Sears was there, and possibly carried what I wanted, was a comfort, a crutch to my consumerism. I’d miss Sears if it weren’t there. There was a time, from 1980 through about 2000, when I was fortunate enough to be the first journalist to interview every new, incoming head of Sears. I also knew the chief executives of Kmart, back then an independent company not part of Sears Holdings.

I can’t say I enjoy shopping at Kmart. It just never feels right inside its stores. I never find any apparel, except Hanes or Fruit of the Loom underwear, worth buying. Except, one time I bought a silk tie in a Kmart outside Detroit. I can’t tell you how many of my friends complimented me on that tie. I resisted asking them for $3 so I could buy one for them.

A Christmas Story

They were selling poinsettias at Wal-Mart today, $3.47 for a basic, potted, 6-inch, red-leafed flower associated with Christmas.

I admit it. I was a real rube when it came to poinsettias (and lots of other things) when I left the sheltered confines of Brooklyn in September 1972 to become a reporter for the New Haven, Conn., Register. I had never heard of poinsettias, much less actually seen one. It’s not the type of plant one finds around Jewish homes.

Yet one of the big stories of 1972 in New Haven was the poinsettia scandal. I was too embarrassed at the time to ask anyone what a poinsettia was, too timid to delve deep into this religious crisis. As best I can remember it, one or more people in the city administration took advantage of the municipality’s annual poinsettia purchases, intended for public distribution, to spruce up their own holiday surroundings at, shall we say, less than cost.

Who knew there was more yuletide foliage than a Christmas tree, some holly and mistletoe?


I consider myself fortunate I don’t celebrate Christmas. Not from a religious reason. I’m sure it would be nice to be part of the majority, for a change. No, my reason is far more practical. If I were Christian I would have to decorate a Christmas tree and set up an elaborate outdoor light display. I have no doubt Gilda would mandate it. She’s told me I lucked out not being Christian. I'd have a real problem fulfilling her wishes. No way I would be able to string those lights across our bushes and doorfront, much less get up on a ladder to hang lights from trees, eaves, gutters and other points higher than six feet. I'm fortunate to get our electric hanukkiah to light up on the window sill, though too often I get the number of candles to be lit each night wrong. No, I'm much better off not having been chosen to hang Christmas decorations.

But that doesn't mean I don't enjoy them. In fact, riding around looking at Christmas decorations is one of Gilda’s and my favorite December jaunts. We used to have full cul-de-sac decoration-participation on Briga Lane and surrounding streets a few blocks from our home, complete with bumper to bumper gawkers every night. Over the years, however, many of the homeowners moved, replaced by families who are a little less effusive about their holiday light treatments.

Ah, well, there’s always Dyker Heights in Brooklyn. An area just southeast of the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, Dyker Heights was unknown to me as a child. But since Ellie has lived in Brooklyn for the last few years we’ve made an annual pilgrimage to be overwhelmed by the creative, large displays set up on the porches and fronts of the row houses that dominate the mostly Italian neighborhood. It might cost you a few bucks to feed the charity kitty of some of the homeowners, but it’s well worth the donation.


Rather than bring out peaceful thoughts among mankind, Christmas has a way of igniting controversy. Too much of it is politically tinged with liberal vs. conservative doctrine. For a somewhat humorous take on the war on Christmas, here are two clips, one from Jon Stewart of The Daily Show, the other from Bill O’Reilly of The O’Reilly Factor (I’m sure you can guess which side each falls on. FYI, the O'Reilly clip reprises some of Stewart's commentary before getting to his response.). Enjoy:

http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/tue-december-6-2011/tree-fighting-ceremony

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-EAMUh42a5c

Two-Wheeled Trauma

Lots of children woke up Christmas morning to find a bicycle under the tree. Or maybe a two-wheeler showed up under the Hannukah menorah a few weeks ago. Either way, my reaction to these childhood conveyances can best be summarized by the following headline: “Fell Off My Bike, and Vowed Never to Get Back On.”

The accompanying article (http://www.nytimes.com/2010/11/30/health/nutrition/30best.html?_r=1&src=me&ref=homepage) reconfirmed my antipathy toward a sport, an exercise, that I have disdained since around the time I was 7. I never learned to ride a bicycle as a child, a deprivation of youth I attributed to my father (why blame myself when an adult authority figure is readily available and central to the story?).

Like any good father, my father was teaching me to ride without training wheels, a feat he had accomplished with my brother and sister. Behind our home in Brooklyn, we shared a T-shaped common driveway leading to the garages tucked into the back of each row house. The long portion of the paved driveway was at least the length of a football field and was commonly used for many of the games we played such as ringolevio, punchball and blind man’s bluff. It was a perfect place to learn to ride a bike.

My father dutifully ran alongside the bike holding it steady as I attempted to maintain balance. All was going well. I turned my head to tell him something, but he wasn’t there. I must have been at least 10 yards past him, cycling on my own. But I panicked. I crashed down to the hard pavement. I ran back home, crying to my mother, “Daddy let go.” I was inconsolable, determined never again to trust him to hold me steady, resolute in my opinion that my large tricycle was just as good as a two-wheeler. All my friends pedaled circles around me on their two-wheelers. I countered I could run just as fast as they could bike.

No amount of coaxing could change my mind. It stayed closed-minded for the next 33 years, until I was 40 and Ellie was 7. She had just learned to ride. Gilda threatened to go on biking vacations with Dan and Ellie without me. So I learned (subject of a future blog). On our first bike outing as a family, around the SUNY Purchase perimeter road, Ellie tumbled down a steep hill in front of me. Good thing she was wearing a helmet.

A few months later we were riding in Garden City while attending one of Dan’s soccer tournaments. As we came to Stewart Avenue, a major roadway, I suggested we ride on the sidewalk. Gilda said it would be safer in the street. Fearful of cars, I insisted on the sidewalk. Gilda gave in. As we approached a massive tree with a low hanging branch, Dan said he would try to reach up to touch it. I turned my head to tell him not to, in so doing steered my bike directly into the tree trunk. I crashed, breaking my fall with my right forearm. X-rays from a midnight trip to the emergency room revealed no broken bones, but the wrist took months to heal, less time than it took my ego to admit Gilda was right about where to ride.

The next summer as we were biking on vacation I fell as a car came too close to me on a hairpin turn (at least that was my view). I decided I preferred safety to biking with family and have rarely been aboard a bike since. A few years ago we donated my bike. We gave Gilda’s to our daughter-in-law Allison. Gilda keeps hinting she’d like us to buy recumbent bikes, the type that are low to the ground. I doubt we will. I have too much regard for my bones and insufficient confidence in my stability on two wheels.

You Get What You Pay For

During the recent media coverage of Derek Jeter’s contract negotiations, I heard it reported that George Steinbrenner never wanted any incentives built into his players’ deals, no extra money, say, for winning the league most valuable player award. The Boss reasoned, after all, that he was paying top dollar for top performances. He expected nothing less than an MVP effort from everyone, so why pay extra?

That approach to fiscal management comes to mind because a trend seems to be surfacing in municipalities across the country. To bulk up budgets stretched too thin by stingy politicos, police and fire departments are charging for services that until now seemed to be included in your tax bill, services such as showing up at the scene of an accident. Now, some localities are charging for an appearance by rescue crews, even if you weren’t at fault. Here’s an article for perspective: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/09/05/automobiles/05CRASHTAX.html?_r=1&scp=1&sq=cary%20feldman&st=cse

I’m as sympathetic as the next guy to the financial plight of fire and police departments. I believe these first responders deserve all the pay, and more, that we can give them for being willing to risk their lives every day for us ordinary citizens. But I have a real problem with administrators trying to balance budgets on a pay-as-you-go basis. I worry about setting a precedent. I mean, if civil servants desire more money each time their services are required, how soon will they draw up a menu with a sliding scale of charges?:

$50 to retrieve a cat from a tree or roof; $100 to respond to a house alarm, $200 if it’s a false alarm; $300 to search for a missing child, $500 nuisance charge if the child shows up at the local mall.

And why stop with the fire and police departments? Sanitation workers could impose a surcharge for picking up trash after a holiday. Say, $50 for Thanksgiving, New Year’s and Easter, but $100 for Christmas because of the extra wrapping paper and boxes. Highway departments could charge for plowing after every snowfall, the rate determined by how many inches came down. Teachers could demand a bonus for above average test grades and graduation rates; city hospital workers could exact payments if they cure patients, or at least send them home alive.

The budget-balancing possibilities are endless.

Of course, there might be a silver lining to this pay-for-service plan. To attract new residents and businesses, municipalities might begin advertising their rates as lower than nearby communities. Price wars might result. They might get so intense that police and fire department services might be offered free of extra charge, just like they’re supposed to be.