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. 

Picture This

Over breakfast most mornings I scan the Turner Classic Movies listings in the newspaper to see if there are any old time flicks that interest me. This morning I noticed The Blob was to be shown tonight at 8. Starring Steve McQueen, the 1958 movie is far from a classic sci-fi thriller. But as an impressionable 9-year-old sitting in a darkened theater, I was forever frightened by its coming attractions, never to see this flick, not then, not now.

The trailer aired before two movies I distinctly remember, Run Silent, Run Deep, and The Decks Ran Red. I had tagged along with my older brother, Bernie, and his friend, Jerry, for an afternoon of celluloid entertainment. Other than being scared out of my wits (there was a preview of another even scarier sci-fi film, but its title escapes me), the double-bill features did not disappoint. Run Silent, Run Deep starred Clark Gable and Burt Lancaster as officers of a WWII submarine. James Mason received top billing in The Decks Ran Red, a story about a mutiny aboard a freighter.

I don’t know why, but certain movies from my childhood have stayed with me, not because I have seen them time and again on television (though mostly I have), but because I remember the circumstances of when and where I saw them as a youngster.

In 1956, our mother took my brother, sister Lee and me to see The Ten Commandments at Radio City Music Hall. First, we had lunch at Schrafft’s. A day of spectacle any 7-year-old would remember.

That same year, while my brother attended a bar-mitzvah party, my father took Lee and me to a screening of Hill 24 Doesn’t Answer, the first feature film produced in Israel. It told the story (mostly in English) of a group of four Israeli soldiers assigned to hold a strategic hill near Jerusalem during the War of Independence. As the title implies, they did not survive their mission.

I remember seeing what should have been a most forgettable double bill, Pocketful of Miracles, a less than fulfilling 1961 remake of the delightful Lady for a Day (both, incidentally, directed by Frank Capra), and Party Girl, a story about mobsters and molls in early 1930s Chicago.

Two of the earliest movies I saw were Seven Brides for Seven Brothers (1954) and The Trouble With Harry (1955). Both times our babysitter, Madeline, took us to the theater, most probably because she wanted to see them herself.

When I was 10 years old in 1959, I encountered my first example of censorship, and how to beat it. Twelve-year-old Lee and I went to see Cary Grant and Tony Curtis in Operation Petticoat. Because of the “raciness” of the script, we were barred from entering the movie house on Coney Island Avenue and Avenue U without an adult. Not to be deterred, we made our way to the theater at Kings Highway and Coney Island Avenue where they were more than glad to take our money.

Tie-ing Up Politics to Move Forward

What’s with all the grey ties Obama has been wearing lately? They may be beautiful, but to my eye, and those of some professional observers, they are sending the wrong message.

One blogger asked, “Is Obama trying to look like a mortician with his dark suit and grey tie get up?” Those who disagree with his stewardship of our country might agree he’s trying to bury us.

From Britain comes this generic analysis of color from Scarlet Pixel, the self-described “Internet leaders in online personal colour analysis”:

“The wearing of grey ties, or suits for that matter, can easily give out the robust message that you are a 'company' person, evasive and not open to commitment or ready to take a stand over any issue (http://www.scarletpixel.com/).” Ouch, that’s so spot-on, as the English say. It’s enough to make someone choke up because the knot is too tight around the neck.


Speaking of choking up, I don’t have any problem with incoming Speaker of the House John Boehner tearing up and crying as he recalls his bootstrapping history to live the good life and making sure “kids have a shot at the American dream,” as he told Leslie Stahl on 60 Minutes last Sunday. Clips also showed Boehner choking up when he thinks about the safety and security of America.

I do, however, wonder about Boehner’s total judgment—how is it that we don’t see him crying when he thinks of all the people who are unemployed? Why does he appear dried-eyed and ready to cut off their jobless benefits unless he and his fellow millionaires get an extension of the Bush tax cuts for the wealthiest 2% of our population? Does he shed tears over the millions without health insurance? Does his waterworks flow when he talks about the rights homosexuals are denied, or is he afraid he might be suspected of being gay if he showed compassion for another human being?

Crying in public is now okay, apparently, but let’s make sure our politicians do it because they care for their fellow man and woman, not because they’re overcome by their own good fortune.


Speaking of fortunes, and ties, Mayor Michael Bloomberg eschewed a red or blue tie, or a combination of the two colors, as he attended the launch of the No Labels party this week. He wore a purple cravat. For those not familiar with No Labels, it’s an attempt to defuse the partisanship found in the Democratic and Republican parties, a movement its founders hope will be a little more permanent than Jon Stewart’s recent Rally to Restore Sanity. Here’s how No Labels describes itself on its Web site, http://nolabels.org/: “We are Democrats, Republicans, and Independents who are united in the belief that we do not have to give up our labels, merely put them aside to do what’s best for America.”

As an Independent (to express my objectivity when I began as a reporter in 1972, I chose not to affiliate with either party), I must admit I usually side with progressive, liberal politicians, the kind generally found in the Democratic party. Through the years I’ve occasionally voted for a Republican, but by no stretch of the imagination could my voting record be considered evenly split.

I agree with the idea behind No Labels. But anyone who believes electing a No Label president and even some senators and congressmen would change our political system is far from realistic. The last two years have shown that in the Senate it requires at least 60 fair-minded humans to accomplish anything. I doubt that among the 100 senators there ever again will be 60 fair-minded, bi-partisan humans who care more for country than party, who care more for the people they were elected to serve than the party leaders and lobbyists/special interests they truly serve.

I can’t pinpoint when we started to spoil political discourse—some say it began with the 1987 Bork Supreme Court nomination fight—but we’ve gone far astray from Frank Capra’s wonderful life celluloid image of America the beautiful and moral.


The new word in politics is “forward.” Just ask the media, as noted by Stewart on last night’s Daily Show. MSNBC started it with a new slogan—”Lean Forward,” countered by Fox News with “Move Forward,” and dissed by CNN’s “Moving Truth Forward.” No Labels trumped them all with its motto—"Not left. Not right. Forward."

Given the state of our national dialogue, it’s hard to believe we’re going anywhere except maybe backward. Tea Party members would like to take us back to a time when women and minorities had few if any rights, there was no income tax or health care of any kind, no social security, no regulatory federal powers, and, maybe, even to a time when not even the U.S. Supreme Court would deny the right of a white man to own a black slave.