Valentine's Message and Scalia's Enduring Impact

It’s Valentine’s Day. If you’re anything like me you're elated, but curious, as to why you have not heard radio advertisements from Rocky Moselle pitching the International Star Registry as the perfect way to express your love by naming a star for eternity after a beloved. 

A quick Google check revealed the following amusing news item from satiric derfmagazine.com: “International Star Registry runs out of stars, launches International Grain of Sand Registry.” 

Here’s the full text of the pie-in-the-sky, tongue-in-cheek item:

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.”

For many years I was able to convince my family it was sacrilegious to celebrate Valentine’s Day and, for that matter, Halloween as Jews aren’t expected to honor saints, so St. Valentine’s Day was a no-no and Halloween, also known as All Saints Day, was definitely beyond the pale—no trick or treating for you, Dan and Ellie. 

Several years ago, after the kids had flown the coop, Gilda informed me we were henceforth celebrating Valentine’s Day with greeting cards, though gifts were not required. I acquiesced. This year I again dutifully bought Gilda a card, only to be newly informed we no longer had to exchange cards. Go figure.

Seven Inches: Months ago we ordered a floor mat for the wood floor in front of our kitchen sink. We asked for a 93-inch custom length to exactly fit between cabinets on either side of the sink. 

When the mat arrived it curled up slightly at one end. I measured. It was 94 inches. I called the company. A representative apologized and asked if I’d like a replacement. But he cautioned that custom work permits a manufacturer to deviate from the desired specifications by as much as seven inches. My next mat could be as small as 86 inches or as long as 100 inches, or anywhere in between. 

Who knew ordering a custom mat could be such a gamble?

I opted to keep the original.

And Now for Some Serious Thoughts: Even in death, influential, conservative, Supreme Court justice Antonin Scalia will have a lasting, profound effect on the future of the United States.

The debate on the propriety, though not the legality, of President Obama nominating a successor during his last year in office will reverberate throughout the primary and election seasons. That’s a given, as is the Republican-dominated Senate’s refusal to approve any Obama nomination before the election.

More lasting will be the impact on voter turnout next November as each party will no longer be talking about the abstraction of the next president having the power to shape the court. Scalia’s death removed any doubt that voters themselves will have a direct say in the bent the court may take for the foreseeable future.

It will be a get-out-the-vote contest in every borderline state, not just for president but for Senate seats, as well. 

I Never Really Liked Halloween

Just five kids braved our cul de sac to trick or treat last night. Can’t really blame them or their parents who tagged along. I wouldn’t have gone out last night, either. Then again, I never really liked Halloween. I don't remember dressing up in a costume to go trick or treating as a youngster. My antipathy toward Halloween carried over to my parenting. I reasoned that since Halloween really was All Saints Day it was a Christian holiday, one good Jewish children shouldn't celebrate. Besides Gilda and I didn't want Dan and Ellie eating candy. I'm also not into scary movies, especially ones wherein a haunted house plays a central role. 

Perhaps my aversion to haunted houses goes back to my early childhood. Across the street from our brick row house on Avenue W in Brooklyn in the early 1950s stood a dirty grey, two or three story clapboard structure recessed back from the road. I say dirty grey, but in truth the house started off white. Years of neglect turned it dirty grey. The small plot of lawn in front of the house was overgrown with weeds.

No children lived there. The only person we ever saw going into and out of the house was a wizened geezer. He walked stooped over, his grey suit jacket draping a skeletal body. His cheeks appeared sallow and shallow, as if he had no teeth to keep them from caving in on his gums. A stub of a cigarette dangled from his lips. His grey hair ran wild. He was, to a young boy and his friends with furtive imaginations, a most scary fellow, the type of shadowy figure Scout and Jem envisioned of Boo Radley in To Kill a Mockingbird. Even his name made us squirm—Pupkis. 

My friends, Lenny and Richie, and I weren’t old enough to cross Avenue W by ourselves, so we never threw rocks or fuzz balls at Mr. Pupkis or his home. One day, maybe when I was eight or nine, Pupkis and his home were gone. In short order they were replaced by side-by-side adjoining brick homes. Into one of them moved a family with a daughter, Sherry, who became one of my sister’s best friends. The most memorable aspect of Sherry’s home was her living room furniture. Her mother encased the sofa and chairs in protective plastic. People did that back in the 1950s and early 1960s. 

One other noteworthy event occurred on Avenue W between East 18th and East 19th Street. A few years later on a Friday evening in the spring, just as our family was sitting down to Sabbath dinner, we heard sharp popping sounds—gunfire— from across the street, followed by a man’s anguished cry. We looked out the dinette window to see police detectives stuff a portly man handcuffed from behind into an unmarked car. Turned out he was a drug dealer. The detectives had pursued him down his driveway into his back yard, firing their pistols in the air to get him to stop fleeing. We didn’t know the family. I don’t think they would have been the type of folks my parents would have had as friends. 

More Sandy Fallout: Wednesday’s NY Times carried a letter from Joseph McCaffrey of Bala Cynwyd, Pa., arguing for early voting legislation in all 50 states so that future disasters, wherever they may occur, don’t limit suffrage opportunities. “Mother Nature is nonpartisan and could take out red or blue states in the future and severely affect national elections,” he wrote.

McCaffrey must be a Democrat as he tagged Mother Nature (another euphemism for God) as being nonpartisan. No self-respecting Republican, at least in this time of Akins, Santorum, Bachmann and Mourdock, would declare God to be anything but a card carrying member of the Grand Old Party. 

My Mistake: Another example of why it’s very hard to copy edit yourself. In Wednesday’s post I wrote Hurricane “Sally,” not Sandy (since corrected). My apologies. To those who wrote in, thank you. To everyone else, this is another example of seeing what you want to see, not what the reality is. 

Cain Not Able

Whether you believe the accusations of sexual misconduct by Herman Cain or his protestations of innocence, the tempest at long last shines a light on his tenure as head of the National Restaurant Association. Contrary to a NY Times article last Thursday suggesting Cain has no legislative or political track record, the former CEO of Godfather’s Pizza has an extensive history of anti-working class positions.

As the chief lobbyist for the NRA and before that as an influential member and president of the trade group, Cain diligently worked to oppose minimum wage hikes, health care provisions for workers, and other progressive legislation. He championed libertarian causes. As someone who allied the NRA with tobacco interests, it is not surprising he did not object to the recent ad on his Web site featuring chief of staff Mark Block smoking a cigarette.

I know Cain appeals to voters as a supposed Washington outsider. Plus, his career as a motivational speaker provides him a glibness not found in almost all of the other candidates. I am perplexed, however, how anyone who has looked into his record, or listened to his ill-considered responses to questions, could support him, unless they were millionaires or regressive thinkers. The presidential primary run is intended to flesh out a candidate’s thoughts, yet Cain has indicated he will limit public speaking engagements so as not to self-inflict foot-in-the-mouth disease with erroneous or flawed thoughts.

Cain is an interesting diversion, but clearly he is not able to be, or capable of being, president of the United States.


Can You Hear Me Now? The other day while washing my hands in a local office building’s public restroom, a man came in to use the facilities and continued a business conversation on his cell phone. I was astounded.

Sometimes my cell phone rings in a public restroom. If it’s a family member, I’ll reluctantly answer. But I’d never answer for anyone else. Maybe I’m old fashioned, but I just don’t understand how anyone would conduct a business call in a public bathroom. How would you explain that gushing sound from the next stall? Has our collective etiquette been flushed down the toilet?


Winter Wonderland?: Not exactly, given all the broken tree limbs from the late October snowfall that hit the northeast. Even before the storm I was amused to see at least two locations, one a residence, the other a professional office building, decked out in Christmas lights. Halloween had not yet passed. Gimme a break.

Speaking of Halloween, once again my best laid plans to provide candy to the trick-or-treaters came up short. Only one kid ventured out Monday night, and she came at 8:30! Perhaps it was the snow, or the down power line halfway up the block that scared away the little beggars.

Back to Christmas, I’ll go on record again as being against plans by retail companies to prime customers to rush to their stores on Black Friday, or in this year’s case, at midnight at the end of Thanksgiving Day. Sure, there will be many too-good-to-pass-up sales, which in turn will cause some to literally crush the competition (i.e., other customers) on their mad rush to scoop up as many bargains as possible. We’ll be lucky if no deaths or serious injuries befall any customers or store personnel, as happened a few years ago at a Wal-Mart in Valley Stream, NY.

Most people’s wallets are hurting, given the high unemployment and their reduced buying power. It’s understandable they will be enticed by sharp deals. But why must we as a society condone and perpetuate behavior akin to beasts tearing at the flesh of prey? Why must we turn our holidays into a circus of greed and animus toward fellow shoppers?

Aside from the depravity retailers encourage among customers, they also subject their staffs to work conditions most of us would not tolerate if we had a choice. How many among us want to leave our families to work on national holidays, or start a shift at midnight? I guess when most store personnel are working at minimum wage or just slightly better they have little choice but to accept the assignment, even if it’s at time and a half.

It all makes for good television news spectacle, crowds gathered around a store, especially if the weather is inclement and their tribulations are multiplied. Many TV reports will try to divine a sales trend. Black Friday, however, years ago stopped being a harbinger of holiday season sales. Now it is just a cruel manifestation of the class division that has cleaved our country. When was the last time you saw Neiman Marcus, or Bergdorf Goodman, or Tiffany, or Gump’s open for business in the middle of the night? No, the rich can shop during civilized hours. The rest of America, the 99%, must fight for discounts in the middle of the night.


A Thoughtful Goodbye: Robert Pierpoint, a longtime CBS News correspondent, died last week. He was 86. I met Pierpoint in 1972 during his tenure as a White House correspondent. His office was a little larger than a phone booth, but he invited me in to discuss the thesis of a term paper I was researching for my master’s degree in journalism. I always appreciated his hospitality and reporting.