Zero tolerance is a laudable policy when abhorrent behavior is clearly visible in black and white. But as we’ve seen in the recent, sad affair surrounding Shirley Sherrod, the Agriculture Department official wrongly accused of racism and fired before all the facts were evident, reality is nuanced with shades of grey, making hasty judgments and actions suspect.
One Friday afternoon about five years ago, a frantic Human Resources person called to tell me we had to immediately fire one of my editors. His crime? A review of computer logs—a common, legal practice in many companies—revealed he had visited a pornographic Web site. Zero tolerance dictated swift, non negotiable action, I was told.
Whoa, said I. First, I couldn’t afford to release him that day. He still owed copy for our next issue. More importantly, deeper investigation seemed in order. As our Internet retailing editor, his beat was Web commerce, and, like it or not, pornography is the best seller in cyberspace. Perhaps he was just doing, ahem, some research. Beyond that, I asked if we knew how long he lingered on the offensive site? Maybe his computer accidentally was forwarded to that Web page. If corporate skulduggery showed he quickly escaped the site, that would show his intent was honorable, not sleazy. HR agreed on a stay of execution, pending more investigation. When the tapes were studied over the weekend, the editor was cleared.
The stakes in the Sherrod fiasco involve more than just a job lost. The Obama administration is quick to point out this incident is a “teaching moment.” Hopefully, one of the lessons the administration (as well as the NAACP and the media) learned is that rash decisions, even if done with good intentions, must be incontrovertibly supported by all the facts. Let’s further hope that President Obama finally gets that no matter what he does, he will never do enough to satisfy the conservative opposition. He should stop pandering and start acting presidential, not deferential.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
A Night at the Opera
Tonight at 8, PBS will broadcast a performance of Der Rosenkavalier from the Metropolitan Opera House in New York.
I’ve never seen this comic opera written by Richard Strauss (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Der_Rosenkavalier), but it has special significance in my life. On their first date in the summer of 1942, my father took my mother to see this opera.
They had met days before, at his store on Orchard Street. He was standing on a rolling ladder, the type you see in libraries, when, by pre-arrangement, my mother came to meet him. At the sight of her, he nearly fell off the ladder. She had the most unruly, frizzy hair. Ever the gentleman, Dad went through with the match and agreed to take her to the opera Friday night. When he arrived at her parents’ apartment Friday evening, a beautiful woman opened the door. Knowing she had three sisters, he asked for Sylvia. My mother smiled and said she was Sylvia. They were married Labor Day weekend, six weeks later, September 6, 1942. Their marriage lasted 53 years until her death in 1996.
It is almost exactly six weeks before Labor Day. I think I’ll watch, or at least record, Der Rosenkavalier, tonight.
I’ve never seen this comic opera written by Richard Strauss (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Der_Rosenkavalier), but it has special significance in my life. On their first date in the summer of 1942, my father took my mother to see this opera.
They had met days before, at his store on Orchard Street. He was standing on a rolling ladder, the type you see in libraries, when, by pre-arrangement, my mother came to meet him. At the sight of her, he nearly fell off the ladder. She had the most unruly, frizzy hair. Ever the gentleman, Dad went through with the match and agreed to take her to the opera Friday night. When he arrived at her parents’ apartment Friday evening, a beautiful woman opened the door. Knowing she had three sisters, he asked for Sylvia. My mother smiled and said she was Sylvia. They were married Labor Day weekend, six weeks later, September 6, 1942. Their marriage lasted 53 years until her death in 1996.
It is almost exactly six weeks before Labor Day. I think I’ll watch, or at least record, Der Rosenkavalier, tonight.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
The Major, The Navy, and a Simple Word
The celebration of the late George M. Steinbrenner III continues, with some of his admirers advocating his immediate election to the Baseball Hall of Fame rather than making the legendary, controversial owner of the NY Yankees wait several years as other mortals must.
The last two weeks have been particularly sad for Yankee fans. Aside from Boss George, we lost Bob Sheppard, the longtime “voice of the Yankees.”
Equally poignant was the death of Ralph Houk, the Major, a true World War II decorated hero, who managed the pinstriped boys in The Bronx for 11 years, winning three straight pennants (1961-63) and two consecutive World Series (1961-62). Houk’s first three years as Yankee skipper spanned the last glory years of Mickey Mantle, Whitey Ford, Yogi Berra, and Roger Maris. He returned for a second stint as manager during the nadir of the franchise, taking over in 1966 and staying until the end of 1973, Steinbrenner’s first year as owner. It’s no coincidence Houk left the Yankee dugout when he did. His managerial philosophy could not have been more diametrically different than Steinbrenner’s.
“I don’t think you can humiliate a player and expect him to perform,” Houk was quoted as saying.
The bottom line is this: when Houk was given great players, the team won. When his roster had aging or mediocre talent, like Horace Clarke, the team failed. The same can be said for Steinbrenner’s bullying manners. When he paid for the right players, they won. When he bought the wrong players, they failed to win.
Ask Not...: It’s a very simple word. Only three letters. A-S-K. But this word is among the most mispronounced in the English language. Listen, not even too carefully, and too often you will hear someone say “aks” instead of “ask.” Education or socio-economic environment or race doesn’t typecast offenders. One of my former staffers made this egregious mistake, and believe me, when a reporter/editor says in an interview, “May I aks you a question?” it doesn’t reflect favorably on the publication or the writer.
The Navy in Afghanistan: It’s upsetting to learn two U.S. sailors ventured into harm’s way in Afghanistan, with one killed and the other taken prisoner by Taliban forces. First question that came to mind—why is the Navy represented in a landlocked country? Second question—why would these sailors voluntarily travel into a danger zone?
The NY Times tried to answer the first question with the following sentence in a Sunday article: “Although soldiers make up the lion’s share of American forces in Afghanistan, which is landlocked, most bases have a mix of service members, including from the Navy.”
My hypothesis for the second question is these sailors were part of a Special Operations unit. Otherwise, I can’t figure out why any sailors are there.
The frantic efforts to find and retrieve the captured serviceman will give Americans a greater appreciation for what Israelis are going through the last four-plus years, since Gilad Shalit was kidnapped by Hamas and taken to the Gaza Strip.
The last two weeks have been particularly sad for Yankee fans. Aside from Boss George, we lost Bob Sheppard, the longtime “voice of the Yankees.”
Equally poignant was the death of Ralph Houk, the Major, a true World War II decorated hero, who managed the pinstriped boys in The Bronx for 11 years, winning three straight pennants (1961-63) and two consecutive World Series (1961-62). Houk’s first three years as Yankee skipper spanned the last glory years of Mickey Mantle, Whitey Ford, Yogi Berra, and Roger Maris. He returned for a second stint as manager during the nadir of the franchise, taking over in 1966 and staying until the end of 1973, Steinbrenner’s first year as owner. It’s no coincidence Houk left the Yankee dugout when he did. His managerial philosophy could not have been more diametrically different than Steinbrenner’s.
“I don’t think you can humiliate a player and expect him to perform,” Houk was quoted as saying.
The bottom line is this: when Houk was given great players, the team won. When his roster had aging or mediocre talent, like Horace Clarke, the team failed. The same can be said for Steinbrenner’s bullying manners. When he paid for the right players, they won. When he bought the wrong players, they failed to win.
Ask Not...: It’s a very simple word. Only three letters. A-S-K. But this word is among the most mispronounced in the English language. Listen, not even too carefully, and too often you will hear someone say “aks” instead of “ask.” Education or socio-economic environment or race doesn’t typecast offenders. One of my former staffers made this egregious mistake, and believe me, when a reporter/editor says in an interview, “May I aks you a question?” it doesn’t reflect favorably on the publication or the writer.
The Navy in Afghanistan: It’s upsetting to learn two U.S. sailors ventured into harm’s way in Afghanistan, with one killed and the other taken prisoner by Taliban forces. First question that came to mind—why is the Navy represented in a landlocked country? Second question—why would these sailors voluntarily travel into a danger zone?
The NY Times tried to answer the first question with the following sentence in a Sunday article: “Although soldiers make up the lion’s share of American forces in Afghanistan, which is landlocked, most bases have a mix of service members, including from the Navy.”
My hypothesis for the second question is these sailors were part of a Special Operations unit. Otherwise, I can’t figure out why any sailors are there.
The frantic efforts to find and retrieve the captured serviceman will give Americans a greater appreciation for what Israelis are going through the last four-plus years, since Gilad Shalit was kidnapped by Hamas and taken to the Gaza Strip.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Valley of Remembrance II
How many television stations do you have access to? Hundreds, if you have a cable or satellite hook-up.
Hard to recall a time when the public did not always have access to a TV station smorgasbord, especially for those living relatively close to New York City.
As cable operator Comcast’s pending acquisition of NBC-Universal moves closer and closer to closure, I am reminded that when Gilda and I moved to Seymour, Conn., after we married in January 1973, we were media-deprived. Though living less than 90 miles from the media capital of the world, and just a dozen or so miles from New Haven, Bridgeport and Waterbury, our television, like most others in the Lower Naugatuck Valley, could receive just one station, the New Haven-based ABC affiliate. That meant we didn’t get any NFL football games except Monday Night Football. No Johnny Carson. No Yankees or Mets games. No Baseball of the Week game. No World Series. No Walter Cronkite. Or 60 Minutes. No Masterpiece Theater. Not even the Channel 11 Christmas Eve Yule Log.
While I went off to work as a newspaper reporter (see http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2009/11/valley-of-remembrance.html), Gilda’s political science degree offered little interest to local employers. But she did find an office job with a new company hoping to make an impact in the Valley. It was the local cable franchise. For less than $20 a month, customers could get all the New York City-based networks as well as several Connecticut affiliates. From having just one station, customers would have immediate, crisp reception from 10 channels with the promise of more to come.
It was, simply, the easiest sales job anyone could imagine.
It also serves as a reminder that proximity to information is no guarantee it will be accessed or used intelligently. The U.S. is in danger of losing its superpower status because we are not cultivating a culture of knowledge. Sure, we have a near monopoly on Nobel Prizes for most sciences and economics. Our universities and colleges are among the best in the world. But few would argue that our public school standards are slipping. Sure, there are hundreds of TV stations to choose from, but people, in my opinion, are just getting dumber and dumber. Perhaps it’s because, I fear, they are becoming more conservative, and in my mind conservatives have a narrow-gauge view of the world, often a selfish view.
I’m not going to argue the point with you here. Rather, I’ll quote Seth MacFarlane, creator of Family Guy, an animated comedy that airs on Fox and often satirizes, offensively, public norms (for the record, I’ve never seen Family Guy, though one of its writers, Andrew Goldberg, is the son of friends). Commenting in an article in Tuesday’s NY Times on a banned TV episode of Family Guy, MacFarlane said, “People in America, they’re getting dumber. They’re getting less and less able to analyze something and think critically, and pick apart the underlying elements. And more and more ready to make a snap judgment regarding something at face value, which is too bad” (http://www.nytimes.com/2010/07/20/arts/television/20family.html?_r=1&scp=1&sq=macfarlane&st=cse).
Amen.
Hard to recall a time when the public did not always have access to a TV station smorgasbord, especially for those living relatively close to New York City.
As cable operator Comcast’s pending acquisition of NBC-Universal moves closer and closer to closure, I am reminded that when Gilda and I moved to Seymour, Conn., after we married in January 1973, we were media-deprived. Though living less than 90 miles from the media capital of the world, and just a dozen or so miles from New Haven, Bridgeport and Waterbury, our television, like most others in the Lower Naugatuck Valley, could receive just one station, the New Haven-based ABC affiliate. That meant we didn’t get any NFL football games except Monday Night Football. No Johnny Carson. No Yankees or Mets games. No Baseball of the Week game. No World Series. No Walter Cronkite. Or 60 Minutes. No Masterpiece Theater. Not even the Channel 11 Christmas Eve Yule Log.
While I went off to work as a newspaper reporter (see http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2009/11/valley-of-remembrance.html), Gilda’s political science degree offered little interest to local employers. But she did find an office job with a new company hoping to make an impact in the Valley. It was the local cable franchise. For less than $20 a month, customers could get all the New York City-based networks as well as several Connecticut affiliates. From having just one station, customers would have immediate, crisp reception from 10 channels with the promise of more to come.
It was, simply, the easiest sales job anyone could imagine.
It also serves as a reminder that proximity to information is no guarantee it will be accessed or used intelligently. The U.S. is in danger of losing its superpower status because we are not cultivating a culture of knowledge. Sure, we have a near monopoly on Nobel Prizes for most sciences and economics. Our universities and colleges are among the best in the world. But few would argue that our public school standards are slipping. Sure, there are hundreds of TV stations to choose from, but people, in my opinion, are just getting dumber and dumber. Perhaps it’s because, I fear, they are becoming more conservative, and in my mind conservatives have a narrow-gauge view of the world, often a selfish view.
I’m not going to argue the point with you here. Rather, I’ll quote Seth MacFarlane, creator of Family Guy, an animated comedy that airs on Fox and often satirizes, offensively, public norms (for the record, I’ve never seen Family Guy, though one of its writers, Andrew Goldberg, is the son of friends). Commenting in an article in Tuesday’s NY Times on a banned TV episode of Family Guy, MacFarlane said, “People in America, they’re getting dumber. They’re getting less and less able to analyze something and think critically, and pick apart the underlying elements. And more and more ready to make a snap judgment regarding something at face value, which is too bad” (http://www.nytimes.com/2010/07/20/arts/television/20family.html?_r=1&scp=1&sq=macfarlane&st=cse).
Amen.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Summer of '77
News stories have a way of intertwining events. And, as has been evident to loyal readers of this blog, often my life has a strand woven into the fabric of a story.
George Steinbrenner died last week. His first championship season as owner of the New York Yankees came In 1977. That season coincided with the Summer of Sam, the months David Berkowitz, the self-proclaimed Son of Sam, terrorized New York with random shootings. On the day Steinbrenner died, The NY Times ran a profile of Berkowitz’s life behind bars, his born-again Christian status and the efforts of his “admirers” to make over his image (http://www.nytimes.com/2010/07/13/nyregion/13berkowitz.html?_r=1&scp=2&sq=david%20berkowitz&st=cse).
Gilda and I returned to New York in mid-1977 after spending four-plus years in Connecticut. Not wanting too long a commute into the city, we looked at communities within a 30-35 minute train ride into Grand Central Terminal, a short walk from my office at Park Avenue and E. 55th St. We visited apartments along the Hudson, along the Sound but finally settled on a two-bedroom unit on Lake Street in White Plains. At the last moment, before signing the lease, I saw an ad for a two-bedroom co-op in Yonkers.
We drove down from New Haven. The building on North Broadway was a magnificent Tudor-style structure. The apartment was beautiful. Oak floors. Window views of the Hudson. Modern kitchen. A garbage shoot to the incinerator off the kitchen. Fireplace in the living room. Priced within our budget. Impulsively, we committed to buy the co-op. We left a deposit. Within a day, buyers’ remorse set in. Did we really want to live in Yonkers? Though the seller wanted to hold us to the contract, a firm letter under my brother’s legal stationery resolved the conflict. We took the Lake Street apartment and have lived in White Plains, happily, ever since.
When they finally caught David Berkowitz in August 1977, turned out he, too, was a commuter. During his 13-month reign of terror, he drove from his Westchester home to New York City to kill six people and wound seven others. Berkowitz commuted from his apartment on Pine Street in Yonkers, around the corner from the co-op Gilda and I almost bought. It still gives Gilda and me chills to think we almost had Son of Sam as a neighbor.
George Steinbrenner died last week. His first championship season as owner of the New York Yankees came In 1977. That season coincided with the Summer of Sam, the months David Berkowitz, the self-proclaimed Son of Sam, terrorized New York with random shootings. On the day Steinbrenner died, The NY Times ran a profile of Berkowitz’s life behind bars, his born-again Christian status and the efforts of his “admirers” to make over his image (http://www.nytimes.com/2010/07/13/nyregion/13berkowitz.html?_r=1&scp=2&sq=david%20berkowitz&st=cse).
Gilda and I returned to New York in mid-1977 after spending four-plus years in Connecticut. Not wanting too long a commute into the city, we looked at communities within a 30-35 minute train ride into Grand Central Terminal, a short walk from my office at Park Avenue and E. 55th St. We visited apartments along the Hudson, along the Sound but finally settled on a two-bedroom unit on Lake Street in White Plains. At the last moment, before signing the lease, I saw an ad for a two-bedroom co-op in Yonkers.
We drove down from New Haven. The building on North Broadway was a magnificent Tudor-style structure. The apartment was beautiful. Oak floors. Window views of the Hudson. Modern kitchen. A garbage shoot to the incinerator off the kitchen. Fireplace in the living room. Priced within our budget. Impulsively, we committed to buy the co-op. We left a deposit. Within a day, buyers’ remorse set in. Did we really want to live in Yonkers? Though the seller wanted to hold us to the contract, a firm letter under my brother’s legal stationery resolved the conflict. We took the Lake Street apartment and have lived in White Plains, happily, ever since.
When they finally caught David Berkowitz in August 1977, turned out he, too, was a commuter. During his 13-month reign of terror, he drove from his Westchester home to New York City to kill six people and wound seven others. Berkowitz commuted from his apartment on Pine Street in Yonkers, around the corner from the co-op Gilda and I almost bought. It still gives Gilda and me chills to think we almost had Son of Sam as a neighbor.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Rejected
Rejection is a common, if not welcome, part of many a life. Last night’s CBS Evening News with Katie Couric featured a story on a new book, “Other People’s Rejection Letters,” that will amuse, or pain, you, depending on how thick your skin is. Here’s a link to the story: http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2010/07/20/eveningnews/main6696691.shtml.
After four years as a reporter with The New Haven Register, I was eager to move on. I looked up the name of the managing editor of The Wall Street Journal in the directory edition of Editor & Publisher and sent him a letter and resume. I did not receive a rejection letter. I heard nothing back. No matter. Shortly thereafter I began my 32-year career with Lebhar-Friedman, almost all of it with Chain Store Age.
I did, however, find out what happened to my overture to The Journal, courtesy of one of my former colleagues at The Register who did secure a job with the paper, owned by Dow Jones at the time. My letter was reproduced in Dow Jones’ annual yearbook of achievements and noteworthy events. Seems when I copied the name of the managing editor of The Journal my eyes must have shifted over to the adjacent column, onto a listing for The Daily Worker, the Communist Party newspaper. The Journal staff found it very amusing to have a communist as head of the nation’s pre-eminent capitalist business newspaper.
Have you stopped laughing yet?
All I can say, to save some face, is that I got a lot of satisfaction in subsequent years when The Journal quoted me in stories about retailing.
After four years as a reporter with The New Haven Register, I was eager to move on. I looked up the name of the managing editor of The Wall Street Journal in the directory edition of Editor & Publisher and sent him a letter and resume. I did not receive a rejection letter. I heard nothing back. No matter. Shortly thereafter I began my 32-year career with Lebhar-Friedman, almost all of it with Chain Store Age.
I did, however, find out what happened to my overture to The Journal, courtesy of one of my former colleagues at The Register who did secure a job with the paper, owned by Dow Jones at the time. My letter was reproduced in Dow Jones’ annual yearbook of achievements and noteworthy events. Seems when I copied the name of the managing editor of The Journal my eyes must have shifted over to the adjacent column, onto a listing for The Daily Worker, the Communist Party newspaper. The Journal staff found it very amusing to have a communist as head of the nation’s pre-eminent capitalist business newspaper.
Have you stopped laughing yet?
All I can say, to save some face, is that I got a lot of satisfaction in subsequent years when The Journal quoted me in stories about retailing.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
BP Strikes Me Again
BP continues to torment me.
Already embarrassed and anguished because I own BP stock (inherited from my parents, as if that in any way lessens my shame at being a polluter—http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2010/05/for-shame.html), I am newly tormented by revelations implying that in exchange for oil drilling rights off the Libyan coast, BP influenced the British government to release last year Abdel Basset Ali al-Megrahi, the Libyan convicted in the bombing of Pan Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland, in 1988.
For me the story is personal—one of my cousins was among the 270 people killed by al-Megrahi.
Mark Alan Rein was the treasurer of Salomon Bros., the Wall Street firm. A 1965 graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy, my cousin was just 44 years old, married, the father of two children, Nicole, 12, and Alexander, 9. He was returning from a trip to England before going on a vacation with his wife, Denice, to celebrate their 15th wedding anniversary.
In truth, though Alan was just five years older, I have few memories of him. His father, Moe, was my father’s first cousin. But they rarely socialized. One memory I have is visiting their apartment, as Alan’s mother suffered from multiple sclerosis. I also remember being proud I had a cousin attending Annapolis.
Alan’s funeral was held at Temple Emanu-El in Manhattan. It was the first and only time I have been inside this edifice, considered the largest and one of the most beautiful synagogues in the world. Almost all of its 2,500 seats were occupied. Alan’s older brother, Bert, delivered a eulogy. I don’t remember much else about the service.
About a year ago, I read an article about Bert’s representation of a corporate client before the U.S. Supreme Court. He is a founding partner of the well-connected Washington law firm of Wiley Rein LLP. My family pride was tinged with melancholy, however. Bert’s politics are decidedly more conservative than mine.
Already embarrassed and anguished because I own BP stock (inherited from my parents, as if that in any way lessens my shame at being a polluter—http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2010/05/for-shame.html), I am newly tormented by revelations implying that in exchange for oil drilling rights off the Libyan coast, BP influenced the British government to release last year Abdel Basset Ali al-Megrahi, the Libyan convicted in the bombing of Pan Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland, in 1988.
For me the story is personal—one of my cousins was among the 270 people killed by al-Megrahi.
Mark Alan Rein was the treasurer of Salomon Bros., the Wall Street firm. A 1965 graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy, my cousin was just 44 years old, married, the father of two children, Nicole, 12, and Alexander, 9. He was returning from a trip to England before going on a vacation with his wife, Denice, to celebrate their 15th wedding anniversary.
In truth, though Alan was just five years older, I have few memories of him. His father, Moe, was my father’s first cousin. But they rarely socialized. One memory I have is visiting their apartment, as Alan’s mother suffered from multiple sclerosis. I also remember being proud I had a cousin attending Annapolis.
Alan’s funeral was held at Temple Emanu-El in Manhattan. It was the first and only time I have been inside this edifice, considered the largest and one of the most beautiful synagogues in the world. Almost all of its 2,500 seats were occupied. Alan’s older brother, Bert, delivered a eulogy. I don’t remember much else about the service.
About a year ago, I read an article about Bert’s representation of a corporate client before the U.S. Supreme Court. He is a founding partner of the well-connected Washington law firm of Wiley Rein LLP. My family pride was tinged with melancholy, however. Bert’s politics are decidedly more conservative than mine.
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