About 25-30 years ago a journalist acquaintance revealed to me that for a short period of time he worked as a writer for The National Enquirer in Florida. He did so under a pseudonym. He didn’t want to tarnish his professional image. The work, he related, paid well but was super-pressurized. If he didn’t come up with several “exclusives” every week, he’d be sent packing. This was at the time the Enquirer featured stories about aliens siring three-eyed children mixed in with the inside scoop on some celebrity’s plastic surgery makeover or their encampment in a drug or alcohol rehab.
Today’s tabloid press is multi-media. The Enquirer et al compete with People, Us Weekly, countless web sites too numerous to list, TV and cable shows also too numerous to list and even the major network news divisions. “Legitimate” newspapers and evening news broadcasts have turned their shrinking news holds into cesspools of gossip. It’s apparently more important for news organizations to spend resources to track down Tiger Woods’ alleged mistresses than to have news bureaus across the country to research serious news.
Titillation is in. Sound bites trump (now there’s a real tabloid word—it can be a verb, a noun or a proper name) reasoned discourse about national and international issues.
Is this what journalism schools are teaching these days? I went to J-school in the year of Watergate. After that watershed event, everyone wanted to be an investigative reporter, exposing political wrongdoing. Now the expose being sought has a seamier side. I hope this is not just the ranting of a sixty-year-old. Maybe I’m disillusioned because half the people reported on are unknown to me.
But I’d like to think my rant is more weighty, a disappointment in the quality of reporting, a belief that most reports lack context. Among other things, context is knowing what happened or what was said before the story of the moment. It involves research. Intelligence. Curiosity. More research. Innate skepticism. Even more research.
The recent brouhaha over new guidelines for mammograms, suggested by a presidential commission, is a prime example. Though the Obama administration is being excoriated by Republicans over the recommendations, few reporters have noted that the panel that proposed the new guidelines was not appointed by Obama. It was chosen by a Republican president, George W. Bush.
Good reporting also demands accountability. Why is Jon Stewart of the Daily Show (and the late Tim Russert) almost the only one who exposes the past? Politicians live in the moment. Their positions shift, like sails in the wind. They expect no one to remember what they said years, months, even weeks ago. They backpedal when caught, claiming to be quoted out of context.
For many years I carried a “Small Society” cartoon in my wallet. The one frame cartoon depicted a political aide telling his irate boss, “Senator, it’s not that you were misquoted. It’s that they reported word for word what you shouldn’t have said in the first place.”
TV news depends on conflict, drama, confrontation. It’s a lot easier to air a political attack than do all the research necessary to show the accuser held the now-discredited view when his or her party was in power. Why do reporters let them get away with it? Because they’re lazy. Or no good. Or pressured by management to “sell the sizzle, not the steak.”
Why does the public reward political blowhards with support and votes? Sadly, because most Americans are just uninformed. We’re forgetful. We lack context. We’ve come to rely on our newscasts to keep them honest. But the media is as complicit as the politicians in keeping America in the dark.
Whose Sari Now: Perhaps it’s been reported already, but I’d be curious to know how many red saris similar to the one worn by Michaele Salahi have been sold since she partied at the state dinner at the White House. If you know, please email me.
Birthright: My “younger” sister Lee who is older than I am by two years (she has a biblical complex—she thinks she sold me her middle-child birthright, whatever that is) is displaying maternal instincts towards me. She worries about my venturing out sockless in the cold.
“The head and the toes are the first to feel cold and to allow body warmth to seep out. Given your diminishing hair amount I’d think again of no socks policy...just a helpful sister’s advice...not that you ever take my advice...,” she wrote in a recent email.
Didn’t realize I was losing my hair, at least in any noticeable fashion. She has peculiar eyesight for someone nearly 3,000 miles away in Los Angeles. But she’s right about it getting colder. It was 38 degrees when I went outside early Sunday afternoon, sockless. Wasn’t bad at all.
But Lee did have an interesting suggestion: “I suggest that you give in to Mother Nature and start wearing socks. To distinguish business dress from free man's dress, wear only funky, silly socks.....there are many on the market.”
Not a bad idea, but as she suggested in her motherly tone, when did I ever take her advice? I’m just not ready to give in. My “public” keeps demanding to see me sockless. Last week I didn’t disappoint four separate inquirers.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Sunday, December 6, 2009
A Larger than Life Journalist
At first I thought my friend Dave Banks was spoofing me. But as I looked closer at the URL he sent, it was not a copy of my own blog‘s, but rather the URL for one that he had just started, http://www.nosexneededanymore.blogspot.com.
Don’t worry. It’s not some X-rated Web site. It’s just Dave’s ramblings about life in the northern hinterlands of England, hard by the Scottish border.
I could fill up more bytes than my computer has in memory with stories about Dave, but some background is in order to appreciate the totality of this larger than life English journalist. Dave is indeed larger than most people I know. He’s 6’6”, give or take an inch or two, and, depending on the efficacy of his diet, about 280 pounds. He always tells me his weight in stones, but as best I can figure it, it’s about 280 pounds.
Gilda and I met Dave and his diminutive wife Gemma (maybe 5’3”, 115 pounds) when our son was about 12 months old. Their daughter Natasha, (Tash or Tasha as she usually is called), was about six weeks younger. Though our back yards abutted, we were oblivious to each other until a neighbor, reasoning that two journalists might have something in common, introduced us at her daughter’s third birthday party. The party was a real bore, but the friendship she originated has lasted for 30 years across three continents.
Dave was one of Rupert Murdoch’s imports, brought to the States to spunk up the New York Post with tabloid tastes that now seem ordinary but back in 1979-80 were viewed as racy and sensational. Sitting in his living room drinking wine that first day after the party was over, I remember Gilda bemoaning the vulgarity of the Post headlines. I commented that the one I liked best for its temerity and rakishness was, “Ted Campaigns Near Mary Jo’s Grave.” Still, I cautioned Gilda that we shouldn’t criticize the Post until we found out in more detail what Dave did for the paper. Without missing a beat Dave informed us that though he did not write my favorite headline, it was his job to compose, or approve, the headlines for the first six pages of each day’s paper! Ooooops!
What followed was a three decades-long discussion of the merits of popular vs. elitist journalism and a friendship, a love, between two couples that has survived the Banks’ meanderings back to England, several years in Australia, a return to London, another stay in White Plains to help run the Daily News, a final return to London for a multi-media career in print, radio and cable television, and now semi-retirement in the little hamlet of Crookham, not far from where Dave grew up.
My mind is racing with stories about Dave’s exploits, both practical jokes and tabloid journalism exclusives. Dave’s claim to fame, or infamy, includes running pictures of a pregnant Princess Diana at the beach, for which his British paper had to apologize and did so by running the offending pictures again, and his authorizing the placement of a camera that captured photos of Princess Diana working out inside a London gym, a deed that led other news outlets to stake out his home with round-the-clock cameras. Gemma was not a happy camper after that turn of the camera lens.
Perhaps in future posts I’ll recount more of his escapades. In the interim, I commend his blog about semi-retired life in Crookham, Northumberland, England, to you. And since he posts only once per week, sometimes even less often, you won’t be overwhelmed. You’ll have plenty time to keep reading my musings.
Don’t worry. It’s not some X-rated Web site. It’s just Dave’s ramblings about life in the northern hinterlands of England, hard by the Scottish border.
I could fill up more bytes than my computer has in memory with stories about Dave, but some background is in order to appreciate the totality of this larger than life English journalist. Dave is indeed larger than most people I know. He’s 6’6”, give or take an inch or two, and, depending on the efficacy of his diet, about 280 pounds. He always tells me his weight in stones, but as best I can figure it, it’s about 280 pounds.
Gilda and I met Dave and his diminutive wife Gemma (maybe 5’3”, 115 pounds) when our son was about 12 months old. Their daughter Natasha, (Tash or Tasha as she usually is called), was about six weeks younger. Though our back yards abutted, we were oblivious to each other until a neighbor, reasoning that two journalists might have something in common, introduced us at her daughter’s third birthday party. The party was a real bore, but the friendship she originated has lasted for 30 years across three continents.
Dave was one of Rupert Murdoch’s imports, brought to the States to spunk up the New York Post with tabloid tastes that now seem ordinary but back in 1979-80 were viewed as racy and sensational. Sitting in his living room drinking wine that first day after the party was over, I remember Gilda bemoaning the vulgarity of the Post headlines. I commented that the one I liked best for its temerity and rakishness was, “Ted Campaigns Near Mary Jo’s Grave.” Still, I cautioned Gilda that we shouldn’t criticize the Post until we found out in more detail what Dave did for the paper. Without missing a beat Dave informed us that though he did not write my favorite headline, it was his job to compose, or approve, the headlines for the first six pages of each day’s paper! Ooooops!
What followed was a three decades-long discussion of the merits of popular vs. elitist journalism and a friendship, a love, between two couples that has survived the Banks’ meanderings back to England, several years in Australia, a return to London, another stay in White Plains to help run the Daily News, a final return to London for a multi-media career in print, radio and cable television, and now semi-retirement in the little hamlet of Crookham, not far from where Dave grew up.
My mind is racing with stories about Dave’s exploits, both practical jokes and tabloid journalism exclusives. Dave’s claim to fame, or infamy, includes running pictures of a pregnant Princess Diana at the beach, for which his British paper had to apologize and did so by running the offending pictures again, and his authorizing the placement of a camera that captured photos of Princess Diana working out inside a London gym, a deed that led other news outlets to stake out his home with round-the-clock cameras. Gemma was not a happy camper after that turn of the camera lens.
Perhaps in future posts I’ll recount more of his escapades. In the interim, I commend his blog about semi-retired life in Crookham, Northumberland, England, to you. And since he posts only once per week, sometimes even less often, you won’t be overwhelmed. You’ll have plenty time to keep reading my musings.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Health Care Battle on Two Fronts and More
I’m not sure if this is considered progress or a regression—our military exploits abroad no longer are cast in the context of preventing falling dominos. Now, It’s cancer that we must contain.
“We are in Afghanistan to prevent a cancer from once again spreading through that country,” said President Obama Tuesday night. “But this same cancer has also taken root in the border region of Pakistan. That is why we need a strategy that works on both sides of the border.”
So we are now fighting for universal health care at home and abroad.
I am loathe to give odds on the successful outcome of either battle this embattled president has joined.
A clarification: My suggestion the other day to donate food for the hungry brought an immediate response from my accountant, Roch. He cautioned it is important to receive written acknowledgment from the food bank. I thought I had covered myself with the taxman by getting separate receipts from Costco for my personal purchases and those made for the food bank, but Roch said, “If you were audited your receipt would not suffice. I suggest at a minimum you receive an acknowledgement from the food bank on their letterhead with a description and date of the donation. They do not have to assign a value to the donation; you would just attach your receipt to their acknowledgement.”
Maimonedes, the 12th century Jewish scholar and physician, articulated eight levels of charity. The second highest level is when the donor and recipient are unknown to each other. I guess now that I've at least partially blown my cover I should ask for a letter, but I still like my idea and anonymity better.
Sports Note: Now that Tiger Woods has shown he’s mortal and susceptible to the enticements of flesh not worn by his wife, the question remains how golf fans will react.
Unruly, disgraceful, vulgar fans make sitting in ballparks uncomfortable for many, particularly those with children in tow. Epithets shouted at players like Alex Rodriguez for his womanizing and steroid use would blanche even a sailor’s face.
Golf is different, some say. Fans are deferential. As in tennis when a player is about to toss a ball for a serve, they quiet down when a shot is to be made.
But all it takes is one shrill outcry released during a backswing for decorum to be smashed. Whose to say that one of Lefty’s (that’s Phil Mickelson) ardent fans is not savoring this moment when the Tiger is at last vulnerable, that he or she is not waiting to unleash a verbal missile that breaks Tiger’s concentration during the arc of contact?
Fewer and fewer unblemished icons—in sports, politics, entertainment, business, you name it—remain.
Nation Building: Ours, not theirs. Tom Friedman explained his dissent from President Obama’s decision to expand the war effort in Afghanistan, even at the risk of “a little less security” at home (http://www.nytimes.com/2009/12/02/opinion/02friedman.html?_r=1&scp=2&sq=friedman&st=cse). Here’s my way of looking at it, actually written before the speech, but not posted:
“Here’s an outlandish thought, something akin to how actuaries help companies decide if it’s worth, say, fixing a small part on an automobile or risk paying out millions in insurance claims when the inevitable crashes and losses of life occur:
“Why not simply accept that some terrorist activity will happen here over the next five to ten years, but instead of sending billions to Iraq and Afghanistan, spend those dollars in the U.S. to help our countrymen live better lives. Would it be worth providing everyone true universal health care to save tens of thousands of lives a year? Would it be worth improving our educational system so we can graduate workers who can compete for 21st century jobs? Would it be worth subsidizing a transportation industry so we can have more efficient rail, highway and air traffic systems? Would it be worth jumpstarting energy independence initiatives?”
We will never, never be able to stamp out terrorism. Determined men and women, much like a lone assassin willing to die in an attempt, can penetrate almost any defense. Our strongest defense against outside and home-grown terrorism will be a strong USA, not as a crumbling superpower. We cannot afford to disillusion our citizens. They need jobs. They need health care. They need to feel good about their prospects. Demagoguery flourishes during periods of economic stagnation. Our values and way of life are at risk here, not in some remote cave in the mountains of Whatever-stan.
Subject Matter: A few weeks ago my son Dan cautioned that if I kept posting blogs every day I’d run out of material. I assured him writers need to write, as often as possible, to keep in practice. Besides, there is an ample supply of memories and current events to fuel my 10-finger exercise. So reader, be forewarned, I will try to keep up with the news, placed in context both personal and professional. Hopefully, you’ll tolerate my passion. I’ve already lost one follower because of my political views. Or perhaps better stated, his. C’est la vie. Vive la différence.
“We are in Afghanistan to prevent a cancer from once again spreading through that country,” said President Obama Tuesday night. “But this same cancer has also taken root in the border region of Pakistan. That is why we need a strategy that works on both sides of the border.”
So we are now fighting for universal health care at home and abroad.
I am loathe to give odds on the successful outcome of either battle this embattled president has joined.
A clarification: My suggestion the other day to donate food for the hungry brought an immediate response from my accountant, Roch. He cautioned it is important to receive written acknowledgment from the food bank. I thought I had covered myself with the taxman by getting separate receipts from Costco for my personal purchases and those made for the food bank, but Roch said, “If you were audited your receipt would not suffice. I suggest at a minimum you receive an acknowledgement from the food bank on their letterhead with a description and date of the donation. They do not have to assign a value to the donation; you would just attach your receipt to their acknowledgement.”
Maimonedes, the 12th century Jewish scholar and physician, articulated eight levels of charity. The second highest level is when the donor and recipient are unknown to each other. I guess now that I've at least partially blown my cover I should ask for a letter, but I still like my idea and anonymity better.
Sports Note: Now that Tiger Woods has shown he’s mortal and susceptible to the enticements of flesh not worn by his wife, the question remains how golf fans will react.
Unruly, disgraceful, vulgar fans make sitting in ballparks uncomfortable for many, particularly those with children in tow. Epithets shouted at players like Alex Rodriguez for his womanizing and steroid use would blanche even a sailor’s face.
Golf is different, some say. Fans are deferential. As in tennis when a player is about to toss a ball for a serve, they quiet down when a shot is to be made.
But all it takes is one shrill outcry released during a backswing for decorum to be smashed. Whose to say that one of Lefty’s (that’s Phil Mickelson) ardent fans is not savoring this moment when the Tiger is at last vulnerable, that he or she is not waiting to unleash a verbal missile that breaks Tiger’s concentration during the arc of contact?
Fewer and fewer unblemished icons—in sports, politics, entertainment, business, you name it—remain.
Nation Building: Ours, not theirs. Tom Friedman explained his dissent from President Obama’s decision to expand the war effort in Afghanistan, even at the risk of “a little less security” at home (http://www.nytimes.com/2009/12/02/opinion/02friedman.html?_r=1&scp=2&sq=friedman&st=cse). Here’s my way of looking at it, actually written before the speech, but not posted:
“Here’s an outlandish thought, something akin to how actuaries help companies decide if it’s worth, say, fixing a small part on an automobile or risk paying out millions in insurance claims when the inevitable crashes and losses of life occur:
“Why not simply accept that some terrorist activity will happen here over the next five to ten years, but instead of sending billions to Iraq and Afghanistan, spend those dollars in the U.S. to help our countrymen live better lives. Would it be worth providing everyone true universal health care to save tens of thousands of lives a year? Would it be worth improving our educational system so we can graduate workers who can compete for 21st century jobs? Would it be worth subsidizing a transportation industry so we can have more efficient rail, highway and air traffic systems? Would it be worth jumpstarting energy independence initiatives?”
We will never, never be able to stamp out terrorism. Determined men and women, much like a lone assassin willing to die in an attempt, can penetrate almost any defense. Our strongest defense against outside and home-grown terrorism will be a strong USA, not as a crumbling superpower. We cannot afford to disillusion our citizens. They need jobs. They need health care. They need to feel good about their prospects. Demagoguery flourishes during periods of economic stagnation. Our values and way of life are at risk here, not in some remote cave in the mountains of Whatever-stan.
Subject Matter: A few weeks ago my son Dan cautioned that if I kept posting blogs every day I’d run out of material. I assured him writers need to write, as often as possible, to keep in practice. Besides, there is an ample supply of memories and current events to fuel my 10-finger exercise. So reader, be forewarned, I will try to keep up with the news, placed in context both personal and professional. Hopefully, you’ll tolerate my passion. I’ve already lost one follower because of my political views. Or perhaps better stated, his. C’est la vie. Vive la différence.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Let It Snow
Not really. I hate the snow. Never really liked it as a kid, and as several car accidents many years ago happened after it snowed, I loathe the little white flakes. But since I cleared out Gilda’s gardening stuff in the garage today to make room for the snowblower, which actually started on the first try, I’m ready for what Mother Nature hurls our way.
Impetus for my wintry preparations came from weather reports of snow making its way into upstate New York. The forecasts were a reminder of the long winter I spent in Syracuse earning my master’s degree in journalism at Syracuse University back in 1971-72. Syracuse’s nickname is Salt City. Until my last week there I assumed the nickname came from the liberal spreading of salt on city streets to clear the average 115.6 inches of snow every year. (The year I was there it snowed 133.7 inches.) The nickname actually derived from the nearby salt mines, to which I was oblivious.
Over Thanksgiving weekend 1971, a pounding snowstorm struck New York State, shutting down all highway traffic, forcing me to wait until Monday to return to school from my parents’ home in Brooklyn. Roads were still barely plowed in New York City, but as I got closer to Syracuse the highways were almost totally clear. Even city streets were passable. I remarked to myself that Syracuse sure knew how to handle snow. I further wondered what all the fuss was about, why travel had been restricted on Sunday.
I parked in front of the gingerbread-style, three-story house on East Genesee Street where my studio apartment, with shared bathroom, occupied part of the top floor. As soon as I stepped out of the car the extent of the snowfall became apparent. Snow engulfed my legs up to my hips. I struggled to reach the front stairs, then made my way up to the third floor.
I opened the door to find half my apartment half covered in snow. The roof had caved in under the weight of the snow. It took several days for the landlord to repair the roof.
The rest of the winter passed without incident, though I was nervous each time I ventured out driving in the snow. My Buick Skylark, red with black vinyl top, weathered the winter with no dents, no fender bender, no scratches.
On a bright, warm early June day, diploma in hand, I packed the Buick up in the driveway shared with the house next door. The getaway was a few moments away. As I bent into the car to reposition my stereo, I looked out the passenger side window and saw another student’s car backing up, slowly, inexorably, toward me. I screamed, “Stop!” I waved my hands. To no avail.
Thunk! Broadsided in broad, summer daylight in my passenger side door. I shook my head in disgust. So close to escaping Syracuse.
I hate snow. I hate Syracuse.
Impetus for my wintry preparations came from weather reports of snow making its way into upstate New York. The forecasts were a reminder of the long winter I spent in Syracuse earning my master’s degree in journalism at Syracuse University back in 1971-72. Syracuse’s nickname is Salt City. Until my last week there I assumed the nickname came from the liberal spreading of salt on city streets to clear the average 115.6 inches of snow every year. (The year I was there it snowed 133.7 inches.) The nickname actually derived from the nearby salt mines, to which I was oblivious.
Over Thanksgiving weekend 1971, a pounding snowstorm struck New York State, shutting down all highway traffic, forcing me to wait until Monday to return to school from my parents’ home in Brooklyn. Roads were still barely plowed in New York City, but as I got closer to Syracuse the highways were almost totally clear. Even city streets were passable. I remarked to myself that Syracuse sure knew how to handle snow. I further wondered what all the fuss was about, why travel had been restricted on Sunday.
I parked in front of the gingerbread-style, three-story house on East Genesee Street where my studio apartment, with shared bathroom, occupied part of the top floor. As soon as I stepped out of the car the extent of the snowfall became apparent. Snow engulfed my legs up to my hips. I struggled to reach the front stairs, then made my way up to the third floor.
I opened the door to find half my apartment half covered in snow. The roof had caved in under the weight of the snow. It took several days for the landlord to repair the roof.
The rest of the winter passed without incident, though I was nervous each time I ventured out driving in the snow. My Buick Skylark, red with black vinyl top, weathered the winter with no dents, no fender bender, no scratches.
On a bright, warm early June day, diploma in hand, I packed the Buick up in the driveway shared with the house next door. The getaway was a few moments away. As I bent into the car to reposition my stereo, I looked out the passenger side window and saw another student’s car backing up, slowly, inexorably, toward me. I screamed, “Stop!” I waved my hands. To no avail.
Thunk! Broadsided in broad, summer daylight in my passenger side door. I shook my head in disgust. So close to escaping Syracuse.
I hate snow. I hate Syracuse.
Objects of Affection
Gilda was busy making Pillow for Finley last night.
Most every baby becomes attached to some object—a stuffed toy, a blanket, a piece of cloth. For our son Dan it turned out to be a stuffed gingham pillow in the shape of a lion’s face with a fringed white mane all around. A friend had given it to Dan along with a matching blanket. Gilda tethered the pillow to his crib so it wouldn’t topple over on him as a newborn. After he became mobile and the threat of being buried by it subsided, Gilda released the pillow from the side of the crib. A few days later she discovered him sleeping on top of the pillow. Since that day some 31 years ago, Dan and Pillow, as the object of his affection came to be called, have been inseparable, through summer camp, college dormitory, shared apartments and now his married family home. Dan could sit for hours stroking the mane across his cheek, watching TV, reading a book, listening to music, dreaming, or just simply vegging out.
When we realized his early devotion to Pillow, we projected out a real fear. What if Pillow were lost? Or just left behind at someone’s house? Dan would be inconsolable. So Gilda secretly made a second Pillow. Every few weeks or so we’d switch them out and wash the used one. In between assignments, the second Pillow would await its turn on a top shelf in Dan’s closet. Dan was none the wiser for our deception.
As I stood at the bathroom sink shaving one morning when Dan was about 3, I was startled into action. Gilda was yelling to quickly come downstairs. I had reached the landing at the top of the stairs when I saw Dan standing at the bottom, holding Pillow and his twin, one in each hand. He was screaming, “Two. Two.” His joy was unbounded. His pleasure doubled. He understood and accepted completely the duality of Pillow’s existence. He loved both Pillows, though he probably favored the original.
Now that he’s a father, Dan’s trying to replicate his attachment to Pillow, hoping that Finley will bond with Gilda’s new creation. We, mostly Gilda with her sewing, are willing accomplices. But the track record of transmitting a favored object from one generation to the next is spotty. At least in our family.
When my brother, sister and I grew up, we each in turn latched onto a stuffed animal we called Bow-Wow. In truth, Bow-Wow was a lamb. Blame my brother for the zoological confusion. He named Bow-Wow. Bow-Wow remained a member of my childhood associations even after he was disposed of by our mother.
When Gilda was pregnant with Dan, we visited Carmel, Calif. In one of the town’s curio shops I saw a stuffed lamb. It was much smaller than Bow-Wow, but the attraction was magnetic. Surely Dan would bond with my version of Bow-Wow. We forced him into newborn pictures, first with Dan, then with Ellie.
Nothing. Nada. No chemistry at all. Today, as he has for more than 25 years, Bow-Wow Jr. rests stoically on a shelf in Ellie’s room. After 31 years in our household, he still has his eyes and nose, sure signs of childhood neglect, or more precisely, displacement by objects of affection chosen not by parents but by innocent young lives not tied to preconceptions or family history.
Most every baby becomes attached to some object—a stuffed toy, a blanket, a piece of cloth. For our son Dan it turned out to be a stuffed gingham pillow in the shape of a lion’s face with a fringed white mane all around. A friend had given it to Dan along with a matching blanket. Gilda tethered the pillow to his crib so it wouldn’t topple over on him as a newborn. After he became mobile and the threat of being buried by it subsided, Gilda released the pillow from the side of the crib. A few days later she discovered him sleeping on top of the pillow. Since that day some 31 years ago, Dan and Pillow, as the object of his affection came to be called, have been inseparable, through summer camp, college dormitory, shared apartments and now his married family home. Dan could sit for hours stroking the mane across his cheek, watching TV, reading a book, listening to music, dreaming, or just simply vegging out.
When we realized his early devotion to Pillow, we projected out a real fear. What if Pillow were lost? Or just left behind at someone’s house? Dan would be inconsolable. So Gilda secretly made a second Pillow. Every few weeks or so we’d switch them out and wash the used one. In between assignments, the second Pillow would await its turn on a top shelf in Dan’s closet. Dan was none the wiser for our deception.
As I stood at the bathroom sink shaving one morning when Dan was about 3, I was startled into action. Gilda was yelling to quickly come downstairs. I had reached the landing at the top of the stairs when I saw Dan standing at the bottom, holding Pillow and his twin, one in each hand. He was screaming, “Two. Two.” His joy was unbounded. His pleasure doubled. He understood and accepted completely the duality of Pillow’s existence. He loved both Pillows, though he probably favored the original.
Now that he’s a father, Dan’s trying to replicate his attachment to Pillow, hoping that Finley will bond with Gilda’s new creation. We, mostly Gilda with her sewing, are willing accomplices. But the track record of transmitting a favored object from one generation to the next is spotty. At least in our family.
When my brother, sister and I grew up, we each in turn latched onto a stuffed animal we called Bow-Wow. In truth, Bow-Wow was a lamb. Blame my brother for the zoological confusion. He named Bow-Wow. Bow-Wow remained a member of my childhood associations even after he was disposed of by our mother.
When Gilda was pregnant with Dan, we visited Carmel, Calif. In one of the town’s curio shops I saw a stuffed lamb. It was much smaller than Bow-Wow, but the attraction was magnetic. Surely Dan would bond with my version of Bow-Wow. We forced him into newborn pictures, first with Dan, then with Ellie.
Nothing. Nada. No chemistry at all. Today, as he has for more than 25 years, Bow-Wow Jr. rests stoically on a shelf in Ellie’s room. After 31 years in our household, he still has his eyes and nose, sure signs of childhood neglect, or more precisely, displacement by objects of affection chosen not by parents but by innocent young lives not tied to preconceptions or family history.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Let's Get Physical
I’m no saint. But one of the good deeds I do every month, usually, like today, on the first Wednesday of the month, is go to Costco, not just to shop for myself but also to buy $100 worth of groceries for the local food bank. There is intense satisfaction the next day when I drop off the two or three boxes of canned, packaged or bottled food (the food bank doesn’t accept perishables) at the collection point. Donations are accepted Thursday and Friday mornings.
I’m not seeking accolades by telling you this. I would have preferred my gifts to remain anonymous, as I remain when I deliver each monthly donation despite requests that I sign in. I’m telling you this because I hope to inspire you to do more than simply write a check. Keep writing those checks, but add on some personal, physical involvement. Once a month, at least, buy some extra food for the food bank. You’re already in the store. It won’t be too great a sacrifice to drop the food off at your local food bank.
Last week most Americans sat down at tables groaning under excessive food. We gave thanks, ate and then sat down to watch football or plan an assault on a retail store.
But in our nation of 300-plus million, 49 million go hungry every day. One in three of the hungry are children. Every society is judged by how it treats its less fortunate. Government programs such as food stamps are not enough to relieve the need. Individual action may not be enough either, but your personal involvement will not only nourish the needy, it also will nourish your soul if you do something concrete and physical to help those who don’t enjoy all the material wealth you do.
Physical action, not just checkbook charity.
I’m not seeking accolades by telling you this. I would have preferred my gifts to remain anonymous, as I remain when I deliver each monthly donation despite requests that I sign in. I’m telling you this because I hope to inspire you to do more than simply write a check. Keep writing those checks, but add on some personal, physical involvement. Once a month, at least, buy some extra food for the food bank. You’re already in the store. It won’t be too great a sacrifice to drop the food off at your local food bank.
Last week most Americans sat down at tables groaning under excessive food. We gave thanks, ate and then sat down to watch football or plan an assault on a retail store.
But in our nation of 300-plus million, 49 million go hungry every day. One in three of the hungry are children. Every society is judged by how it treats its less fortunate. Government programs such as food stamps are not enough to relieve the need. Individual action may not be enough either, but your personal involvement will not only nourish the needy, it also will nourish your soul if you do something concrete and physical to help those who don’t enjoy all the material wealth you do.
Physical action, not just checkbook charity.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Time for Updates
Time for some updates of past blogs:
Afghanistan (9/22/09 http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2009/09/deja-vu-afghanistan.html): Tonight, as President Obama explains his new Afghanistan strategy, it’s important to remember the lessons of history—guns and butter didn’t work for LBJ. It won’t work for Obama. Nixon promised a plan to get us out of Vietnam with honor. He sent more youth to their death than LBJ. Tens of thousands were killed and more were maimed, physically and emotionally. We won’t lose as many bodies and minds in Afghanistan, but the soul of our nation will be ripped apart again at a time when we must invest more in our own country and its people. We cannot win in Afghanistan. We cannot achieve anything close to our goals. Politically, Obama will never do enough to appease the war hawks.
Mary Travers (9/17/09 http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2009/09/goodbye-mary.html): How poignant that the day before Obama formally announces his war strategy, our local PBS station, Channel 13, aired a 2003 retrospective on Peter, Paul and Mary as part of its fundraising drive. It displayed the powerful force music possesses to shape and expand the national, and international, dialogue on the important issues of our time. Peter, Paul and Mary were troubadours for justice, equality, peace, freedom, love. The program was called, “Peter, Paul and Mary, Carry It On, A Musical Legacy.” Catch it as a rerun or when it’s broadcast on your local PBS affiliate (next time on Channel 13 is 1 am, Wednesday, 12/2). It will, to paraphrase a Pete Seeger lyric popularized by the trio, leave you wondering,
Where have all the singers gone?
Long time passing,
Where have all the singers gone?
Long time ago
Where have all the singers gone?
Become bankers everyone
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?
Derek Jeter (9/12/09 http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2009/09/yankees-moment.html): In the year in which he surpassed Lou Gehrig as the most prolific hitter in Yankees history, my favorite Yankee earned his fifth World Series ring, his fourth Gold Glove, his second Hank Aaron award as the top hitter of the American League, and his fourth Silver Slugger Award as the best offensive shortstop in the American League. He was the recipient of the Roberto Clemente Award for excellence on and off the field, and yesterday was named Sports Illustrated's sportsman of the year, becoming the first member of the New York Yankees to win the award. All that is worthy of a Jeter fist pump!
Staff cutbacks (11/2/09 http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2009/11/standing-by-helpless.html): They continue at my former employer. Yesterday someone I thought was among the most secure because of his technical skills in producing print publications was let go. Publishing is rapidly becoming a form of communication I do not recognize. I’m not alone. Here’s David Carr’s take from the NY Times, http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/30/business/media/30carr.html?_r=1&sq=carr&st=cse&adxnnl=1&scp=2&adxnnlx=1259665204-g3HFGAVfbU9Do8hm/2GUdA.
Cleveland (10/2/09 http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2009/10/whos-in-control.html): Never heard back from them. Oh well, their football team is doing worse than the Giants, which is depressing in its own right.
Housewife’s Hand (9/10/09 http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2009/09/housewifes-hand.html): Still a problem, but not as bad as before.
Free Tuesday movies (9/8/09 http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2009/09/sockless-in-new-york.html): I don’t see too many free movies on Tuesdays anymore. The Clearview Cinemas cut back on matinees after kids went back to school in September. And frankly, there haven’t been too many films worth seeing, even if they’re free. I’d rather watch old movies DVR’ed from Turner Classic Movies. Yesterday I watched a taut film noir from 1951, Fourteen Hours, starring Paul Douglas and a young Richard Basehart. After you’ve seen the movie, check out the Wikipedia entry for some interesting background details, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fourteen_Hours.
My grandfather name (11/20/09 http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2009/11/whats-in-name-part-ii.html): No word on what Finley will call me. I’ll let you know when the now two-week-old makes up his mind.
Finally, and I’m sure you’re grateful for that, though it’s getting chillier, I’m still going sockless. I hate not wearing socks. But it remains a life statement, an attitude that validates my freedom from the pressures so many of you are under. I wish you all the opportunity, of your own choosing, to go sockless.
Afghanistan (9/22/09 http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2009/09/deja-vu-afghanistan.html): Tonight, as President Obama explains his new Afghanistan strategy, it’s important to remember the lessons of history—guns and butter didn’t work for LBJ. It won’t work for Obama. Nixon promised a plan to get us out of Vietnam with honor. He sent more youth to their death than LBJ. Tens of thousands were killed and more were maimed, physically and emotionally. We won’t lose as many bodies and minds in Afghanistan, but the soul of our nation will be ripped apart again at a time when we must invest more in our own country and its people. We cannot win in Afghanistan. We cannot achieve anything close to our goals. Politically, Obama will never do enough to appease the war hawks.
Mary Travers (9/17/09 http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2009/09/goodbye-mary.html): How poignant that the day before Obama formally announces his war strategy, our local PBS station, Channel 13, aired a 2003 retrospective on Peter, Paul and Mary as part of its fundraising drive. It displayed the powerful force music possesses to shape and expand the national, and international, dialogue on the important issues of our time. Peter, Paul and Mary were troubadours for justice, equality, peace, freedom, love. The program was called, “Peter, Paul and Mary, Carry It On, A Musical Legacy.” Catch it as a rerun or when it’s broadcast on your local PBS affiliate (next time on Channel 13 is 1 am, Wednesday, 12/2). It will, to paraphrase a Pete Seeger lyric popularized by the trio, leave you wondering,
Where have all the singers gone?
Long time passing,
Where have all the singers gone?
Long time ago
Where have all the singers gone?
Become bankers everyone
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?
Derek Jeter (9/12/09 http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2009/09/yankees-moment.html): In the year in which he surpassed Lou Gehrig as the most prolific hitter in Yankees history, my favorite Yankee earned his fifth World Series ring, his fourth Gold Glove, his second Hank Aaron award as the top hitter of the American League, and his fourth Silver Slugger Award as the best offensive shortstop in the American League. He was the recipient of the Roberto Clemente Award for excellence on and off the field, and yesterday was named Sports Illustrated's sportsman of the year, becoming the first member of the New York Yankees to win the award. All that is worthy of a Jeter fist pump!
Staff cutbacks (11/2/09 http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2009/11/standing-by-helpless.html): They continue at my former employer. Yesterday someone I thought was among the most secure because of his technical skills in producing print publications was let go. Publishing is rapidly becoming a form of communication I do not recognize. I’m not alone. Here’s David Carr’s take from the NY Times, http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/30/business/media/30carr.html?_r=1&sq=carr&st=cse&adxnnl=1&scp=2&adxnnlx=1259665204-g3HFGAVfbU9Do8hm/2GUdA.
Cleveland (10/2/09 http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2009/10/whos-in-control.html): Never heard back from them. Oh well, their football team is doing worse than the Giants, which is depressing in its own right.
Housewife’s Hand (9/10/09 http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2009/09/housewifes-hand.html): Still a problem, but not as bad as before.
Free Tuesday movies (9/8/09 http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2009/09/sockless-in-new-york.html): I don’t see too many free movies on Tuesdays anymore. The Clearview Cinemas cut back on matinees after kids went back to school in September. And frankly, there haven’t been too many films worth seeing, even if they’re free. I’d rather watch old movies DVR’ed from Turner Classic Movies. Yesterday I watched a taut film noir from 1951, Fourteen Hours, starring Paul Douglas and a young Richard Basehart. After you’ve seen the movie, check out the Wikipedia entry for some interesting background details, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fourteen_Hours.
My grandfather name (11/20/09 http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2009/11/whats-in-name-part-ii.html): No word on what Finley will call me. I’ll let you know when the now two-week-old makes up his mind.
Finally, and I’m sure you’re grateful for that, though it’s getting chillier, I’m still going sockless. I hate not wearing socks. But it remains a life statement, an attitude that validates my freedom from the pressures so many of you are under. I wish you all the opportunity, of your own choosing, to go sockless.
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