I don’t usually engage in the practice of blowing my own horn. These blog postings from my life are mostly casual musings and remembrances, points of poignancy, interest, sometimes humor, that hopefully evoke in you similar memories and feelings from your earlier days.
But an Op-Ed piece in Friday’s NY Times, titled “Out of Auschwitz” (http://www.nytimes.com/2010/01/29/opinion/29pisar.html?ref=opinion), stirred me to recall one of my most cherished accomplishments—I prevented the new Giants-Jets Meadowlands football stadium from being named after the company that insured Auschwitz and other Nazi death camps.
Two summers ago my family traveled to Central Europe, visiting Vienna, Budapest, Krakow and Prague. In Krakow, we hired a local guide, a young man who, by coincidence, had grown up in the village of Oświęcim, the Polish name for Auschwitz, some 30 miles outside the main city.
There are two parts to the concentration camp. Auschwitz I sits on the site of a former military base. Its buildings are mostly brick. But as sturdy as its structures were, Auschwitz I did not provide the Nazis with sufficient scope to expeditiously carry out their mass murders. So they built Auschwitz II, also known as Birkenau. Jews and other undesirables were contained in wooden barracks. Beyond the far end of a long train depot, the Nazis built gas chambers and crematoria.
On a hot, sunny, late July afternoon as we walked in an open field towards the memorial near the ruins of the killing machines, we came across a small pool of water. I asked our guide what purpose it served. Holocaust deniers would tell you, he replied, that these and others like it were swimming pools the prisoners enjoyed, as if Auschwitz were just a little rougher than a regular summer camp. In truth, the water pools were part of a fire response system mandated by the camp’s insurance carrier because of the extensive wooden buildings. He identified the insurer as Allianz. I was incredulous, but given German fascination with efficiency, not too surprised they would go to the extreme of insuring their extermination property.
Fast forward one month, to Labor Day. On the back page of SportsMonday in The Times I read a short marketing article by Richard Sandomir that the Giants and Jets were close to signing a naming rights deal with a German “financial services company,” Allianz.
Whoa! I raced to the computer, checked it was indeed the same Allianz (on its Web site Allianz acknowledges its Nazi links), and sent off letters to The Times, the Giants and the Jets, informing them that far from being just a “financial services company,” Allianz had been the Nazi insurance company. “Surely the Giants and Jets,” I wrote in part, “in their ignoble pursuit of every last marketing dollar, do not need to affront their fans, many of whom lost family in the Holocaust, by placing the Allianz name on their stadium.”
Not a word back. The Times says it won’t print a letter to the editor without first contacting the writer, so I was caught off-guard the following Sunday, September 7, when awakened by a caller saying he agreed with my letter. I rushed downstairs to find the paper but could not locate the letter in the Week in Review section. The caller, a Scarsdale doctor, said it was in the Sports section. There it was, under the headline, “Checkered History of Allianz.” A few friends called to congratulate me on getting published, but I was not prepared for the next chapter of the story.
Three days later, Sandomir followed up with a long article, titled “Naming Rights and Historical Wrongs” (http://www.nytimes.com/2008/09/10/sports/football/10sandomir.html?scp=4&sq=sandomir%20aLLIANZ&st=cse) and another one the next day (http://www.nytimes.com/2008/09/12/sports/football/12sandomir.html?_r=1&scp=4&sq=Allianz%20Sandomir&st=cse). Talk radio picked up the story, as did other newspapers. One tabloid ran a drawing of the new stadium topped with a swastika. By Friday, pressure had grown intense enough for the naming rights bid to be abandoned.
Near the beginning of this piece I wrote I prevented the Allianz naming rights plan. In truth, two others played important roles, as well. First, the unknown editor who chose to print my letter to the editor. Second, Richard Sandomir, who, mutual friends have told me, learned of Allianz’s past from my letter and pursued the story. Of course, thousands more sent in their denouncements once the story became mainstream news.
Aside from stopping what would have been an affront to decency, my Allianz story demonstrates that one person can make a difference, can start a chain of one-person events that builds on the enlightenment of those before, to right, or prevent, a wrong.
Auschwitz was liberated 65 years ago, on January 27. Let’s never forget to speak out and act so that it is always remembered and never allowed to happen again. To any people. Anywhere.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Friday, January 29, 2010
Night Court
Went to downtown Brooklyn early Wednesday morning, to the MTA’s Transit Adjudication Bureau. Ellie was disputing a ticket she wrongly received for walking through a subway gate allegedly without paying. Being the good father that I am, and with nothing better to do that morning than sleep, I ventured forth to offer aid and comfort, and to possibly come up with another blog subject. Mission accomplished on all fronts, though Ellie has to go back to the Bureau in about two months for the actual “trial.”
Ellie’s predicament reminded me of a stop sign violation the local constabulary tried to tack onto my good driving record some 32 years ago in the upstate hamlet of Pine Bush, outside Middletown. Gilda and I were returning from an evening auction (we bought an oak chair, just recently relegated to our attic) when I noticed an active bubble gum machine atop the car in the rear view mirror. I pulled over to let the police car pass, but to my surprise it pulled in right behind me. I had rolled through a stop sign, the patrolman said. Nonsense, said I, vowing to fight the unjustified accusation. In that case, you’ll have to return to Pine Bush in about six weeks for night court, he countered.
Not wanting points on my record, or to pay the fine, Gilda and I left work early on the appointed day, traveled the 60 or so miles up north and arrived...24 hours too early! I had confused the dates. Needless to say, I was not a happy camper. Needless to say, my disgust was negligible compared to my bunkmate’s. I reeeeally had to do some major groveling to get Gilda to go back to Pine Bush with me the next night.
Even so, her demeanor was not friendly. She had the comportment of a hostile witness, but she was all I had. Without her it would be my word against the cop’s. Even though I extracted from him an admission that he was stationed 300 yards, three football fields!, away from the stop sign I allegedly “rolled through,” it was still just the two of us squaring off, and in most jurisdictions that’s bad news for a defendant.
After Gilda testified (thankfully corroborating my testimony), the judge asked if the policeman had a witness. He did. It was the chief of police, who was riding with him that night. Gulp.
OK, where was he?, the judge asked. On patrol, came the reply, followed swiftly by good, old-fashioned country justice—two against one, case dismissed.
Ellie’s predicament reminded me of a stop sign violation the local constabulary tried to tack onto my good driving record some 32 years ago in the upstate hamlet of Pine Bush, outside Middletown. Gilda and I were returning from an evening auction (we bought an oak chair, just recently relegated to our attic) when I noticed an active bubble gum machine atop the car in the rear view mirror. I pulled over to let the police car pass, but to my surprise it pulled in right behind me. I had rolled through a stop sign, the patrolman said. Nonsense, said I, vowing to fight the unjustified accusation. In that case, you’ll have to return to Pine Bush in about six weeks for night court, he countered.
Not wanting points on my record, or to pay the fine, Gilda and I left work early on the appointed day, traveled the 60 or so miles up north and arrived...24 hours too early! I had confused the dates. Needless to say, I was not a happy camper. Needless to say, my disgust was negligible compared to my bunkmate’s. I reeeeally had to do some major groveling to get Gilda to go back to Pine Bush with me the next night.
Even so, her demeanor was not friendly. She had the comportment of a hostile witness, but she was all I had. Without her it would be my word against the cop’s. Even though I extracted from him an admission that he was stationed 300 yards, three football fields!, away from the stop sign I allegedly “rolled through,” it was still just the two of us squaring off, and in most jurisdictions that’s bad news for a defendant.
After Gilda testified (thankfully corroborating my testimony), the judge asked if the policeman had a witness. He did. It was the chief of police, who was riding with him that night. Gulp.
OK, where was he?, the judge asked. On patrol, came the reply, followed swiftly by good, old-fashioned country justice—two against one, case dismissed.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
State of Disunion
Politics is a nasty business.
You can get elected by trying to make everyone like you. But you can’t govern that way. To be effective, you have to embrace a take-no-prisoners attitude.
I wasn’t a George Bush fan. But like most Republicans, he grasped that power resided in the ability to stay focused on a mission, a mission of his choosing, not someone else’s.
Barack Obama has vision, but has shown little if any wherewithal to complete his mission.
It’s philosophically laudatory that Obama ceded power back to Congress. But it resulted in anarchy and failed healthcare reform. Obama has ignored at least three decades of executive branch ascendancy over the legislature. Instead of Obama being the fulcrum of progress, self-centered opportunists like Lieberman, Baucus, Nelson and Landrieu commandeered healthcare reform by exposing the manipulations of backroom deals. It’s analogous to peering inside a restaurant kitchen—you wouldn’t want to eat after seeing how food is prepared, even in the best of establishments. After being exposed to the cooking chicanery of Democratic politicians, it’s no wonder the public is turned off.
Hate the Republicans, or love, them, but at the very least be respectful that they stay focused, on message, even if the message is not agreeable to you.
I blame Obama for failing to comprehend that a president leads, not follows. He’s like the quarterback of a football team. In the huddle, the QB calls the play, not a lineman or a halfback. Healthcare reform was his issue. He should have been driving the bus, not sitting wherever he pleased. (I know I’m mixing metaphors, but he gets me so frustrated!)
As we await tonight’s State of Disunion speech, the calendar shows Obama has three years remaining in his first term. The reality is that he has less than 10 months of effective leadership time to turn his presidency around. After the mid-term elections next November, Obama either will be in command of the political stage again or he will most surely, prematurely and involuntarily join the no socks needed anymore brigade.
You can get elected by trying to make everyone like you. But you can’t govern that way. To be effective, you have to embrace a take-no-prisoners attitude.
I wasn’t a George Bush fan. But like most Republicans, he grasped that power resided in the ability to stay focused on a mission, a mission of his choosing, not someone else’s.
Barack Obama has vision, but has shown little if any wherewithal to complete his mission.
It’s philosophically laudatory that Obama ceded power back to Congress. But it resulted in anarchy and failed healthcare reform. Obama has ignored at least three decades of executive branch ascendancy over the legislature. Instead of Obama being the fulcrum of progress, self-centered opportunists like Lieberman, Baucus, Nelson and Landrieu commandeered healthcare reform by exposing the manipulations of backroom deals. It’s analogous to peering inside a restaurant kitchen—you wouldn’t want to eat after seeing how food is prepared, even in the best of establishments. After being exposed to the cooking chicanery of Democratic politicians, it’s no wonder the public is turned off.
Hate the Republicans, or love, them, but at the very least be respectful that they stay focused, on message, even if the message is not agreeable to you.
I blame Obama for failing to comprehend that a president leads, not follows. He’s like the quarterback of a football team. In the huddle, the QB calls the play, not a lineman or a halfback. Healthcare reform was his issue. He should have been driving the bus, not sitting wherever he pleased. (I know I’m mixing metaphors, but he gets me so frustrated!)
As we await tonight’s State of Disunion speech, the calendar shows Obama has three years remaining in his first term. The reality is that he has less than 10 months of effective leadership time to turn his presidency around. After the mid-term elections next November, Obama either will be in command of the political stage again or he will most surely, prematurely and involuntarily join the no socks needed anymore brigade.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Spousal Infidelities, Part II
Gilda usually scrunches up her face when I tell people I like watching old movies, especially movies from the 1930’s. Though she too can be fascinated by some of the theatrical treatments of history, or some of the libertine values depicted in early 1930’s movies, before the Hays Code was strictly enforced, she mostly leaves me to enjoy these cinematic treats by myself.
I was feeling just a little self-conscious about this disposition for old movies when I heard an excerpt from a Barbara Walters interview of a few years ago with Don Hewitt, aired last night on 60 Minutes as part of a tribute to the deceased creator of that iconic television news program. Hewitt admitted to being uncomfortable with the 21st century, that he was “still living Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy.” But, Walters countered, “You produce a news magazine that has to be up to date?”, to which Hewitt replied, “Maybe having a foot in the past helps you deal with the present better.”
I couldn’t agree more. Here’s an example:
With all the news (do we really have to dignify it by calling it “news”?) about the philandering ways of Tiger Woods, Mark Sanford, John Edwards, Eliot Spitzer, Alex Rodriguez...oh, the list can go on and on, it was fascinating to watch the 1939 film, The Women.
The Women tells the story of how infidelity by the husband of socialite Mary Haines impacts the lives of their family, friends and household staff. Keep in mind that with the exception of director George Cukor, all the main contributors to The Women were female. Originally a stage play written by Clare Boothe (Luce, though the title credits did not note her married name), the script was adapted for the screen by Anita Loos and Jane Murfin. All the actors were women. Not one man was seen or even heard.
The story is a snapshot of the mores and lifestyles of the 1930s, at least those of the privileged class, many surprisingly similar to those of today. You’ll find the scenes at the health spa particularly current.
You might think that 70-80 years ago was an ancient and prim time, but consider this bit of dialog by the aggrieved Mary and her mother, who confides that she too had to deal with a wayward husband 20 years earlier:
Mother: This story isn’t new. It comes to most wives. Stephen is a man. He’s been married 10 years.
Mary: You mean he’s tired of me?
Mother: He’s tired of himself. Tired of feeling the same thing in himself. He’s got to feel something new. He’s got to feel young again.
Unlike a woman who can redo her wardrobe, hair style or redecorate her home to reinvigorate her life, says Mary’s mother, “a man’s got only one escape from his old self, to see a different self in the mirror of some woman’s eyes.”
While worrying about their continued employment, Maggie, the cook, and Jane, the maid, reflected on the state of matrimony:
“You know,” said Maggie, “the first man that can think up a good explanation how he can be in love with his wife and another woman is going to win that prize they’re always giving out in Sweden.”
Asked if she believed in marriage, Maggie snipped, “Sure I do, for women; but it’s the sons of Adam they got to marry.”
After Jane related that during a bedroom argument she overheard Stephen Haines telling his wife to think about their nine-year-old daughter, Maggie observed, “No woman wants to be told she’s being kept on just to run a kindergarten.”
Throughout the film the repartee is snappy, perhaps too witty for real-life conversations, but the context and appeal of The Women are timeless.
And in one of the more startling lines of the script, Mary’s mother comforted her now divorced daughter by saying, “Living alone has its compensations. Heaven knows it’s marvelous being able to spread out in bed like a swastika.”
I had to remind myself that this script was written in the mid-1930s, that the swastika symbol had been around for some 3,000 years before its usurpation by the Nazis. Until roughly 20 years ago it was a widely used term for retail apparel displays, now called four-ways.
The Women has been reprised several times, most recently in 2008. If you’re at all interested in good cinema, do yourself a favor and opt for the 1939 version.
I was feeling just a little self-conscious about this disposition for old movies when I heard an excerpt from a Barbara Walters interview of a few years ago with Don Hewitt, aired last night on 60 Minutes as part of a tribute to the deceased creator of that iconic television news program. Hewitt admitted to being uncomfortable with the 21st century, that he was “still living Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy.” But, Walters countered, “You produce a news magazine that has to be up to date?”, to which Hewitt replied, “Maybe having a foot in the past helps you deal with the present better.”
I couldn’t agree more. Here’s an example:
With all the news (do we really have to dignify it by calling it “news”?) about the philandering ways of Tiger Woods, Mark Sanford, John Edwards, Eliot Spitzer, Alex Rodriguez...oh, the list can go on and on, it was fascinating to watch the 1939 film, The Women.
The Women tells the story of how infidelity by the husband of socialite Mary Haines impacts the lives of their family, friends and household staff. Keep in mind that with the exception of director George Cukor, all the main contributors to The Women were female. Originally a stage play written by Clare Boothe (Luce, though the title credits did not note her married name), the script was adapted for the screen by Anita Loos and Jane Murfin. All the actors were women. Not one man was seen or even heard.
The story is a snapshot of the mores and lifestyles of the 1930s, at least those of the privileged class, many surprisingly similar to those of today. You’ll find the scenes at the health spa particularly current.
You might think that 70-80 years ago was an ancient and prim time, but consider this bit of dialog by the aggrieved Mary and her mother, who confides that she too had to deal with a wayward husband 20 years earlier:
Mother: This story isn’t new. It comes to most wives. Stephen is a man. He’s been married 10 years.
Mary: You mean he’s tired of me?
Mother: He’s tired of himself. Tired of feeling the same thing in himself. He’s got to feel something new. He’s got to feel young again.
Unlike a woman who can redo her wardrobe, hair style or redecorate her home to reinvigorate her life, says Mary’s mother, “a man’s got only one escape from his old self, to see a different self in the mirror of some woman’s eyes.”
While worrying about their continued employment, Maggie, the cook, and Jane, the maid, reflected on the state of matrimony:
“You know,” said Maggie, “the first man that can think up a good explanation how he can be in love with his wife and another woman is going to win that prize they’re always giving out in Sweden.”
Asked if she believed in marriage, Maggie snipped, “Sure I do, for women; but it’s the sons of Adam they got to marry.”
After Jane related that during a bedroom argument she overheard Stephen Haines telling his wife to think about their nine-year-old daughter, Maggie observed, “No woman wants to be told she’s being kept on just to run a kindergarten.”
Throughout the film the repartee is snappy, perhaps too witty for real-life conversations, but the context and appeal of The Women are timeless.
And in one of the more startling lines of the script, Mary’s mother comforted her now divorced daughter by saying, “Living alone has its compensations. Heaven knows it’s marvelous being able to spread out in bed like a swastika.”
I had to remind myself that this script was written in the mid-1930s, that the swastika symbol had been around for some 3,000 years before its usurpation by the Nazis. Until roughly 20 years ago it was a widely used term for retail apparel displays, now called four-ways.
The Women has been reprised several times, most recently in 2008. If you’re at all interested in good cinema, do yourself a favor and opt for the 1939 version.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
What's for Dinner?
Jacob asked me today if I was doing any cooking. After all, Gilda is in the city working all week, I have the time. But did I have the inclination?
Depending on your bias, I, a) sadly said, “No,” or b) happily said, “No.”
Either way, the answer was no. And with good reason, I explained.
First, I’m not a cook, especially compared to the excellent meals Gilda makes. Trust me, as much as she’d like a home-cooked meal waiting for her return from work, she is discriminating enough to know that her taste buds would suffer almost irreversible harm if left in my care. I help out, I truly do, by being as close to a sous chef as possible, shopping, making salads, preparing products for Gilda’s delicate touch, setting the table, cleaning up after meals.
Second, almost half the time Gilda does not eat what I consider a full dinner. Take Thursday night, for example. After work she went to the gym, arriving home about 8 pm. Her dinner? Frozen yogurt. Now, how would that make me feel if I sweated all day preparing a meat loaf?
Seriously, my cooking is not the answer. But, you might be wondering, what did I do for dinner? Thanks for asking, but don’t fret—I had a very filling and fulfilling meal of meatballs and pasta with a large salad. I made the pasta and salad, but the meatballs are part of my “strategic plan for eating contentment and satisfaction,” SPECS, for short (readers from my former life as a magazine publisher and conference producer will note my infatuation with the SPECS anagram. For those not privy to that life, SPECS also stands for Store Planning, Equipment and Construction Services Seminar, an annual conference I chaired that attracted some 1,200 attendees).
Getting back to the food, the meatballs come from the prepared meals section I discovered at our kosher butcher. Divided up into appropriately sized single portions (I’ve become sort of a Tupperware, or in my case, Gladware and Ziploc, maniac), the meatballs are part of a variety of entrees, including goulash and lamb stew, I buy. In addition, Costco recently started carrying kosher stuffed cabbage and chicken meatballs. Indeed, many supermarkets across the country have increased kosher food selections. It seems just 15% of consumers buy kosher food for religious purposes. Merchants are boring into a previously untapped market. Here’s some background from Columbus, Ohio: http://www.dispatch.com/live/content/business/stories/2010/01/21/Expanded_Kosher.ART_ART_01-21-10_A10_62GC3SI.html?sid=101
I’d be remiss if I didn’t note that Gilda also contributes by making meat loaves plus beef and veal stews specifically for me. I also get the benefit of leftovers from dinner parties at our home. I’m a lucky man.
I’m also quite obsessive about my SPECS. I’ve co-opted three shelves in the main refrigerator’s freezer. On papers attached to each shelf I’ve listed their contents, diligently marking off which entrees have been consumed.
Laugh all you want, and I have no doubt you are at least shaking your head, but I am happy and hardly ever go to bed hungry.
It’s Cold Inside: More fallout from my recent post about being a prisoner of the second floor. Seems I might be part of a new wave of chilly living. Check out this article from Thursday’s NY Times Home section: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/01/21/garden/21cold.html.
For the record, I think those people are crazy.
Depending on your bias, I, a) sadly said, “No,” or b) happily said, “No.”
Either way, the answer was no. And with good reason, I explained.
First, I’m not a cook, especially compared to the excellent meals Gilda makes. Trust me, as much as she’d like a home-cooked meal waiting for her return from work, she is discriminating enough to know that her taste buds would suffer almost irreversible harm if left in my care. I help out, I truly do, by being as close to a sous chef as possible, shopping, making salads, preparing products for Gilda’s delicate touch, setting the table, cleaning up after meals.
Second, almost half the time Gilda does not eat what I consider a full dinner. Take Thursday night, for example. After work she went to the gym, arriving home about 8 pm. Her dinner? Frozen yogurt. Now, how would that make me feel if I sweated all day preparing a meat loaf?
Seriously, my cooking is not the answer. But, you might be wondering, what did I do for dinner? Thanks for asking, but don’t fret—I had a very filling and fulfilling meal of meatballs and pasta with a large salad. I made the pasta and salad, but the meatballs are part of my “strategic plan for eating contentment and satisfaction,” SPECS, for short (readers from my former life as a magazine publisher and conference producer will note my infatuation with the SPECS anagram. For those not privy to that life, SPECS also stands for Store Planning, Equipment and Construction Services Seminar, an annual conference I chaired that attracted some 1,200 attendees).
Getting back to the food, the meatballs come from the prepared meals section I discovered at our kosher butcher. Divided up into appropriately sized single portions (I’ve become sort of a Tupperware, or in my case, Gladware and Ziploc, maniac), the meatballs are part of a variety of entrees, including goulash and lamb stew, I buy. In addition, Costco recently started carrying kosher stuffed cabbage and chicken meatballs. Indeed, many supermarkets across the country have increased kosher food selections. It seems just 15% of consumers buy kosher food for religious purposes. Merchants are boring into a previously untapped market. Here’s some background from Columbus, Ohio: http://www.dispatch.com/live/content/business/stories/2010/01/21/Expanded_Kosher.ART_ART_01-21-10_A10_62GC3SI.html?sid=101
I’d be remiss if I didn’t note that Gilda also contributes by making meat loaves plus beef and veal stews specifically for me. I also get the benefit of leftovers from dinner parties at our home. I’m a lucky man.
I’m also quite obsessive about my SPECS. I’ve co-opted three shelves in the main refrigerator’s freezer. On papers attached to each shelf I’ve listed their contents, diligently marking off which entrees have been consumed.
Laugh all you want, and I have no doubt you are at least shaking your head, but I am happy and hardly ever go to bed hungry.
It’s Cold Inside: More fallout from my recent post about being a prisoner of the second floor. Seems I might be part of a new wave of chilly living. Check out this article from Thursday’s NY Times Home section: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/01/21/garden/21cold.html.
For the record, I think those people are crazy.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Hail to the Party
The news came in around 9:40 tonight. The liberal, Democratic U.S. Senate seat held by Ted Kennedy for more than four decades, and by his brother, John, before him, is going to a conservative Republican who believes in, according to the NY Times, “waterboarding as an interrogation technique for terrorism suspects; opposes a federal cap-and-trade program to reduce carbon emissions; and opposes a path to citizenship for illegal immigrants unless they leave the country.”
I’ll leave it to the pundits to dissect the story behind the story. I don’t know about you, but I get pretty nauseated hearing all this political carping day after day, night after night. I’m a pretty political person, but enough already.
Scott Brown’s upset victory reminds me of the first political campaign I covered for The New Haven Register. It was 1972. Conservative Republican state legislator Ronald Sarasin was waging an uphill battle to unseat seven-term Congressman John Monaghan. Sarasin was from Beacon Falls, a mill town south of Waterbury along the Naugatuck River. The Fifth Congressional District includes Waterbury, Meriden, Danbury, plus factory towns and elite communities in Fairfield County.
Sarasin had two things in his favor. One was the Nixon coattails. McGovern had no hope to unseat a sitting president not yet soiled by Watergate. In some ways, Scott Brown’s victory is a mirror image of presidential influence. A vote for Brown today was a message of displeasure with Obama.
Sarasin’s second advantage was his outsider status. Monaghan was portrayed as an incumbent more concerned with his cushy Washington seat than the problems confronting his district. A glib, handsome, prematurely grey Sarasin (my bureau chief boss often referred to him as “Razor Cut Ronnie”) energized voters with his enthusiasm. He crisscrossed the 41 towns of the district in an old school bus painted red, white and blue. He stressed he would be a responsible representative. Indeed, after he won election, Sarasin kept riding his bus every weekend, making sure his constituents could personally deliver to him their requests for road repairs, job programs and lower taxes. Had he not opted to run for governor in 1978 (he lost), he might well still be representing the district. Instead he became a lobbyist, and is now married to the the head of the Food Marketing Institute, the supermarket industry trade association.
(Full disclosure: In 1976 I left The Register to serve as press secretary to a Democratic candidate trying to replace Sarasin. Sarasin trounced him, as I knew he would. He was, as I implied, a responsive, well-liked congressman.)
Scott Brown’s victory, to me, runs parallel to Sarasin’s. He touched a nerve with the electorate. He didn’t take voters for granted. He did his homework. He benefited from running against a vulnerable candidate.
I’m not happy the GOP won in Massachusetts. I really don’t want to hear the spin from both parties. We’re now going to see if Obama is as good a politician as Clinton became after Republicans won big in 1994. For the sake of the country, I hope he is.
I’ll leave it to the pundits to dissect the story behind the story. I don’t know about you, but I get pretty nauseated hearing all this political carping day after day, night after night. I’m a pretty political person, but enough already.
Scott Brown’s upset victory reminds me of the first political campaign I covered for The New Haven Register. It was 1972. Conservative Republican state legislator Ronald Sarasin was waging an uphill battle to unseat seven-term Congressman John Monaghan. Sarasin was from Beacon Falls, a mill town south of Waterbury along the Naugatuck River. The Fifth Congressional District includes Waterbury, Meriden, Danbury, plus factory towns and elite communities in Fairfield County.
Sarasin had two things in his favor. One was the Nixon coattails. McGovern had no hope to unseat a sitting president not yet soiled by Watergate. In some ways, Scott Brown’s victory is a mirror image of presidential influence. A vote for Brown today was a message of displeasure with Obama.
Sarasin’s second advantage was his outsider status. Monaghan was portrayed as an incumbent more concerned with his cushy Washington seat than the problems confronting his district. A glib, handsome, prematurely grey Sarasin (my bureau chief boss often referred to him as “Razor Cut Ronnie”) energized voters with his enthusiasm. He crisscrossed the 41 towns of the district in an old school bus painted red, white and blue. He stressed he would be a responsible representative. Indeed, after he won election, Sarasin kept riding his bus every weekend, making sure his constituents could personally deliver to him their requests for road repairs, job programs and lower taxes. Had he not opted to run for governor in 1978 (he lost), he might well still be representing the district. Instead he became a lobbyist, and is now married to the the head of the Food Marketing Institute, the supermarket industry trade association.
(Full disclosure: In 1976 I left The Register to serve as press secretary to a Democratic candidate trying to replace Sarasin. Sarasin trounced him, as I knew he would. He was, as I implied, a responsive, well-liked congressman.)
Scott Brown’s victory, to me, runs parallel to Sarasin’s. He touched a nerve with the electorate. He didn’t take voters for granted. He did his homework. He benefited from running against a vulnerable candidate.
I’m not happy the GOP won in Massachusetts. I really don’t want to hear the spin from both parties. We’re now going to see if Obama is as good a politician as Clinton became after Republicans won big in 1994. For the sake of the country, I hope he is.
Monday, January 18, 2010
GG and Some Gaps
The great grandparents naming game is half complete.
Finley & Co. made their way down to White Plains from the Boston area over the weekend, allowing his proud paternal grandparents to show him off. He cooperated by mostly sleeping or looking around interested. We didn’t hear a peep from him all night after he went to bed, though his parents assured us he did wake up several times. But we and our friends and relatives experienced no tantrums or uncontrollable crying spells during his two days in New York. The few times he did cry he was comforted by the sounds of Broadway musicals sung by those who held him. He finds Guys and Dolls particularly engaging, especially the A Bushel and a Peck song.
For more details on Finley’s maiden trip to New York, visit http://findingfinley.blogspot.com/2010/01/to-wp.html.
During Finley’s too-short time spent with us, we seemed to have reached a consensus on what he will call his grandmother—it will be GG, pronounced Gee-Gee, not the French way, Gigi. In case you haven’t figured it out, GG stands for Grandma Gilda. Since my nephew-in-law Matt once worked for Ford, I told him I’ll pass on being called GM. So I’m still without a grandparent name.
The car reference is a good transition to the subject of baby conveyances. It’s been 31 years since GG and I had to buy a stroller. Sticker shock! “Acceptable” strollers seem to begin at the $250 price point and can zoom up to $1,000, if you get the model that automatically wipes the kid’s tush if he has an accident (just kidding, about the cleaning feature, not the price).
When we were new parents in 1978, the Cadillac of strollers came from Perego. I can’t recall what it cost, but it was way beyond our budget. We opted for the Model T version—a basic umbrella stroller. It was lightweight, folded easily and for $14.99 could not be beat for practicality, price and convenience. Some of our friends cautioned that if Danny, as he was known back then, fell asleep in the stroller his spine would be ruined for life by being bent over for too long a period. We threw caution to the wind. Doesn’t seem to have affected Dan or Ellie.
Dan and Allison haven’t finalized their stroller choice, though it’s sure to be a vehicle more suitable to off the road and jogging routines.
Generation Gap: If you’ve taken the opportunity to link to the Finding Finley blog mentioned above, you’ll have come across the following sentence near the bottom of the post:
"He looked pretty dope in his grizzly bear hoodie, don't you think?"
As a former editor I thought I caught a mistake in the copy. After all, what mother would suggest that her son looked like a “dope?” And if she was making that suggestion, the correct usage would be “dopey.”
Turns out I was out of touch with modern expressions. “DOPE is hip terminology for great, sweet etc.,” Allison advised.
Who knew? I’m so embarrassed!
Global Warming Gap: “Why don’t you just raise the heat if you’re cold,” Gilda admonished me last week after I wrote about being a prisoner of the second floor (http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2010/01/prisoner-of-second-floor.html).
Projecting an image of being too destitute, or cheap, to heat the house sufficiently to be comfortable didn’t sit too well with my wife.
But that’s only part of the problem last week’s post uncovered. Now I’m beginning to wonder if during our forthcoming trip to Los Angeles it will be a warm haven. Sure, unless the earth shifts its axis, LA should be warmer than New York in February. But comfort and warmth are also psychological effects. If it’s not as warm as expected, chills might tingle down my spine.
What makes me start to quake in wonder? This note from my sister:
“Your blog was very reassuring today.....now we do heat the house.......however, even though the system is new, 6 years old, LA homes are poorly ventilated and the heat escapes and the cold lingers. It is hard to find a warm, yummy place to sit and read, except the bathroom where you can put on the electric heater and then it is toasty warm. People do wonder about your absence, however.....so, bring lots of layers. We in LA think layers are the “in” thing. We all suffer from the same lousy insulation and ventilation issues regardless of the size of your paycheck.”
Bring lots of layers!!!!!! That’s what I’m supposed to be escaping. Now I don’t know whether I should pack socks or not!?!
Lee wasn’t the only one who responded to the cold. A friend, who shall remain nameless so I don’t embarrass her, said, “Murray, I too am imprisoned by the thermostat. I set it at 65 for the days whether I'm here or not! I like to keep the heating bills (ridiculously high despite my efforts) low. We bought a wood burning stove 15 years ago and if the outside temp dips below 25 I use it. I've found a wonderful use for the blankets my mother knit years ago!”
In our first house we used to heat a good 70% of the time with a wood burning stove inserted into the living room fireplace. At least half of the six cords of wood burned every winter I would gather and cut myself. I was a real lumberjack in those days, riding around in my Vega keeping one eye on the road and the other on the roadside looking for downed tree limbs. If I saw one of sufficient size, I’d pull over, take out my chain saw and lickety-split cut the pieces into 20-inch sections just right for our stove. Pieces too wide to easily catch fire I’d chop in the back yard. It was year-round work.
When we moved to our current home 26 years ago, we inherited a smaller wood burning stove in the den, a location not conducive to heating the whole house. Even though we replaced it with a more efficient and aesthetically pleasing stove, I lost interest in logging. The stove has been useful during the occasional oil burner failure, but for the most part it sits like most home exercise equipment, a visual reminder of activity long discontinued.
Gender Gap: Historically, men and women who live together have an ongoing battle. It’s a delicate subject, so I won’t spell it out in detail here. But those savvy enough to know what I’m referring to will understand. It’s a question of “up or down.”
For all of our married life, Gilda and I have lived in a “down” environment. A few weeks ago we suddenly and inexplicably started to experience a few “up” moments. No matter how often a return to the down cycle is requested, up times keep intruding on our tranquility.
Perhaps this public disclosure will prod us back into normalcy.
Fan Gap: Now I know how Mets fans feel. They couldn’t stand it when the Yankees won the World Series. It hasn’t happened yet, but the prospect of a Jets Super Bowl victory has this Giants fan cringing. I do admire the grit displayed by the Jets. It’s like old time Giants football—a staunch defense backing up a power running game and an opportunistic offense. But I’m too selfish a fan to see any joy in the Jets advancing while memories linger of the Giants discombobulating over the last 10 weeks of the season.
Finley & Co. made their way down to White Plains from the Boston area over the weekend, allowing his proud paternal grandparents to show him off. He cooperated by mostly sleeping or looking around interested. We didn’t hear a peep from him all night after he went to bed, though his parents assured us he did wake up several times. But we and our friends and relatives experienced no tantrums or uncontrollable crying spells during his two days in New York. The few times he did cry he was comforted by the sounds of Broadway musicals sung by those who held him. He finds Guys and Dolls particularly engaging, especially the A Bushel and a Peck song.
For more details on Finley’s maiden trip to New York, visit http://findingfinley.blogspot.com/2010/01/to-wp.html.
During Finley’s too-short time spent with us, we seemed to have reached a consensus on what he will call his grandmother—it will be GG, pronounced Gee-Gee, not the French way, Gigi. In case you haven’t figured it out, GG stands for Grandma Gilda. Since my nephew-in-law Matt once worked for Ford, I told him I’ll pass on being called GM. So I’m still without a grandparent name.
The car reference is a good transition to the subject of baby conveyances. It’s been 31 years since GG and I had to buy a stroller. Sticker shock! “Acceptable” strollers seem to begin at the $250 price point and can zoom up to $1,000, if you get the model that automatically wipes the kid’s tush if he has an accident (just kidding, about the cleaning feature, not the price).
When we were new parents in 1978, the Cadillac of strollers came from Perego. I can’t recall what it cost, but it was way beyond our budget. We opted for the Model T version—a basic umbrella stroller. It was lightweight, folded easily and for $14.99 could not be beat for practicality, price and convenience. Some of our friends cautioned that if Danny, as he was known back then, fell asleep in the stroller his spine would be ruined for life by being bent over for too long a period. We threw caution to the wind. Doesn’t seem to have affected Dan or Ellie.
Dan and Allison haven’t finalized their stroller choice, though it’s sure to be a vehicle more suitable to off the road and jogging routines.
Generation Gap: If you’ve taken the opportunity to link to the Finding Finley blog mentioned above, you’ll have come across the following sentence near the bottom of the post:
"He looked pretty dope in his grizzly bear hoodie, don't you think?"
As a former editor I thought I caught a mistake in the copy. After all, what mother would suggest that her son looked like a “dope?” And if she was making that suggestion, the correct usage would be “dopey.”
Turns out I was out of touch with modern expressions. “DOPE is hip terminology for great, sweet etc.,” Allison advised.
Who knew? I’m so embarrassed!
Global Warming Gap: “Why don’t you just raise the heat if you’re cold,” Gilda admonished me last week after I wrote about being a prisoner of the second floor (http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2010/01/prisoner-of-second-floor.html).
Projecting an image of being too destitute, or cheap, to heat the house sufficiently to be comfortable didn’t sit too well with my wife.
But that’s only part of the problem last week’s post uncovered. Now I’m beginning to wonder if during our forthcoming trip to Los Angeles it will be a warm haven. Sure, unless the earth shifts its axis, LA should be warmer than New York in February. But comfort and warmth are also psychological effects. If it’s not as warm as expected, chills might tingle down my spine.
What makes me start to quake in wonder? This note from my sister:
“Your blog was very reassuring today.....now we do heat the house.......however, even though the system is new, 6 years old, LA homes are poorly ventilated and the heat escapes and the cold lingers. It is hard to find a warm, yummy place to sit and read, except the bathroom where you can put on the electric heater and then it is toasty warm. People do wonder about your absence, however.....so, bring lots of layers. We in LA think layers are the “in” thing. We all suffer from the same lousy insulation and ventilation issues regardless of the size of your paycheck.”
Bring lots of layers!!!!!! That’s what I’m supposed to be escaping. Now I don’t know whether I should pack socks or not!?!
Lee wasn’t the only one who responded to the cold. A friend, who shall remain nameless so I don’t embarrass her, said, “Murray, I too am imprisoned by the thermostat. I set it at 65 for the days whether I'm here or not! I like to keep the heating bills (ridiculously high despite my efforts) low. We bought a wood burning stove 15 years ago and if the outside temp dips below 25 I use it. I've found a wonderful use for the blankets my mother knit years ago!”
In our first house we used to heat a good 70% of the time with a wood burning stove inserted into the living room fireplace. At least half of the six cords of wood burned every winter I would gather and cut myself. I was a real lumberjack in those days, riding around in my Vega keeping one eye on the road and the other on the roadside looking for downed tree limbs. If I saw one of sufficient size, I’d pull over, take out my chain saw and lickety-split cut the pieces into 20-inch sections just right for our stove. Pieces too wide to easily catch fire I’d chop in the back yard. It was year-round work.
When we moved to our current home 26 years ago, we inherited a smaller wood burning stove in the den, a location not conducive to heating the whole house. Even though we replaced it with a more efficient and aesthetically pleasing stove, I lost interest in logging. The stove has been useful during the occasional oil burner failure, but for the most part it sits like most home exercise equipment, a visual reminder of activity long discontinued.
Gender Gap: Historically, men and women who live together have an ongoing battle. It’s a delicate subject, so I won’t spell it out in detail here. But those savvy enough to know what I’m referring to will understand. It’s a question of “up or down.”
For all of our married life, Gilda and I have lived in a “down” environment. A few weeks ago we suddenly and inexplicably started to experience a few “up” moments. No matter how often a return to the down cycle is requested, up times keep intruding on our tranquility.
Perhaps this public disclosure will prod us back into normalcy.
Fan Gap: Now I know how Mets fans feel. They couldn’t stand it when the Yankees won the World Series. It hasn’t happened yet, but the prospect of a Jets Super Bowl victory has this Giants fan cringing. I do admire the grit displayed by the Jets. It’s like old time Giants football—a staunch defense backing up a power running game and an opportunistic offense. But I’m too selfish a fan to see any joy in the Jets advancing while memories linger of the Giants discombobulating over the last 10 weeks of the season.
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