Randall ( Randy ) Tobias, a top State Department official ( AIDS being his specialty ) resigned the other day after admitting he'd been a client of the so called " DC Madame. "
ABC News is about to spill some more beans on the DC Madame. A lot of guys named John are losing sleep today, wondering if their ( last ) names will be revealed. This story reminds me of a story that broke in Hartford back in the early 1990s. I asked this question then, and I'll ask it now:
How does one distinguish between guys who commit a crime, i.e. pay for sex, and those who paid for nothing more than an escort. Someone to talk to.
A friend admitted back then to paying for a " Touch of Class " escort. He paid TOC the $125 fee. The escort's name was Rochelle. She said she was from New Rochelle, and he thought: What a coincidence.
I know what you're thinking. There's no way someone is going to pay $125 for a woman to get into a conversation with him. Well, you're wrong. That's sexist stereotyping. There are, indeed, some men who want want more from a woman than great sex.
My friend who was one of those men.
He was happily married. He and his wife and had no conversational problems . To speak of.
They'd been married for about fifteen years and had a normal conversational life. He knew at the time from reading some womens magazines that men of his age - he was in his thirties - were having problems. Their wives were growing tired of the talks they were having with their husbands.
In the early days of his marriage he and his wife would get into interesting conversations four or five times a week. Then it was two or three times a week. Then once or twice.
Then it was once a week. " And I'm talking small talk, " he told me. " Nothing like those all night bull sessions we used to have. "
My friend shared with me how he got involved with Rochelle. He called TOC. Asked for them to send someone over. Rochelle showed up. My friend said he put a Leonard Cohen tape in the stereo, asked Rochelle to make herself comfortable.
" I didn't want to rush into things, " my friend told me. " I said, ' How about a little small talk to start things off. ' "
He said he started talking about the latest Bill Moyers special on PBS.
" That broke the ice, " he said. " Then we got into a little Updike. "
Then he said they really got going. Aristotle, Kant's Critique of Pure Reason. Stuff like that.
He said when his time was up he asked Rochelle: " How was I? I mean compared to other guys you've been with? "
He said she said, " I had this English professor at Trinity. Guy could talk about anything. He was good, real good. But you weren't half bad, not bad at all. "
So. As this DC Madame story develops, don't be too quick to judge. Some guys. All they want to do is spend some time with a woman who's a hell of a conversationalist. My friend, John, he's living proof of that.
Monday, April 30, 2007
No Escape
By Terrence McCarthy
Agnes was a rail thin 63 year old woman whose cackle laugh echoed like a car alarm throughout the unit. But it isn’t the sound of her laughter I remember most; it is the sound of her music.
There was an old piano in the patients’ dining room. It didn’t get played all that much. On most days it was just another piece of second hand furniture on a psych unit where second hand was the rule. The piano usually just sat there quietly, like a patient waiting for a visitor to arrive.
But whenever Agnes was on the unit, the piano came to life. And at least some of the depression that hung like a fog would burn off. For a while.
Agnes was what we called a “ Frequent Flyer. “ Her psychiatric history dated back to the 1960s when both she and her husband had been patients at the state hospital in Northampton. In 1978 the big story in the mental health business was something called “ Deinsitutionalization. “ State hospitals closed their doors and the mentally ill who had been living there for years went elsewhere. Some lived on the streets or in shelters. Others, a lucky few in the grand scheme of things, were referred to group homes. And then there were people like Agnes, who lived in an apartment where she took care of herself until she reached those points in her life when she just couldn’t do that.
The sound of Agnes playing the piano meant that she was feeling better. The crying jags had ended; the intrusive, frightening thoughts were in control. The treatment we offered, a combination of medications and talk therapy groups, was helping Agnes slog her way through another crisis.
When I think about Agnes I also think about a depressed middle aged man I will call Hank. Hank and I were in the dayroom watching television. He was as down as I’d seen him. “ Nothing’s working, “ he said.
“ How many more ECT treatment you have? “ I asked. ECT is electroconvulsive treatment, “ Shock Treatment. “ ECT was routinely administered to patients for whom medications and talk therapy did little or nothing to rescue them from deparession’s deep well.
“ I don’t know, “ Hank said. “ Two, three more I guess. “
I knew he’d had at least six treatments, which for most patients, was the normal course.
I changed the subject. Tried to engage him in small talk, but I wasn’t successful. His eyes never met mine. They were fixed on the screen. Some moronic sit-com was on and the laughtrack was driving me crazy.
Then I heard the music. Agnes was playing the piano. It wasn’t the classical music she liked to play most. It wasn’t Chopin, Mozart or Rachmaninkoff. The tune she was tapping out on the keys of the old piano was “ My Happiness. “
I looked at Hank and he looked at me. We both recognized the tune and, I think the irony of it being played in this context. Hank smiled.
Leave it to Agnes. Her music had cut through Hank’s depression like a surgeon’s scalpel pierces thick skin. Sure, it was a temporary thing. But on a unit like that one it made sense to savor magical moments.
As Hank and I listened to the music, I thought of something Dostoevsky wrote:
“ If a man has one good memory to go by, that may be enough to save him. “
The movie Shine was in the theaters at the time this all happened. Shine told the story of David Helfgott, a man whose mental illness did not get in the way of his becoming a world renowned pianist. The movie won many awards and had a very happy ending.
The actor Geoffrey Rush played Helfgott in the movie. Rush won an academy award for his performance. Best actor in a dramatic role. Another show. Another happy ending.
In the wake of the movie’s success, Helfgott went on tour. He played the piano poorly and got terrible reviews. Some critics added that he did not look well. And his behavior was odd.
Happy ending are nice. We Americans love them. But in my experience on the unit, there were few happy endings. Patients like Agnes came and went. Came and went. The sound of the piano didn’t signal The End. No credits rolled. Nobody grabbed his coat and walked up the aisle toward the lobby. The only ending the music signified was the end of yet another stay in the hospital.
That was the reality as I saw it. All of it, the breakdowns, the admissions, the meds, the groups, the treatment plans and the discharge plans – they were all part of a process. And for many, Agnes among them, a never ending one at that.
By Terrence McCarthy
Agnes was a rail thin 63 year old woman whose cackle laugh echoed like a car alarm throughout the unit. But it isn’t the sound of her laughter I remember most; it is the sound of her music.
There was an old piano in the patients’ dining room. It didn’t get played all that much. On most days it was just another piece of second hand furniture on a psych unit where second hand was the rule. The piano usually just sat there quietly, like a patient waiting for a visitor to arrive.
But whenever Agnes was on the unit, the piano came to life. And at least some of the depression that hung like a fog would burn off. For a while.
Agnes was what we called a “ Frequent Flyer. “ Her psychiatric history dated back to the 1960s when both she and her husband had been patients at the state hospital in Northampton. In 1978 the big story in the mental health business was something called “ Deinsitutionalization. “ State hospitals closed their doors and the mentally ill who had been living there for years went elsewhere. Some lived on the streets or in shelters. Others, a lucky few in the grand scheme of things, were referred to group homes. And then there were people like Agnes, who lived in an apartment where she took care of herself until she reached those points in her life when she just couldn’t do that.
The sound of Agnes playing the piano meant that she was feeling better. The crying jags had ended; the intrusive, frightening thoughts were in control. The treatment we offered, a combination of medications and talk therapy groups, was helping Agnes slog her way through another crisis.
When I think about Agnes I also think about a depressed middle aged man I will call Hank. Hank and I were in the dayroom watching television. He was as down as I’d seen him. “ Nothing’s working, “ he said.
“ How many more ECT treatment you have? “ I asked. ECT is electroconvulsive treatment, “ Shock Treatment. “ ECT was routinely administered to patients for whom medications and talk therapy did little or nothing to rescue them from deparession’s deep well.
“ I don’t know, “ Hank said. “ Two, three more I guess. “
I knew he’d had at least six treatments, which for most patients, was the normal course.
I changed the subject. Tried to engage him in small talk, but I wasn’t successful. His eyes never met mine. They were fixed on the screen. Some moronic sit-com was on and the laughtrack was driving me crazy.
Then I heard the music. Agnes was playing the piano. It wasn’t the classical music she liked to play most. It wasn’t Chopin, Mozart or Rachmaninkoff. The tune she was tapping out on the keys of the old piano was “ My Happiness. “
I looked at Hank and he looked at me. We both recognized the tune and, I think the irony of it being played in this context. Hank smiled.
Leave it to Agnes. Her music had cut through Hank’s depression like a surgeon’s scalpel pierces thick skin. Sure, it was a temporary thing. But on a unit like that one it made sense to savor magical moments.
As Hank and I listened to the music, I thought of something Dostoevsky wrote:
“ If a man has one good memory to go by, that may be enough to save him. “
The movie Shine was in the theaters at the time this all happened. Shine told the story of David Helfgott, a man whose mental illness did not get in the way of his becoming a world renowned pianist. The movie won many awards and had a very happy ending.
The actor Geoffrey Rush played Helfgott in the movie. Rush won an academy award for his performance. Best actor in a dramatic role. Another show. Another happy ending.
In the wake of the movie’s success, Helfgott went on tour. He played the piano poorly and got terrible reviews. Some critics added that he did not look well. And his behavior was odd.
Happy ending are nice. We Americans love them. But in my experience on the unit, there were few happy endings. Patients like Agnes came and went. Came and went. The sound of the piano didn’t signal The End. No credits rolled. Nobody grabbed his coat and walked up the aisle toward the lobby. The only ending the music signified was the end of yet another stay in the hospital.
That was the reality as I saw it. All of it, the breakdowns, the admissions, the meds, the groups, the treatment plans and the discharge plans – they were all part of a process. And for many, Agnes among them, a never ending one at that.
Northampton State Hospital
I mentioned Northampton State Hospital in a recent post. Click on the following, specifically on the " interior " and " exterior " tags. There's some photos of the place. I know people who worked there. I know people who were patients there; I worked with some of them. My next post will be about a woman who spent years there. She was written up and featured in Life magazine around the time deinstitutionalization was implemented. Back in 1978...Northampton State Hospital
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Harry Connick Jr. now has a gig on the weather channel. A year and a half ago, Harry was being cast as a hero. A New Orleans native who cared, cared deeply, about the plight of the poor victims of Hurricane Katrina. Now I'm beginning to wonder.
Harry's father was a D.A., the D.A. of N.O. for thirty years. His mother was a judge. He's the son of two politicians. I like what he sings, but I'm getting suspicious of what he says.
Harry's father was a D.A., the D.A. of N.O. for thirty years. His mother was a judge. He's the son of two politicians. I like what he sings, but I'm getting suspicious of what he says.
YouTube - The Velvet Underground - Heroin (song only)
More Lou Reed? What the hell. If Vaclav Havel had a blog ( And he just might ) he'd give Lou an encore... Ladies and gentlemen, I give you, once more...
Lou. Reed. YouTube - The Velvet Underground - Heroin (song only)
Lou. Reed. YouTube - The Velvet Underground - Heroin (song only)
YouTube - lou reed _ wild side
OK, so it's not Debbie Boone. But whenever I hear or see Lou doing this - it makes me happy. Maybe it'll do the same for your mood tonight... And if it doesn't? Nobody cares. Strike that. I care. I really do. Really. I do. Honest.
I do. YouTube - lou reed _ wild side
I do. YouTube - lou reed _ wild side
Among the things I want Fence Post to be is a workbook, a writer's notebook, a work in progress to which I will add and subtract.
I left something out of that last post. Something important.
When I drove into the cemetery I saw something different. An area the same size as the old cemetery had been cleared of its trees. Hundreds of trees had been cut down. Maples for the most part. I know this because I remember seeing the cans stuck to the trees, when I visited my father's grave in past springs.
Maple syrup, that sweet blood that flows through the veins of those trees. Which are gone now.
That should have been added to the previous post.
I left something out of that last post. Something important.
When I drove into the cemetery I saw something different. An area the same size as the old cemetery had been cleared of its trees. Hundreds of trees had been cut down. Maples for the most part. I know this because I remember seeing the cans stuck to the trees, when I visited my father's grave in past springs.
Maple syrup, that sweet blood that flows through the veins of those trees. Which are gone now.
That should have been added to the previous post.
I was up in western Massachusetts today. One of the things I did was take a drive to Northampton. There are two places I make a point of visiting when I'm up there. My father's grave in Westhampton and the grounds of the former Northampton State Hospital.
The hospital grounds are a fifteen minute drive north of the cemetery. For the past few years the grounds have been " in transition. " Developers have attached themselves like leeches to the land on which the severely mentally ill once " were housed. "
As I approached the grounds, drove up the hill, I saw that about half of the old hospital buildings had been torn down. Most of the torn down buildings were the ones in which the patients lived.
What's going up where the buildings went down? Condos.
It's a great spot for condos. High on a hill. Great view of the Mount Holyoke Range in the distance. Overlooking one of the Seven Sisters colleges: Smith.
A short walk to downtown " NoHo. " There's a golf course or two or three within a few miles of the condos.
When I was a kid growing up in Easthampton, the " State Hospital " was the one part of the town of Northampton that didn't get talked about much. The department store, McCallums, Ann August, Jack August, The Vermont Store, and, of course, Smith College. That's what got talked about.
The state hospital was up there, up there on that hill. Overlooking everything. And overlooked itself. And now, thirty years after " deinstitutionalization, " it's buildings are being torn down. To make way for condos, in which so called normal folks will live.
The hospital grounds are a fifteen minute drive north of the cemetery. For the past few years the grounds have been " in transition. " Developers have attached themselves like leeches to the land on which the severely mentally ill once " were housed. "
As I approached the grounds, drove up the hill, I saw that about half of the old hospital buildings had been torn down. Most of the torn down buildings were the ones in which the patients lived.
What's going up where the buildings went down? Condos.
It's a great spot for condos. High on a hill. Great view of the Mount Holyoke Range in the distance. Overlooking one of the Seven Sisters colleges: Smith.
A short walk to downtown " NoHo. " There's a golf course or two or three within a few miles of the condos.
When I was a kid growing up in Easthampton, the " State Hospital " was the one part of the town of Northampton that didn't get talked about much. The department store, McCallums, Ann August, Jack August, The Vermont Store, and, of course, Smith College. That's what got talked about.
The state hospital was up there, up there on that hill. Overlooking everything. And overlooked itself. And now, thirty years after " deinstitutionalization, " it's buildings are being torn down. To make way for condos, in which so called normal folks will live.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Every now and then I'll Google someone who I haven't seen or heard from in years. I wouldn't recommend doing this. But if you do do it, I'd recommend that you do it while sitting down.
I learned recently, after Googling his name, that an old friend had died in a plane crash. And today I learned something that floored me.
Another old friend, a newspaper reporter with whom I worked, was fired last year for fabricating part of a story. This guy was a hell of a reporter, and a really good guy. He liked Steeley Dan. We played tennis together. We sat at a few bars and shared some cold beers.
Fabricating part of a story? Once I learned this, I surfed the web a bit. Learned more about what had happened. He admitted it. So his story is true. That story. The one about him.
P. had been a reporter for thirty years. Thirty years! I was a reporter for three years and at the end of that tenure I was already starting to show some signs of burnout. I saw the news writing on the wall and got the hell out of there. Bolted for the ad bidness.
P. left the newspaper for which we both worked. Headed west and worked for a paper in Arizona. Came back east and worked for the Hartford Courant. Then headed south and started working for a major newspaper down there. That's where he was working when it happened. When he made something up and it got into the paper.
I am not among those who constantly rail against the " Mainstream Media. " I am not among those who have been whining about how we can't believe most of what we read in the papers. I worked for a newspaper. I was one of those ink stained wretches. I still, to this day, when I pick up the morning paper off the driveway think...
This is a freakin' miracle. All this news. All these pages. Put together last evening and delivered this morning. Like a book written yesterday, published last evening, tossed on the shelf this morning and read a few minutes after that.
Then I read what happened to my friend, and thought: Jesus. He'd be the last one I'd have thought would betray me.
I try. I try real hard not to cross the line that divides skepicism from cynicism. But that just got harder. Say it ain't so P.
Say it ain't so.
I learned recently, after Googling his name, that an old friend had died in a plane crash. And today I learned something that floored me.
Another old friend, a newspaper reporter with whom I worked, was fired last year for fabricating part of a story. This guy was a hell of a reporter, and a really good guy. He liked Steeley Dan. We played tennis together. We sat at a few bars and shared some cold beers.
Fabricating part of a story? Once I learned this, I surfed the web a bit. Learned more about what had happened. He admitted it. So his story is true. That story. The one about him.
P. had been a reporter for thirty years. Thirty years! I was a reporter for three years and at the end of that tenure I was already starting to show some signs of burnout. I saw the news writing on the wall and got the hell out of there. Bolted for the ad bidness.
P. left the newspaper for which we both worked. Headed west and worked for a paper in Arizona. Came back east and worked for the Hartford Courant. Then headed south and started working for a major newspaper down there. That's where he was working when it happened. When he made something up and it got into the paper.
I am not among those who constantly rail against the " Mainstream Media. " I am not among those who have been whining about how we can't believe most of what we read in the papers. I worked for a newspaper. I was one of those ink stained wretches. I still, to this day, when I pick up the morning paper off the driveway think...
This is a freakin' miracle. All this news. All these pages. Put together last evening and delivered this morning. Like a book written yesterday, published last evening, tossed on the shelf this morning and read a few minutes after that.
Then I read what happened to my friend, and thought: Jesus. He'd be the last one I'd have thought would betray me.
I try. I try real hard not to cross the line that divides skepicism from cynicism. But that just got harder. Say it ain't so P.
Say it ain't so.
Lilly Receives FDA Approval For Antidepressant For Dogs
The drug companies have done a pretty good job of convincing us all that our " eccentric " uncles and aunts are really as crazy as loons and can lead " normal " lives with the help of a few little blue pills. You flip through the DSM-IV, which is to psychiatry what a Chinese resataurant menu is to the hospitality business, and you're sure to find symptoms that describe to a T what Aunt Nelly's been up to for years.
Pick one from column A, two from column B. And with number six you get an eggroll.
When I was a kid I had this friend who I describe as having been " fidgety. " Couldn't sit still. Pretty hyper. Today he'd be diagnosed with ADD and given some pills. You don't have to be crazy to live in the modern world, but the drug companies sure would like you to think you're crazy.
So you could become another card carrying member of MedicationNation, another part of their ever expanding market. Speaking of which...
The following article is about how Eli Lilly is now marketing a pill called " Reconcile. " ( Who names these things? Some veterinary version of Dr. Phil? ) Reconcile is designed to reduce separation anxiety in dogs. I'm not making this up.
When I worked on a locked unit, there were people there who made me very nervous and paranoid. No, not the schizophrenics and sociopaths committed there by some judge. I'm talking about drug reps.
Drug reps are nice looking, well dressed young people who are as common on medical units as bedpans. It's their job to convince the doctors that the drugs their company markets is the drug they should be prescribing. Every time I saw these people walk onto the unit I'd say to myself: If I had a dog right now, I'd say " Sic 'em. " Dogs weren't allowed on the unit when I worked there. I quit in 2002, but I'll bet things have changed.
There's probably a special wing on the unit now - for anxious, depressed pooches. If I were there now, maybe I could shout, " Sic 'em! "
Then again, the dog, if it did what I told it to do would end up in restraints, in a holding room. And given a new diagnosis : Intermittent Explosive Disorder, K-9 NOS.
Separation Anxiety medication for dogs? You gotta be kidding me.
Lilly Receives FDA Approval For Antidepressant For Dogs
Pick one from column A, two from column B. And with number six you get an eggroll.
When I was a kid I had this friend who I describe as having been " fidgety. " Couldn't sit still. Pretty hyper. Today he'd be diagnosed with ADD and given some pills. You don't have to be crazy to live in the modern world, but the drug companies sure would like you to think you're crazy.
So you could become another card carrying member of MedicationNation, another part of their ever expanding market. Speaking of which...
The following article is about how Eli Lilly is now marketing a pill called " Reconcile. " ( Who names these things? Some veterinary version of Dr. Phil? ) Reconcile is designed to reduce separation anxiety in dogs. I'm not making this up.
When I worked on a locked unit, there were people there who made me very nervous and paranoid. No, not the schizophrenics and sociopaths committed there by some judge. I'm talking about drug reps.
Drug reps are nice looking, well dressed young people who are as common on medical units as bedpans. It's their job to convince the doctors that the drugs their company markets is the drug they should be prescribing. Every time I saw these people walk onto the unit I'd say to myself: If I had a dog right now, I'd say " Sic 'em. " Dogs weren't allowed on the unit when I worked there. I quit in 2002, but I'll bet things have changed.
There's probably a special wing on the unit now - for anxious, depressed pooches. If I were there now, maybe I could shout, " Sic 'em! "
Then again, the dog, if it did what I told it to do would end up in restraints, in a holding room. And given a new diagnosis : Intermittent Explosive Disorder, K-9 NOS.
Separation Anxiety medication for dogs? You gotta be kidding me.
Lilly Receives FDA Approval For Antidepressant For Dogs
Friday, April 27, 2007
At last night's democratic debate, candidate Bill Richardson said that the first thing he would do on his first day as president would be to " End the war in Iraq. "
Here are some other things he might do on his first day on the job:
* Give back New Mexico to Mexico
* Lobby for Cantinflas to get next year's Life Achievement Award from the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.
* Get a haircut
* Lose ten pounds
* Pardon Karl Rove
* Replace the Bald Eagle with the Phoenix as the national bird
* Take down the " English Only " signs in the White House cafeteria
* Name Leo Carillo as his Vice President
* Tear down the Alamo and replace it with a billboard that says, " Forget It. "
* Name Linda Ronstadt Secretary of State
* Make " Let's Went " the official farewell as he salutes and boards Air Force One
* Change the name of Air Force One to Air Force Uno
* Make Cancun the official summer White House
* Change the name " White House " to Hacienda Blanco
And last but not least:
* Make it illegal for Americans to cross the border and live and work in Mexico
Here are some other things he might do on his first day on the job:
* Give back New Mexico to Mexico
* Lobby for Cantinflas to get next year's Life Achievement Award from the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.
* Get a haircut
* Lose ten pounds
* Pardon Karl Rove
* Replace the Bald Eagle with the Phoenix as the national bird
* Take down the " English Only " signs in the White House cafeteria
* Name Leo Carillo as his Vice President
* Tear down the Alamo and replace it with a billboard that says, " Forget It. "
* Name Linda Ronstadt Secretary of State
* Make " Let's Went " the official farewell as he salutes and boards Air Force One
* Change the name of Air Force One to Air Force Uno
* Make Cancun the official summer White House
* Change the name " White House " to Hacienda Blanco
And last but not least:
* Make it illegal for Americans to cross the border and live and work in Mexico
New Jersey governor Jon Corzine made his first public statement yesterday since he was critically injured in an SUV crash. Corzine, 60, broke his thigh bone, sternum, collarbone, 11 ribs and two laws in the crash.
He was not wearing a seatbelt, and the SUV in which he was riding shotgun, was speeding.
He was not wearing a seatbelt, and the SUV in which he was riding shotgun, was speeding.
Mike Daisey emailed me this morning right after I ripped off some unsolicited advice to him re his retelling of the ART protest story. I prefaced my remarks to him by saying " This is probably one of a zillion emails you're getting on this... "
A zillion may be a high guess, but I'm certain he's getting a bunch, a lot, a ton, a shitload. But he got right back to me. Maybe this is baggage from my newspaper reporting days, but I respect the hell out of someone who gets back to me in a timely fashion.
I had an exchange this morning with an old friend and editor of mine. I emailed him, and he got right back to me. And I emailed the gentleman from Jacksonville with a question. The gentleman from Jacksonville got right back to me.
Good men, all. Daisey, Michael Burke and the genius from Jacksonville, Terrance Michael Collins.
Michael Burke will appreciate this. Speaking of getting back. There was this DA in Springfield, Matthew Ryan. The single most intimidating bastard I've ever run into. I had a call into him one morning. Needed some quotes. Ryan knew how to play many games, including raquetball. That's not the only one he was good at. He knew our deadline was 11 am sharp. He called back. Right after deadline. After my story had been submitted to the editors.
So getting back to me has been important for years. But like a lot of things, it's all in the timing.
A zillion may be a high guess, but I'm certain he's getting a bunch, a lot, a ton, a shitload. But he got right back to me. Maybe this is baggage from my newspaper reporting days, but I respect the hell out of someone who gets back to me in a timely fashion.
I had an exchange this morning with an old friend and editor of mine. I emailed him, and he got right back to me. And I emailed the gentleman from Jacksonville with a question. The gentleman from Jacksonville got right back to me.
Good men, all. Daisey, Michael Burke and the genius from Jacksonville, Terrance Michael Collins.
Michael Burke will appreciate this. Speaking of getting back. There was this DA in Springfield, Matthew Ryan. The single most intimidating bastard I've ever run into. I had a call into him one morning. Needed some quotes. Ryan knew how to play many games, including raquetball. That's not the only one he was good at. He knew our deadline was 11 am sharp. He called back. Right after deadline. After my story had been submitted to the editors.
So getting back to me has been important for years. But like a lot of things, it's all in the timing.
I'm getting tired of people who can't move on, can't get off a horse that's been beaten nearly to death. Mike Daisey's been on that nag for a whole week now. His show was interrupted last Friday by a group of igh school students and their chaperones. One of the chaperones poured water on his notes. It was a bad scene, thick with what my new friend Jennifer calls " frightening potential. "
But enough already. It's gotten to the point, at least with me, where Daisey seems to be using the incident. Trying to keep it alive. He got a lot of publicity about this. It was a promotional windfall. As far as the crowd who protested his act is concerned, there were unintended consequences. What they did helped Daisey get his name out there, far beyond the boundries that had been drawn around him before.
Move on, Mike Daisey. Get back to where you once belonged.
I miss Imus. And this guy Michael Smerconish ( Which is, by the way, hsinocrems spelled backwards ) , whose Philadelphia radio show is being simulcast on MSNBC during Imus's old time slot, is growing on me. But one thing I don't miss about the I Man is how he used to get stuck on a subject like a barnacle attaches itself to a pier piling. Autism for instance. And his wife's campaign to green up America.
That I don't miss. Anyone out there seen this Smerconish guy? Whaddya think?
But enough already. It's gotten to the point, at least with me, where Daisey seems to be using the incident. Trying to keep it alive. He got a lot of publicity about this. It was a promotional windfall. As far as the crowd who protested his act is concerned, there were unintended consequences. What they did helped Daisey get his name out there, far beyond the boundries that had been drawn around him before.
Move on, Mike Daisey. Get back to where you once belonged.
I miss Imus. And this guy Michael Smerconish ( Which is, by the way, hsinocrems spelled backwards ) , whose Philadelphia radio show is being simulcast on MSNBC during Imus's old time slot, is growing on me. But one thing I don't miss about the I Man is how he used to get stuck on a subject like a barnacle attaches itself to a pier piling. Autism for instance. And his wife's campaign to green up America.
That I don't miss. Anyone out there seen this Smerconish guy? Whaddya think?
Thursday, April 26, 2007
The Blog | Frank Luntz: Words That Don't Work | The Huffington Post
I got into a blogdebate this week about tone of voice and willingness to listen to other points of view. I'm a tad worn out and out of breath, so I'll let this do the talking right now. Interesting stuff about words that work, and words that don't...The Blog Frank Luntz: Words That Don't Work The Huffington Post
Thirty eight people were injured this evening when a platform on which democratic candidates for president were standing collapsed under the weight of the contenders.
All 38 people injured were candidates for president. Only Barak Omama escaped injury, according to a NDC spokesperson.
" He's unscathed, " said the spokesperson. " Not a mark on him. No problem. "
None of the injuries appeared to be life threatening, according to a spokesman for the hospital to which they were rushed.
All 38 people injured were candidates for president. Only Barak Omama escaped injury, according to a NDC spokesperson.
" He's unscathed, " said the spokesperson. " Not a mark on him. No problem. "
None of the injuries appeared to be life threatening, according to a spokesman for the hospital to which they were rushed.
" ... Ms. Walters, who shares a publicist with Ms. O'Donnell... "
From news story re: Rosie O'Donnell's most recent leaving behavior
Rosie O'Donnell has a publicist? She needs one? Like Rosie's some kind of Pynchonian or Salingerlike recluse whom we wouldn't be paying attention to or anything. Like she has stage fright. Is shy as DiNero. A publicist?
What the hell are the qualifications for this job? Knowing how to say:
" What she meant to say... " in ten different languages?
Rosie O'Donnell has a publicist? I want that job. I've been applying for years to be Elle McPherson's massage therapist. I send my resumes. I call. Hear nothing back. I'm gonna give up. I'm gonna apply for another job:
Rosie's publicist. That's my dream job right now.
From news story re: Rosie O'Donnell's most recent leaving behavior
Rosie O'Donnell has a publicist? She needs one? Like Rosie's some kind of Pynchonian or Salingerlike recluse whom we wouldn't be paying attention to or anything. Like she has stage fright. Is shy as DiNero. A publicist?
What the hell are the qualifications for this job? Knowing how to say:
" What she meant to say... " in ten different languages?
Rosie O'Donnell has a publicist? I want that job. I've been applying for years to be Elle McPherson's massage therapist. I send my resumes. I call. Hear nothing back. I'm gonna give up. I'm gonna apply for another job:
Rosie's publicist. That's my dream job right now.
Speaking of tourists...
When I was creative director for an ad agency in Hartford, we were pitching the Connecticut Department of Economic Development. The piece of the pie we were going after was the tourism account. It was up to me to come up with the concepts, the ideas, the themes. Whatever you want to call them.
What I usually did before getting serious about the work that needed to be done was to come up with some funny ideas. At least I thought they were funny. That sort of primed the pump, greased the wheels. So to speak.
One of the ideas I came up with was a new slogan for the state of Connecticut. One that could replace " Constitution State " on its license plates. The line I came up with was:
Live Well Or Die.
After I thought of that I went back into the art department and had one of the artists create a mock up Connecticut license plate, with the slogan I came up with on it. Mark Catalina, who's since made a name for himself in the art world, did that.
Then I had another idea. I put the mock up license plate in a manila envelope and mailed it to Jerry Brooks, a reporter for the local CBS affiliate, WFSB. Two days later I got a call from Jerry Brooks.
" I think this would make a good ' Brooks File " report, " he said. " Can I come up and talk to you about it? "
I said sure. This would be " free media! " I thought. Free publicity for the agency.
" Great, " Jerry Brooks said. " I'll bring a cameraman with me. "
I hung up the phone and walked into my boss's office. My boss, the agency owner, would love this. Free publicity! Three or four minutes on the Brooks File!
I told him what I'd just done.
" You did what?, " he asked. " He's coming here? With a cameraman? "
The look on his face suggested that my idea, which I thought was bright, wasn't so bright from his perspective. But it was too late to change course. Jerry Brooks was on his way to our office.
Jerry Brooks came. Interviewed me. His cameraman recorded the interview. Jerry thanked me. I asked him when this would be on. He said the next evening.
The next evening I watched the Jerry Brooks file, on which he interviewed me. Then interviewed John Carson, who was then the Economic Development Commissioner. Jerry Brooks asked him what he thought of the slogan: Live Well Or Die.
" Not much, " he said.
Oh, did I mention? I watched the piece with my boss. and the three principals of the larger ad agency with which we were about to merge. And did I mention this? John Carson was the one who would ultimately decide which Connecticut ad agency would get the tourism account. The decision was due to be made soon.
We didn't get the account.
And soon after the agencies merged, I was gone. I'd seen the copywriting on the wall, and made the decision myself. Looking back on that time - this was in the late 1980s - I think Live Well Or Die was perfect. All those ambitious Connecticut yuppies, wearing their Rolexes, driving theor BMWs...
What better message to have on their plates than:
Live Well Or Die!
I thought it was one of my better lines. The powers that were thought otherwise. So it went, and so it goes. By the way, the agency finally did get some work from the state. Came up with the line that you can still see on the signs on the borders.
Connecticut. We're full of surprises. The state started using that one right around the time the mayors of two of its largest cities were charged with corruption and thrown into prison. It was in use when the governor, John Rowland was charged with corruption and thrown into prison.
Connecticut. It's full of surprises. Not a bad line, and a pretty accurate one at that.
But I still like Live Well Or Die
When I was creative director for an ad agency in Hartford, we were pitching the Connecticut Department of Economic Development. The piece of the pie we were going after was the tourism account. It was up to me to come up with the concepts, the ideas, the themes. Whatever you want to call them.
What I usually did before getting serious about the work that needed to be done was to come up with some funny ideas. At least I thought they were funny. That sort of primed the pump, greased the wheels. So to speak.
One of the ideas I came up with was a new slogan for the state of Connecticut. One that could replace " Constitution State " on its license plates. The line I came up with was:
Live Well Or Die.
After I thought of that I went back into the art department and had one of the artists create a mock up Connecticut license plate, with the slogan I came up with on it. Mark Catalina, who's since made a name for himself in the art world, did that.
Then I had another idea. I put the mock up license plate in a manila envelope and mailed it to Jerry Brooks, a reporter for the local CBS affiliate, WFSB. Two days later I got a call from Jerry Brooks.
" I think this would make a good ' Brooks File " report, " he said. " Can I come up and talk to you about it? "
I said sure. This would be " free media! " I thought. Free publicity for the agency.
" Great, " Jerry Brooks said. " I'll bring a cameraman with me. "
I hung up the phone and walked into my boss's office. My boss, the agency owner, would love this. Free publicity! Three or four minutes on the Brooks File!
I told him what I'd just done.
" You did what?, " he asked. " He's coming here? With a cameraman? "
The look on his face suggested that my idea, which I thought was bright, wasn't so bright from his perspective. But it was too late to change course. Jerry Brooks was on his way to our office.
Jerry Brooks came. Interviewed me. His cameraman recorded the interview. Jerry thanked me. I asked him when this would be on. He said the next evening.
The next evening I watched the Jerry Brooks file, on which he interviewed me. Then interviewed John Carson, who was then the Economic Development Commissioner. Jerry Brooks asked him what he thought of the slogan: Live Well Or Die.
" Not much, " he said.
Oh, did I mention? I watched the piece with my boss. and the three principals of the larger ad agency with which we were about to merge. And did I mention this? John Carson was the one who would ultimately decide which Connecticut ad agency would get the tourism account. The decision was due to be made soon.
We didn't get the account.
And soon after the agencies merged, I was gone. I'd seen the copywriting on the wall, and made the decision myself. Looking back on that time - this was in the late 1980s - I think Live Well Or Die was perfect. All those ambitious Connecticut yuppies, wearing their Rolexes, driving theor BMWs...
What better message to have on their plates than:
Live Well Or Die!
I thought it was one of my better lines. The powers that were thought otherwise. So it went, and so it goes. By the way, the agency finally did get some work from the state. Came up with the line that you can still see on the signs on the borders.
Connecticut. We're full of surprises. The state started using that one right around the time the mayors of two of its largest cities were charged with corruption and thrown into prison. It was in use when the governor, John Rowland was charged with corruption and thrown into prison.
Connecticut. It's full of surprises. Not a bad line, and a pretty accurate one at that.
But I still like Live Well Or Die
I just got back from Westerly, which is just down the coast from where we are. I'd heard that last week's storm damage was severe. There were reports of cars, which had been buried in the Hurricane of 1938, being unearthed. I had to see that.
I grabbed the camera and hopped in the Hyundai. Drove southwest towards Westerly. My destination was the old Andrea Hotel, which is right on the beach, just west of Misquamicut. I pulled into the hotel's lot, parked the car and got out. Walked down onto the beach, which was strewn with flotsam and jetsam. And rocks. Lots of rocks. There was no beach to speak of. And here it is, less than a week until May. The tourists will be coming soon. They come every year at this time. To rape and plunder, plunder and rape. The metallic clicking sound you hear these days is south county Rhode Island fathers locking up their daughters.
There's a bumper sticker I see every now and then. Stuck on the back of cars belonging to people like me: full-time residents. The stickers read:
They call it tourist season. So why can't we shoot them?
Last time I fired a gun was when I was in the Air Force. It was an M-16. I was in the barracks trying to read. This guy down the hall was playing Led Zepplin's " Whole Lota Love " with the sound cranked up to 11 on a scale of ten. I grabbed my M-16, walked down the hall, opened his door and shot him.
I'm kidding.
But I did fire an M-16 every now and then. We were required to go to the shooting range on a regular basis...
Where in God's name was I? How did I get to talking about M-16s? Me? Someone who's as likely to have a gun in his hand as having Elle McPherson in his arms.
Oh yeah. That bumper sticker. I kinda like it. Even though I'm not exactly a card carrying NRA member.
Long post short. I saw one of those old cars. It was a rusty old chassis, and you could hardly make out that it was a car once. What gave it away was the chrome, and a hole where the headlight had been. Jesus, I thought. That is one old car. Buried all those years. Then I saw it. The bumper sticker, or part of what had been one once. All I could make out was:
ourist seas. Why can't we sh
Just kidding again.
There are times when I think that's what they'll carve into my tombstone:
I was just kidding.
I grabbed the camera and hopped in the Hyundai. Drove southwest towards Westerly. My destination was the old Andrea Hotel, which is right on the beach, just west of Misquamicut. I pulled into the hotel's lot, parked the car and got out. Walked down onto the beach, which was strewn with flotsam and jetsam. And rocks. Lots of rocks. There was no beach to speak of. And here it is, less than a week until May. The tourists will be coming soon. They come every year at this time. To rape and plunder, plunder and rape. The metallic clicking sound you hear these days is south county Rhode Island fathers locking up their daughters.
There's a bumper sticker I see every now and then. Stuck on the back of cars belonging to people like me: full-time residents. The stickers read:
They call it tourist season. So why can't we shoot them?
Last time I fired a gun was when I was in the Air Force. It was an M-16. I was in the barracks trying to read. This guy down the hall was playing Led Zepplin's " Whole Lota Love " with the sound cranked up to 11 on a scale of ten. I grabbed my M-16, walked down the hall, opened his door and shot him.
I'm kidding.
But I did fire an M-16 every now and then. We were required to go to the shooting range on a regular basis...
Where in God's name was I? How did I get to talking about M-16s? Me? Someone who's as likely to have a gun in his hand as having Elle McPherson in his arms.
Oh yeah. That bumper sticker. I kinda like it. Even though I'm not exactly a card carrying NRA member.
Long post short. I saw one of those old cars. It was a rusty old chassis, and you could hardly make out that it was a car once. What gave it away was the chrome, and a hole where the headlight had been. Jesus, I thought. That is one old car. Buried all those years. Then I saw it. The bumper sticker, or part of what had been one once. All I could make out was:
ourist seas. Why can't we sh
Just kidding again.
There are times when I think that's what they'll carve into my tombstone:
I was just kidding.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
The Theater by the Sea closed in 2003. The theater was one of those classic summer stock theaters. Had been around since the 1940s. Among the actors who strut their stuff on its stage: Marlon Brando.
For the past four years a for sale sign has replaced the sign that had shouted what play loomed next on the horizon. But yesterday there was a story on the front page of the Providence Journal. The theater is on the verge of being sold. The theater might be coming back, as soon as this summer.
The theater is located in the Matunuck section of South Kingstown, Rhode Island. Just a few miles from here. This area took a big hit last week from the spring nor'easter. Floods. Beach erosion. Thousands of tons, kilotons of sand lost. Much was lost.
But now. Something might be gained. Something might be coming back, in the wake of the storm. The Theater by the Sea.
How about that?
For the past four years a for sale sign has replaced the sign that had shouted what play loomed next on the horizon. But yesterday there was a story on the front page of the Providence Journal. The theater is on the verge of being sold. The theater might be coming back, as soon as this summer.
The theater is located in the Matunuck section of South Kingstown, Rhode Island. Just a few miles from here. This area took a big hit last week from the spring nor'easter. Floods. Beach erosion. Thousands of tons, kilotons of sand lost. Much was lost.
But now. Something might be gained. Something might be coming back, in the wake of the storm. The Theater by the Sea.
How about that?
Facilitated the creative workshop at The Guild this morning. Only five writers there. Average number is about nine. Haven't had nine in a while. Norman's been under the weather. Heavy weather. Chemotherapy. Hospital stay. ICU.
R.J. headed south for a few weeks. Returned, then didn't feel real good. Stayed away. Came back, coughing and sneezing. Didn't make it in today. Doctor's appointment.
R.J. by the way, tells this story. Keep in mind the news about the English major who shot and killed 32 people in Virginia last week. R.J. was at work a few years ago, before he joined the writers workshop I honcho. He took a break and worked on an assignment his creative writing assignment instructor had given him. R.J. is a Stephen King fan. Wrote something Kingsian. About folks getting killed in awful ways. The killer planning to kill some more.
R.J. ate his lunch and went back to work. Forgot the notes he had written. Security found them and tracked him down. His byline was on the front page of the unfinished manuscript. Security dragged him into a room. Questioned him. Wondered if he was planning some kind of atttack.
" It's only fiction! " R.J. Told them. " You can call my creative writing instructor. She'll vouch. "
They did that. She vouched.
I love that story. Of all the stories R.J. has written in the three years he's been in my class - that's the story I love the most.
R.J. is Norman's driver. They live close to each other. when Norman was coming regularly, R.J. was, too. Now he's there and he isn't. Off and on. On and off.
Jane Clayton died a few months ago. She was a regular. The resident poet in the group that meets Wednesday mornings at 10 a.m. Others have come and gone, but no one's gone like Jane Clayton went.
I picked up a card for Norman today. A get well card. I scribbled a few things on the card. Among the thoughts was: " I look forward to your return to the group. "
The group's thinning out. We need writers. We need voices heard and ears to listen. The group's thinning out. Come back when you're well, Norman. Come back when you're well.
That's what I wrote.
R.J. headed south for a few weeks. Returned, then didn't feel real good. Stayed away. Came back, coughing and sneezing. Didn't make it in today. Doctor's appointment.
R.J. by the way, tells this story. Keep in mind the news about the English major who shot and killed 32 people in Virginia last week. R.J. was at work a few years ago, before he joined the writers workshop I honcho. He took a break and worked on an assignment his creative writing assignment instructor had given him. R.J. is a Stephen King fan. Wrote something Kingsian. About folks getting killed in awful ways. The killer planning to kill some more.
R.J. ate his lunch and went back to work. Forgot the notes he had written. Security found them and tracked him down. His byline was on the front page of the unfinished manuscript. Security dragged him into a room. Questioned him. Wondered if he was planning some kind of atttack.
" It's only fiction! " R.J. Told them. " You can call my creative writing instructor. She'll vouch. "
They did that. She vouched.
I love that story. Of all the stories R.J. has written in the three years he's been in my class - that's the story I love the most.
R.J. is Norman's driver. They live close to each other. when Norman was coming regularly, R.J. was, too. Now he's there and he isn't. Off and on. On and off.
Jane Clayton died a few months ago. She was a regular. The resident poet in the group that meets Wednesday mornings at 10 a.m. Others have come and gone, but no one's gone like Jane Clayton went.
I picked up a card for Norman today. A get well card. I scribbled a few things on the card. Among the thoughts was: " I look forward to your return to the group. "
The group's thinning out. We need writers. We need voices heard and ears to listen. The group's thinning out. Come back when you're well, Norman. Come back when you're well.
That's what I wrote.
Here I am, typical couch potato guy, watching the Red Sox play Baltimore at Camden Yard. When I was a kid, the Orioles played in a park called Memorial Stadium. That sounds right. That sounds like what a baseball park should be called. Camden Yard?
That sounds like some freakin' boutique on Newbury Street in Boston. Speaking of which...
Fenway Park? That's what they've been calling it since 1912. Maybe it's time for a name change. Any suggestions?
Everything is so interactive these days. You watch a Sox game and the stars aren't really Manny, Ortiz and Schilling; they're the jerks with the cell phones waving at the cameras.
Fenway Park? That was then.
This is now. This is what the park's name should be changed to:
MyWay Park.
Where was I?
Watching the Red Sox play the Orioles and recalling the Emily Dickinson line: " Hope is the thing with feathers. " If I believed that, I'd be rooting for the Birds. Schilling's pitching. Schilling, a pitcher about whom I have mixed feelings. On the one hand, he's a character straight out of a Bernard Malamud novel. A Robert Redford like Roy Hobbsian hero. His red sox the color of blood. On the other hand, he's a PR guy. Always selling something or someone. Usually himself. Schilling. Shilling. It's like he was named by Charles Dickens
And what am I doing? Commenting to Donna:
" Schilling got a haircut. "
" What? "
" Schilling. He got a haircut. Went all last season without getting one. "
" Haircut? "
" Yeah. He got a haircut. Ya know, guys over 40. Long hair on 'em looks pretty stupid. Whaddya think? "
" What do I think? "
" About Schillings' hair. "
" I dunno. It's OK I guess. "
Women. It's so fucking hard to engage them in a conversation about baseball. Always was. Always will be. It's why sports bars are proliferating. Places where guys can be guys. Talk about stuff guys like to talk about.
Like Haircuts n Stuff.
That sounds like some freakin' boutique on Newbury Street in Boston. Speaking of which...
Fenway Park? That's what they've been calling it since 1912. Maybe it's time for a name change. Any suggestions?
Everything is so interactive these days. You watch a Sox game and the stars aren't really Manny, Ortiz and Schilling; they're the jerks with the cell phones waving at the cameras.
Fenway Park? That was then.
This is now. This is what the park's name should be changed to:
MyWay Park.
Where was I?
Watching the Red Sox play the Orioles and recalling the Emily Dickinson line: " Hope is the thing with feathers. " If I believed that, I'd be rooting for the Birds. Schilling's pitching. Schilling, a pitcher about whom I have mixed feelings. On the one hand, he's a character straight out of a Bernard Malamud novel. A Robert Redford like Roy Hobbsian hero. His red sox the color of blood. On the other hand, he's a PR guy. Always selling something or someone. Usually himself. Schilling. Shilling. It's like he was named by Charles Dickens
And what am I doing? Commenting to Donna:
" Schilling got a haircut. "
" What? "
" Schilling. He got a haircut. Went all last season without getting one. "
" Haircut? "
" Yeah. He got a haircut. Ya know, guys over 40. Long hair on 'em looks pretty stupid. Whaddya think? "
" What do I think? "
" About Schillings' hair. "
" I dunno. It's OK I guess. "
Women. It's so fucking hard to engage them in a conversation about baseball. Always was. Always will be. It's why sports bars are proliferating. Places where guys can be guys. Talk about stuff guys like to talk about.
Like Haircuts n Stuff.
A few random thoughts as the sun sets, the clouds roll in and it threatens to rain.
There's a terrific new soundtrack CD out: Lucky You.
It has a few Springsteen cuts on it. Some Dylan. A Leonard Cohen cover. And, of all people, Drew Barrymore, sounding very much like a young Judy Garland, singing " Maybe This Time. "
" It's gonna happen. Maybe this time I'll win. "
Who among us, before we join the choir invisible, can't relate to that.
***
Alec Baldwin. I know, as a left leaning, commie, pinko, former bell bottom jean wearing tramp hardly shining I'm supposed to love this guy and everything he stands for. But...
He may just be the scariest unarmed man in America.
***
David Edelstein, New York Magazine's film critic, and occasional commenter on Colin McEnroe's blog, just commented ( Joked? ) that Rosie O'Donnell is a guy. Which might just explain everything.
***
Barak Obama's wife is getting some flack about things she's been saying about her hubby. Says this so called " perfect " man is a slob around the house. Doesn't pick up after himself. Doesn't exactly do his fair share of the housework. It's making Obama look bad...
But it's making me look pretty good. And that's what's important to us self indulgent bloggers ( Heh heh )
There's a terrific new soundtrack CD out: Lucky You.
It has a few Springsteen cuts on it. Some Dylan. A Leonard Cohen cover. And, of all people, Drew Barrymore, sounding very much like a young Judy Garland, singing " Maybe This Time. "
" It's gonna happen. Maybe this time I'll win. "
Who among us, before we join the choir invisible, can't relate to that.
***
Alec Baldwin. I know, as a left leaning, commie, pinko, former bell bottom jean wearing tramp hardly shining I'm supposed to love this guy and everything he stands for. But...
He may just be the scariest unarmed man in America.
***
David Edelstein, New York Magazine's film critic, and occasional commenter on Colin McEnroe's blog, just commented ( Joked? ) that Rosie O'Donnell is a guy. Which might just explain everything.
***
Barak Obama's wife is getting some flack about things she's been saying about her hubby. Says this so called " perfect " man is a slob around the house. Doesn't pick up after himself. Doesn't exactly do his fair share of the housework. It's making Obama look bad...
But it's making me look pretty good. And that's what's important to us self indulgent bloggers ( Heh heh )
So Rosie O'Donnell's calling it quits. We'll no longer be able to view her on The View. Gosh. Ruined my day hearing that. I've always loathed Rosie O'Donnell's persona ( We can't loath, have no way of knowing these people well enough to love or loath; what we believe and what we feel about them has nothing to do with them. It's their personas we know ) That said...
We'll be hearing about this for a few days. My guess is that what's she's doing is trying to ride on Imus's coattail for a few days. Make herself into the latest celebrity leaver. The latest gonzo talk show host/hostess. And ya can't be gonzo these days, unless you're gone. So...
Another one bites the dust. Which won't settle for days. So it goes.
By the way, has anyone been listening to the former Imus in the Morning show? WFAN's sports talk guys, Mike and the Mad Dog are co-hosting. And Imus's old sidekick, Charles McCord is still on. Playing the same role, sort of.
McCord's role on the Imus show was to play the adult in a room full of adolescents. He was the superego foil to the Super Ego Imus. He played the role well. But listen to him now. It's pathetic. Mike and the Mad Dog do what every single radio sports talk team in the country do. They talk over each other. Yell at each other. They're like ritalin starved teenage boys in the back of the classroom. Throwing spitballs and pulling girls' hair. And there's Mr. McCord up there in front of the room. Trying to say something. Trying to get a word in edgewise. Trying to be an adult in a room dominated by people whose mental ages ADD up to somewhere in the low 30s.
Charles! Can you hear me over all that yelling??? CHARLES!!!!!
It's over! Call it quits! Q-U-I-T-S!!!!!!!!!!
Get a new job. I hear there's an opening on The View. Of course you're the wrong gender. You might not fit in. Then again, look what happened when you got that opportunity to work with the I-" Man. " You were grown up. He and his cohorts were not. You fit in there, didn't you?
Go for it, Charles. Break some new ground. Apply for that job on The View. Barbara Walters will love you.
We'll be hearing about this for a few days. My guess is that what's she's doing is trying to ride on Imus's coattail for a few days. Make herself into the latest celebrity leaver. The latest gonzo talk show host/hostess. And ya can't be gonzo these days, unless you're gone. So...
Another one bites the dust. Which won't settle for days. So it goes.
By the way, has anyone been listening to the former Imus in the Morning show? WFAN's sports talk guys, Mike and the Mad Dog are co-hosting. And Imus's old sidekick, Charles McCord is still on. Playing the same role, sort of.
McCord's role on the Imus show was to play the adult in a room full of adolescents. He was the superego foil to the Super Ego Imus. He played the role well. But listen to him now. It's pathetic. Mike and the Mad Dog do what every single radio sports talk team in the country do. They talk over each other. Yell at each other. They're like ritalin starved teenage boys in the back of the classroom. Throwing spitballs and pulling girls' hair. And there's Mr. McCord up there in front of the room. Trying to say something. Trying to get a word in edgewise. Trying to be an adult in a room dominated by people whose mental ages ADD up to somewhere in the low 30s.
Charles! Can you hear me over all that yelling??? CHARLES!!!!!
It's over! Call it quits! Q-U-I-T-S!!!!!!!!!!
Get a new job. I hear there's an opening on The View. Of course you're the wrong gender. You might not fit in. Then again, look what happened when you got that opportunity to work with the I-" Man. " You were grown up. He and his cohorts were not. You fit in there, didn't you?
Go for it, Charles. Break some new ground. Apply for that job on The View. Barbara Walters will love you.
The following is what writer and radio talk show host Colin McEnroe said about the Mike Daisey incident in Cambridge. I'd never heard of Mike Daisey until I read something McEnroe wrote about his appearance recently at Yale Rep. It's interesting. What many people know of Daisey now is what they learn from the video he posted on his own blog. The video shows him riffing about Paris Hilton. He uses the F word. This is a mere slice of the large Daisey pie; it's out of context. He is so much more than what appears on the video. But it is that part of his act that preceeds the protest. So that's what thousands of folks, unfamiliar with his work, are seeing. I've added this McEnroe post, from his blog, because it sheds some light on the subject.
Daisey Chain Reaction
I became a Mike Daisey believer a few weeks ago, watching him perform the monologue "Invincible Summer" at the Yale Rep. I can't tell you how astonished I am to read and see that Daisey's monologue was disrupted in Cambridge by imbeciles apparently persuaded that they are doing the work of Christ. I feel a Lloyd Bentsen moment coming on. "I knew Jesus. Jesus was a friend of mine ..."
I believe Jesus would have been drawn to Daisey's work, which basically asks the question: do we get anything out of all our love and suffering and vanity and striving. Is there anything worth fighting for? He asks those questions in (mildly) shocking ways. But remember, Jesus was a shocking person. He was an epater le bourgeois kind of guy.
Even the segment that seems to have ignited their prissy little Christian consciences was, in fact, a critique of heedless venality and vanity, not an endorsement of it, which they might have noticed if they weren't so committed to relentless stupidity.
Also, at the risky of being inflammatory: if you're gonna walk out, walk out. If you're gonna throw down, then really throw down. But pouring water on somebody's outline is kind of a p---y move. I'm talking to you, bald spot!
April 23, 2007 in Social Criticism Permalink
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Having lived in New York, and having been involved in producing my fair share of "incendiary" and angry theater, walk outs are among the most useless things in the world. If you don't like the show, or if it's too loud for instance, leave. Don't leave because you think you're better than the material, the actors or the subject. Mike gets it right...before you come to see a show, know what you're seeing. Kudos to him. I'm sure those that walked out went right home to their glass houses.
Posted by: Joe D April 24, 2007 at 08:09 AM
Why is it that people are so willing to work in groups to do destructive things but are so hesitant to come together to build good things?
Posted by: Kimi April 24, 2007 at 02:22 AM
I first heard of this from Terrence McCarthy, who posted a comment about this here a couple of days ago. He's got a good eye.
I watched the video, and it brought me back to New London in the autumn--to the CT Senate debate at the Garde--
Daisey Chain Reaction
I became a Mike Daisey believer a few weeks ago, watching him perform the monologue "Invincible Summer" at the Yale Rep. I can't tell you how astonished I am to read and see that Daisey's monologue was disrupted in Cambridge by imbeciles apparently persuaded that they are doing the work of Christ. I feel a Lloyd Bentsen moment coming on. "I knew Jesus. Jesus was a friend of mine ..."
I believe Jesus would have been drawn to Daisey's work, which basically asks the question: do we get anything out of all our love and suffering and vanity and striving. Is there anything worth fighting for? He asks those questions in (mildly) shocking ways. But remember, Jesus was a shocking person. He was an epater le bourgeois kind of guy.
Even the segment that seems to have ignited their prissy little Christian consciences was, in fact, a critique of heedless venality and vanity, not an endorsement of it, which they might have noticed if they weren't so committed to relentless stupidity.
Also, at the risky of being inflammatory: if you're gonna walk out, walk out. If you're gonna throw down, then really throw down. But pouring water on somebody's outline is kind of a p---y move. I'm talking to you, bald spot!
April 23, 2007 in Social Criticism Permalink
Comments
Having lived in New York, and having been involved in producing my fair share of "incendiary" and angry theater, walk outs are among the most useless things in the world. If you don't like the show, or if it's too loud for instance, leave. Don't leave because you think you're better than the material, the actors or the subject. Mike gets it right...before you come to see a show, know what you're seeing. Kudos to him. I'm sure those that walked out went right home to their glass houses.
Posted by: Joe D April 24, 2007 at 08:09 AM
Why is it that people are so willing to work in groups to do destructive things but are so hesitant to come together to build good things?
Posted by: Kimi April 24, 2007 at 02:22 AM
I first heard of this from Terrence McCarthy, who posted a comment about this here a couple of days ago. He's got a good eye.
I watched the video, and it brought me back to New London in the autumn--to the CT Senate debate at the Garde--
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Mike Daisey
I'm going to try to follow up on stories I've made reference to in my posts. Mike Daisey wrote this on his blog today. It speaks for itself. Mike Daisey
David Halberstam: A Teller of Hard Truths - Newsweek National News - MSNBC.com
As the Gentleman from Jacksonville might put it: David Halberstam isn't doing too well. Rest in peace, Mr. Halberstam. Rest in peace. David Halberstam: A Teller of Hard Truths - Newsweek National News - MSNBC.com
Monday, April 23, 2007
What am I reading these days? Glad you asked.
There are times when I think that the glue that holds me together are the police procedural novels I keep on my nightstand. Books like Michael Connelly's latest: Echo Park. Oh sure, I read other stuff. Just finished Kurt Vonnegut's last book ( Literally his last one; he died last week ) . I'm slogging through Doris Kearns Goodwin's book about Lincoln. Two " literary " novels beg, like a dog wanting to be fed, to be read. I've started them, but they're like marathon courses for 60 year olds. Starting them is one thing; finishing them's another.
If I wrote as much as I read, I'd be a prolific son of a bitch. Then again, what would I write? Might be what Jack Torrence's wife saw in that big old hotel in the mountains.
" All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy... "
That's from Stephen King's The Shining. Which I always have thought was about writer's block and what happens as a result of not being able to get it all out. On paper. There have been so many times when I've chased Donna around the house, wielding an ax...
Where the hell was I?
One of the book's I've been reading. Michael Connelly's Echo Park.
This one's the latest in a series of crime novels set in L.A. The hero, anti-hero, whatever you want to call him is Harry Bosch. He's the defective detective Connelly's been writing about for years. Bosch doesn't smile much and is haunted by the cases he has yet to solve. His pleasures are few. He likes jazz and an occasional vodka. He likes smart, sexy women, who don't ask lots of questions.
Before Connelly started writing novels he was a newspaper reporter. Covered the police beat, as I did once upon a time...
His beat was L.A. Mine was Holyoke, Massachusetts. But that's another story...
Back in 1972, soon after I was discharged from the U.S. Air Force, I flew out to L.A. I'd saved up some money when I was in the service. Had this fantasy. Wanted to travel, head west when I had the time to do that. So that's what I did. This was in the first week of May, 1972.
The first thing that happened to me when I got to L.A. was this: I learned that my luggage had been lost. I caught a cab to a cheap motel near the airport. And waited for my stuff.
Looking back on all that, I'm thinking: Pretty freakin' fitting. How many Americans head west to L.A., with the thought in mind: All that shit that happened to me, far east of L.A., all that baggage. I wanna start over, reinvent myself like some west coast Great Gatsby.
All that baggage. I wanna loose it.
And I did.
This was 1972. It was before Jack played Jake in Chinatown. It was long before Michael Connelly started writing his police procedurals. It was after Raymond Chandler wrote about lowlifes and long legged dames in L.A. It was after Nathanael West wrote Day of the Locust...
It was 1972. I was 25 years old.
The airport guys brought me my bags. I got a good night's sleep, woke up, walked to a car rental place and rented a car. A Gremlin.
I recall driving up to Sunset Boulevard, parking the Gremlin on a sidestreet. Walking down a steep hill. Thinking about what had happened just before I'd flown out to L.A. The actor Sal Mineo had just been murdered. He'd lived on a side street, just off Sunset. Sal Mineo, the nerdy friend of the character played by James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause.
I recall walking up and down Sunset. Hitting some clubs. Having some drinks. Then walking back to the rented car. Driving the car back to the motel near the airport. I remember coming to a stop at a stop sign. A gray haired, middle aged man, approached the car I was driving. Tapped on the window. I rolled the window down.
" Can you give me a ride? " he asked.
I said, " No, " and drove off.
I've thought of that often in the years that have passed. I've asked myself: What would have happened if I'd opened the door?
I was a wet behind the ears kid back then. I was a veteran, who'd spent two years in England. Got to know that town like the back of my hand. L.A.? Piece of cake. I felt safe there during the two weeks I tested its waters.
There's a line, a memorable line from the movies. " Forget it, Jake. It's Chinatown. "
Next to the screenplay for Casablanca, it's supposed to be the best screenplay ever written.
Chinatown. It's part of L.A.
That much I know. Understand it? Hardly.
Forget it, Jake. Forget it. It's Chinatown.
L.A.? I've never been back.
There are times when I think that the glue that holds me together are the police procedural novels I keep on my nightstand. Books like Michael Connelly's latest: Echo Park. Oh sure, I read other stuff. Just finished Kurt Vonnegut's last book ( Literally his last one; he died last week ) . I'm slogging through Doris Kearns Goodwin's book about Lincoln. Two " literary " novels beg, like a dog wanting to be fed, to be read. I've started them, but they're like marathon courses for 60 year olds. Starting them is one thing; finishing them's another.
If I wrote as much as I read, I'd be a prolific son of a bitch. Then again, what would I write? Might be what Jack Torrence's wife saw in that big old hotel in the mountains.
" All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy... "
That's from Stephen King's The Shining. Which I always have thought was about writer's block and what happens as a result of not being able to get it all out. On paper. There have been so many times when I've chased Donna around the house, wielding an ax...
Where the hell was I?
One of the book's I've been reading. Michael Connelly's Echo Park.
This one's the latest in a series of crime novels set in L.A. The hero, anti-hero, whatever you want to call him is Harry Bosch. He's the defective detective Connelly's been writing about for years. Bosch doesn't smile much and is haunted by the cases he has yet to solve. His pleasures are few. He likes jazz and an occasional vodka. He likes smart, sexy women, who don't ask lots of questions.
Before Connelly started writing novels he was a newspaper reporter. Covered the police beat, as I did once upon a time...
His beat was L.A. Mine was Holyoke, Massachusetts. But that's another story...
Back in 1972, soon after I was discharged from the U.S. Air Force, I flew out to L.A. I'd saved up some money when I was in the service. Had this fantasy. Wanted to travel, head west when I had the time to do that. So that's what I did. This was in the first week of May, 1972.
The first thing that happened to me when I got to L.A. was this: I learned that my luggage had been lost. I caught a cab to a cheap motel near the airport. And waited for my stuff.
Looking back on all that, I'm thinking: Pretty freakin' fitting. How many Americans head west to L.A., with the thought in mind: All that shit that happened to me, far east of L.A., all that baggage. I wanna start over, reinvent myself like some west coast Great Gatsby.
All that baggage. I wanna loose it.
And I did.
This was 1972. It was before Jack played Jake in Chinatown. It was long before Michael Connelly started writing his police procedurals. It was after Raymond Chandler wrote about lowlifes and long legged dames in L.A. It was after Nathanael West wrote Day of the Locust...
It was 1972. I was 25 years old.
The airport guys brought me my bags. I got a good night's sleep, woke up, walked to a car rental place and rented a car. A Gremlin.
I recall driving up to Sunset Boulevard, parking the Gremlin on a sidestreet. Walking down a steep hill. Thinking about what had happened just before I'd flown out to L.A. The actor Sal Mineo had just been murdered. He'd lived on a side street, just off Sunset. Sal Mineo, the nerdy friend of the character played by James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause.
I recall walking up and down Sunset. Hitting some clubs. Having some drinks. Then walking back to the rented car. Driving the car back to the motel near the airport. I remember coming to a stop at a stop sign. A gray haired, middle aged man, approached the car I was driving. Tapped on the window. I rolled the window down.
" Can you give me a ride? " he asked.
I said, " No, " and drove off.
I've thought of that often in the years that have passed. I've asked myself: What would have happened if I'd opened the door?
I was a wet behind the ears kid back then. I was a veteran, who'd spent two years in England. Got to know that town like the back of my hand. L.A.? Piece of cake. I felt safe there during the two weeks I tested its waters.
There's a line, a memorable line from the movies. " Forget it, Jake. It's Chinatown. "
Next to the screenplay for Casablanca, it's supposed to be the best screenplay ever written.
Chinatown. It's part of L.A.
That much I know. Understand it? Hardly.
Forget it, Jake. Forget it. It's Chinatown.
L.A.? I've never been back.
The Red Sox swept the Yankees this weekend in what looked, on paper, like a tennis match score.
7-6, 7-5, 7-6
In last night's game, the Sox broke a record. They hit four consecutive home runs. Manny Ramirez, J.D. Drew, Mike Lowell and Jason Veritek. Bang, bang, bang, bang. Going, going, going, going...
Gone!
Four players hitting home runs, one after the other, in the same inning. It's only been done 10 times in baseball history. Last time it was done was last year by the L.A. Dodgers. J.D. Drew was playing for the Dodgers last year. He was one of the quartet then, too. What are the odds?
I, for one, am happy it's baseball season. Takes my mind off what's going down in Iraq. What went down at Virginia Tech. Takes my mind off the aches and pains of daily living on this hard ball we inhabit
7-6, 7-5, 7-6
In last night's game, the Sox broke a record. They hit four consecutive home runs. Manny Ramirez, J.D. Drew, Mike Lowell and Jason Veritek. Bang, bang, bang, bang. Going, going, going, going...
Gone!
Four players hitting home runs, one after the other, in the same inning. It's only been done 10 times in baseball history. Last time it was done was last year by the L.A. Dodgers. J.D. Drew was playing for the Dodgers last year. He was one of the quartet then, too. What are the odds?
I, for one, am happy it's baseball season. Takes my mind off what's going down in Iraq. What went down at Virginia Tech. Takes my mind off the aches and pains of daily living on this hard ball we inhabit
Last week's nor'easter was a hell of a storm and the evidence it left is scattered all along the south coast of Rhode Island. Wooden pilings from a pier that hasn't been walked on in a century rise from the sands of the Narragansett town beach. Cars that were buried in sand blown by the winds of the Hurricane of 1938 can now be seen in Westerly. Our friend Jane emailed us some photos of an expensive home that had fallen off the island and into the Atlantic. Houses closer to our home, which had been on the ocean, are now in the ocean at high tide.
Mobile homes in Matunuck, there for more than fifty years, were flooded after a storm surge. The trailers are located 100 yards from the ocean, but the salt water was half way up the side walls last week. The water's slipped back to where it belongs, but the evidence of its breaking and entering into that tight summer community is there - and will be there when those who spend their summers here come down to the coast next month.
It was a hell of a storm. And it's said that there will be more. Batten the hatches.
Mobile homes in Matunuck, there for more than fifty years, were flooded after a storm surge. The trailers are located 100 yards from the ocean, but the salt water was half way up the side walls last week. The water's slipped back to where it belongs, but the evidence of its breaking and entering into that tight summer community is there - and will be there when those who spend their summers here come down to the coast next month.
It was a hell of a storm. And it's said that there will be more. Batten the hatches.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Stop and pick this Daisey - The Boston Globe
I'm adding this to Fence Post because of the Globe writer's idea that Mike Daisey depends " On the kindness of strangers " in his audience. There is a social contract, or has been, in the theater. There's supposed to be a wall, an invisible wall separating the performer and those out there in the audience. That wall was breached the other night in Cambridge. Make no mistake, this actually happened. Daisey is no Andy Kaufman, who might have faked something like this. This happened. A group of people, reportedly upset that Daisey used the F word in his monologue, got out of their seats, walked onto the stage and " protested. " A couple of the morons poured water on Daisey's notes. On the one hand this might be framed as a passive aggressive act. But I don't know. This happened in a theater, four days after what happened at Virginia Tech. The cable news guys made theater of that. Made Cho the big star in their made for TV movie " Massacre in Virginia. " But what happened in Cambridge happened in a real theater. It wasn't a violent act, per se. But man. It was weird.
The kindness of strangers? That's supposed to be what performers expect of the crowd. What Mike Daisey got the other night was something else. I, for one, hope it was the first and last time this shit will happen in Cambridge.
The kindness of strangers? That's supposed to be what performers expect of the crowd. What Mike Daisey got the other night was something else. I, for one, hope it was the first and last time this shit will happen in Cambridge.
Mike Daisey
This happened in Cambridge, Massachusetts. CAMBRIDGE!!! for Christ's sake!!! I won't waste your time explaining what happened. Mike Daisey does a good job of just that. What I will say is that this is disturbing. It is very, very disturbing. And it happened in fucking Cambridge. Mike Daisey
A lot of people are saying that the Virginia Tech shooter should have been forced to do more time on a psychiatric unit, long before he did what he did. I don't know. I wish I had a Bill Frist-like ability to diagnose folks I've never laid eyes on. I don't so I won't.
That said. I was the human rights officer on a locked psych unit. Part of my job was to work closely with patients who had been committed to the ward, forced against their will to loose their freedom for a while. Get locked up.
As you can imagine, a lot of patients who came to us in this manner weren't real happy about it. Some tried to kick the doors down. Others lashed out in various ways at staff. Punched, kicked, scratched and threw things. That kind of behavior sort of gave us a clue that the commitment made sense.
But sometimes the commitment didn't make sense. Sometimes people were wrongly committed, and it was my role to help them get out, get discharged. Get their freedom back.
Doctors and judges have enormous power. Imagine if you heard these words:
" We're going to commit you to a locked unit. The doors are all locked. You will be watched night and day. You can have visitors, but for just two hours a day. You will eat what we give you. You will attend groups. You will take the pills the psychiatrist prescribes. If you show signs of improvement, you will be discharged. If you do not get with the program, you will not be discharged. You will remain locked up. Comprendo? "
Should the shooter have been hospitalized for a long period? Using hindsight, you'd probably say yes. But it's not an easy decision to lock someone up, someone who is bizarre, quiet, doesn't give good eye contact and who writes poems with violence as their theme.
These might be signs, red flags, symptoms. They might suggest that this person will act out in a violent way in the future. And they might not.
Imagine it's you. Imagine it's your son or your daughter. Imagine a country in which it's a lot easier than you think it should be to commit someone to a locked unit.
Then read Solzhenitzyn's novels about the Russian gulag...
That said. I was the human rights officer on a locked psych unit. Part of my job was to work closely with patients who had been committed to the ward, forced against their will to loose their freedom for a while. Get locked up.
As you can imagine, a lot of patients who came to us in this manner weren't real happy about it. Some tried to kick the doors down. Others lashed out in various ways at staff. Punched, kicked, scratched and threw things. That kind of behavior sort of gave us a clue that the commitment made sense.
But sometimes the commitment didn't make sense. Sometimes people were wrongly committed, and it was my role to help them get out, get discharged. Get their freedom back.
Doctors and judges have enormous power. Imagine if you heard these words:
" We're going to commit you to a locked unit. The doors are all locked. You will be watched night and day. You can have visitors, but for just two hours a day. You will eat what we give you. You will attend groups. You will take the pills the psychiatrist prescribes. If you show signs of improvement, you will be discharged. If you do not get with the program, you will not be discharged. You will remain locked up. Comprendo? "
Should the shooter have been hospitalized for a long period? Using hindsight, you'd probably say yes. But it's not an easy decision to lock someone up, someone who is bizarre, quiet, doesn't give good eye contact and who writes poems with violence as their theme.
These might be signs, red flags, symptoms. They might suggest that this person will act out in a violent way in the future. And they might not.
Imagine it's you. Imagine it's your son or your daughter. Imagine a country in which it's a lot easier than you think it should be to commit someone to a locked unit.
Then read Solzhenitzyn's novels about the Russian gulag...
Thursday, April 19, 2007
It's been an awful week in the world. What happened on that campus in Virginia. The latest explosions in Baghdad. Alberto Gonzales going head to head with Arlen Spector and being embarrassed like that. The Red Sox Dice-K striking out ten, and losing the game.
Awful.
But tonight we went to the theater. Donna and I. We went to the theater. And it made us forget, for an hour and a half, what was happening out there, beyond the stage door and the walls of the theater.
The old Leow's Theater in Providence. It's now the Providence Performing Arts Center. It's one of those old theaters, one of those " palaces. " Magical night. Harry Connick Jr. was there with his 11 man band. Most of the music was New Orleans music. Piano. Trombone. Sax. Drums.
Harry was great. And as I watched him down there, from my perch in the crowd, I thought:
This might be like what it was like when my father saw Sinatra at the theater in Hartford. During WWII it was. When awful things were happening. Dad talked about that.
The theater. That's where Donna and I spent the evening. In the crowd. In the dark. Watching Harry play the piano, sing and dance in the light. He made us forget for a while, what was happening out there in the world.
Awful.
But tonight we went to the theater. Donna and I. We went to the theater. And it made us forget, for an hour and a half, what was happening out there, beyond the stage door and the walls of the theater.
The old Leow's Theater in Providence. It's now the Providence Performing Arts Center. It's one of those old theaters, one of those " palaces. " Magical night. Harry Connick Jr. was there with his 11 man band. Most of the music was New Orleans music. Piano. Trombone. Sax. Drums.
Harry was great. And as I watched him down there, from my perch in the crowd, I thought:
This might be like what it was like when my father saw Sinatra at the theater in Hartford. During WWII it was. When awful things were happening. Dad talked about that.
The theater. That's where Donna and I spent the evening. In the crowd. In the dark. Watching Harry play the piano, sing and dance in the light. He made us forget for a while, what was happening out there in the world.
Among the jobs on my eclectic resume is advertising copywriter. I know what the deal is. Truth and advertising should never appear in the same sentence together.
Unless it's that last one.
Still. The currrent TV spot for the Foxwoods Casino in Ledyard, Connecticut is as phony as a three dollar poker chip. Let me explain.
The spot shows people playing the slots, playing craps, shopping and swimming in one of the hotel pools. All of these people are very good looking, dressed very well ( Dressed up in some cases ), almost all white, young and middle aged.
What's wrong with this picture? If you've been to Foxwoods you know that is not what the gamblers and gambolers look like. Oh sure, you might see some people who look like the folks in the commercial. But you'll also see old folks. Folks in their 70 and 80s. Lots of them. As a matter of fact, whenever I'm there, old folks make up most of the people I see sitting in front of the slot machines. And there are no Oriental people in the commercial. Not one. Yet as I walk through the casinos at the Foxwoods resort, there are times when most of the people at the blackjack and roulette tables are Oriental.
And the way people are dressed in the spot is not the way people dress. Watch the commercial. You won't see one guy wearing a T-Shirt that shouts, " Acme Septic, Inc. " You won't see one woman wearing a pair of ratty blue jeans that are two sizes too small for her.
The commercial is obviously peopled by actors and actresses. Lots of them. Nothing wrong with that. It's nice to see these people, who probably spend a lot of time waiting on tables, getting some thespian work. But why couldn't they have given some Oriental actors some work? Why didn't they give some senior citizen actors some work?
Maybe the next commercial they shoot will be more realistic. But I wouldn't bet on it.
Unless it's that last one.
Still. The currrent TV spot for the Foxwoods Casino in Ledyard, Connecticut is as phony as a three dollar poker chip. Let me explain.
The spot shows people playing the slots, playing craps, shopping and swimming in one of the hotel pools. All of these people are very good looking, dressed very well ( Dressed up in some cases ), almost all white, young and middle aged.
What's wrong with this picture? If you've been to Foxwoods you know that is not what the gamblers and gambolers look like. Oh sure, you might see some people who look like the folks in the commercial. But you'll also see old folks. Folks in their 70 and 80s. Lots of them. As a matter of fact, whenever I'm there, old folks make up most of the people I see sitting in front of the slot machines. And there are no Oriental people in the commercial. Not one. Yet as I walk through the casinos at the Foxwoods resort, there are times when most of the people at the blackjack and roulette tables are Oriental.
And the way people are dressed in the spot is not the way people dress. Watch the commercial. You won't see one guy wearing a T-Shirt that shouts, " Acme Septic, Inc. " You won't see one woman wearing a pair of ratty blue jeans that are two sizes too small for her.
The commercial is obviously peopled by actors and actresses. Lots of them. Nothing wrong with that. It's nice to see these people, who probably spend a lot of time waiting on tables, getting some thespian work. But why couldn't they have given some Oriental actors some work? Why didn't they give some senior citizen actors some work?
Maybe the next commercial they shoot will be more realistic. But I wouldn't bet on it.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
On his blog today, Colin McEnroe wrote about the lengths " B-List " pundits go to get face time on MSNBC. Columnists and bloggers want to get that call to appear on screen and mouth off about the news scoop du jour.
And now we learn that the Virginia Tech shooter sent a video and pages of his writing to NBC. And will be getting very much face time on NBC Nightly News this evening. The reports I'm seeing as I write this are that Cho sent the materials to NBC after the first shooting on the Virginia Tech campus and before the second one in which 30 more people were killed.
Since this story broke I've been dreading seeing the shooter's face plastered all over the covers of Time and Newsweek. I haven't seen that yet. An hour from now, we'll all be seeing the TV equivalent of making the cover of Time and Newsweek. I know, I know. It's news. It's huge. The worst mass murder in U.S. history. But for someone like that getting that kind of attention, that kind of face time.
I majored in journalism. Was a reporter. I know that the news business is not about NOT telling us stuff, showing us stuff. But I feel really uncomfortable about how this shooter is getting his shot at the big time tonight.
I'm really concerned that he's made that pundit A-List. Shot to the top of that list. And, of course, how he did it. What lengths he went to to get to this point. Guy had something to say and now he's king of the hill. Talk about disturbing. And like MSNBC's Chris Matthews, I'm reminded of the videos those middle eastern suicide bombers make, just before they blow themselves up.
And now we learn that the Virginia Tech shooter sent a video and pages of his writing to NBC. And will be getting very much face time on NBC Nightly News this evening. The reports I'm seeing as I write this are that Cho sent the materials to NBC after the first shooting on the Virginia Tech campus and before the second one in which 30 more people were killed.
Since this story broke I've been dreading seeing the shooter's face plastered all over the covers of Time and Newsweek. I haven't seen that yet. An hour from now, we'll all be seeing the TV equivalent of making the cover of Time and Newsweek. I know, I know. It's news. It's huge. The worst mass murder in U.S. history. But for someone like that getting that kind of attention, that kind of face time.
I majored in journalism. Was a reporter. I know that the news business is not about NOT telling us stuff, showing us stuff. But I feel really uncomfortable about how this shooter is getting his shot at the big time tonight.
I'm really concerned that he's made that pundit A-List. Shot to the top of that list. And, of course, how he did it. What lengths he went to to get to this point. Guy had something to say and now he's king of the hill. Talk about disturbing. And like MSNBC's Chris Matthews, I'm reminded of the videos those middle eastern suicide bombers make, just before they blow themselves up.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
How do we prevent violence? That has been one of the myriad questions that have been asked on this Tuesday following that awful Monday on which so many died. I have no idea how what happened yesterday could have been prevented. But I have some thoughts and I'll share them.
I worked fourteen years in mental health. I have many stories to tell. Here are two.
I was a counselor on a locked psychiatric unit in western Massachusetts. One day, as I was about to walk off the unit and go to lunch, another counselor rushed out of a room.
" She's in the bathroom, she has a razor! "
I walked into the room and saw the patient, a woman named Tina, sitting on the floor of the bathroom. She had a double edged razor in her hand and was holding it to her wrist.
" Tina, what are you...! "
Then I caught myself. My tone of voice was all wrong. Anger and authority had no place here. I calmed down and said, " Talk to me, Tina. What's going on here? "
She said a few words. I said a few words. Then I looked over my shoulder at the crowd that had gathered behind me. Two psychiatrists, five or six nurses, three or four counselors and a social worker stood there. Watching me talk to Tina. Who continued to hold the blade to her wrist.
One of the shrinks edged his way into the doorway. Said something to Tina, I can't recall exactly what he said. Then a nurse said something. Tina wasn't responding with words, but her body language spoke to me and I didn't like what it said.
Fuck this, I said to myself. Way too much talk and no action. I walked over to to one of the two beds in the room. Grabbed a blanket. Wrapped the blanket around my right arm. Walked back over to the the bathroom and said, " Excuse me. "
I reached into the bathroom, extended my arm, which was wrapped in that blanket, toward where Tina was sitting on the floor.
" I want you to place the razor blade here, on my arm, " I said. " I want you to do it right now. "
And she did.
A potentially violent situation defused.
About an hour after this happened the charge nurse came up to me. Said he heard the medical director say to the nursing supervisor, " Terry did a hell of a job. "
The medical director never said anything to me. The nursing supervisor never said anything to me. I didn't get a pat on the back. And the charge nurse? He didn't comment on the job I had done. All he did was pass on the information about what the medical director said to the nursing supervisor.
That's story #1. Here's story #2.
I was working part-time at a group home in Rhode Island. I was working alone, the other staff who was supposed to be there had taken a break. Left to run some kind of errand. It was dinner time. The eight residents were all in one room, the dining room, eating dinner. I was in the living room, observing the residents. Making sure they didn't choke on the food. Trying to make sure they didn't start fighting.
When two of them starting yelling at each other. The resident who was being called names got up from her chair, rushed over to the guy who was calling her names, and started to punch him. She was a large woman, a strong woman, an angry woman who, I think, would have killed him...
If I didn't rush up behind her and grab her arms. I'd been in situations like this before, on the pysch unit. I'd been a certified violence prevention instructor. I knew what to do and I did it. Long story short, I got the two separated and got someone to call 911. The cops came.
Situation defused.
This happened in November of 2004. Since then I never heard from the higher ups in the organization. No one in charge of the residential program ever acknowledged what I had done. A rank and file staffer told me, after the incident occurred...
" You saved his life! "
But as far as the powers that be were concerned, the incident never happened. No one said, " Nice job. "
Sour grapes? Far from it. I don't need validation. But some people might. Some people, who are working hard to prevent violence from happening. In their workplace. In the home. On the campus...
Need to get a pat on the back. Need to hear, " Nice job. "
How do we prevent violence? It's a large question. I have no idea what could or should have been done in Virginia. All I know is what I know from my own experience.
I did a good job. And wasn't recognized for having done a good job.
What's wrong with that picture?
I worked fourteen years in mental health. I have many stories to tell. Here are two.
I was a counselor on a locked psychiatric unit in western Massachusetts. One day, as I was about to walk off the unit and go to lunch, another counselor rushed out of a room.
" She's in the bathroom, she has a razor! "
I walked into the room and saw the patient, a woman named Tina, sitting on the floor of the bathroom. She had a double edged razor in her hand and was holding it to her wrist.
" Tina, what are you...! "
Then I caught myself. My tone of voice was all wrong. Anger and authority had no place here. I calmed down and said, " Talk to me, Tina. What's going on here? "
She said a few words. I said a few words. Then I looked over my shoulder at the crowd that had gathered behind me. Two psychiatrists, five or six nurses, three or four counselors and a social worker stood there. Watching me talk to Tina. Who continued to hold the blade to her wrist.
One of the shrinks edged his way into the doorway. Said something to Tina, I can't recall exactly what he said. Then a nurse said something. Tina wasn't responding with words, but her body language spoke to me and I didn't like what it said.
Fuck this, I said to myself. Way too much talk and no action. I walked over to to one of the two beds in the room. Grabbed a blanket. Wrapped the blanket around my right arm. Walked back over to the the bathroom and said, " Excuse me. "
I reached into the bathroom, extended my arm, which was wrapped in that blanket, toward where Tina was sitting on the floor.
" I want you to place the razor blade here, on my arm, " I said. " I want you to do it right now. "
And she did.
A potentially violent situation defused.
About an hour after this happened the charge nurse came up to me. Said he heard the medical director say to the nursing supervisor, " Terry did a hell of a job. "
The medical director never said anything to me. The nursing supervisor never said anything to me. I didn't get a pat on the back. And the charge nurse? He didn't comment on the job I had done. All he did was pass on the information about what the medical director said to the nursing supervisor.
That's story #1. Here's story #2.
I was working part-time at a group home in Rhode Island. I was working alone, the other staff who was supposed to be there had taken a break. Left to run some kind of errand. It was dinner time. The eight residents were all in one room, the dining room, eating dinner. I was in the living room, observing the residents. Making sure they didn't choke on the food. Trying to make sure they didn't start fighting.
When two of them starting yelling at each other. The resident who was being called names got up from her chair, rushed over to the guy who was calling her names, and started to punch him. She was a large woman, a strong woman, an angry woman who, I think, would have killed him...
If I didn't rush up behind her and grab her arms. I'd been in situations like this before, on the pysch unit. I'd been a certified violence prevention instructor. I knew what to do and I did it. Long story short, I got the two separated and got someone to call 911. The cops came.
Situation defused.
This happened in November of 2004. Since then I never heard from the higher ups in the organization. No one in charge of the residential program ever acknowledged what I had done. A rank and file staffer told me, after the incident occurred...
" You saved his life! "
But as far as the powers that be were concerned, the incident never happened. No one said, " Nice job. "
Sour grapes? Far from it. I don't need validation. But some people might. Some people, who are working hard to prevent violence from happening. In their workplace. In the home. On the campus...
Need to get a pat on the back. Need to hear, " Nice job. "
How do we prevent violence? It's a large question. I have no idea what could or should have been done in Virginia. All I know is what I know from my own experience.
I did a good job. And wasn't recognized for having done a good job.
What's wrong with that picture?
YouTube - Boomtown Rats - I Don't Like Mondays (LIVE AID)
It happened on Monday... 4/16...YouTube - Boomtown Rats - I Don't Like Mondays (LIVE AID)
The signs were everywhere. The red flags were up. The late Mr. Cho, the Virginia Tech shooter, had written " disturbing " stuff for a creative writing class. Turns out folks knew he was " Troubled. "
Yesterday we knew nothing about the guy. Today? We know his name. What he was majoring in. His nationality. And his mental status. Monday it was Mr. Cho we hardly hardly know ye. Tuesday? We know more about this guy than we know about half of our cousins.
English major. Wrote scary stuff. They shoulda known! He was crying out for help for Christ's sake. Sure. Using that kind of logic Stephen King would have been in protective custody before he had a chance to write Carrie.
I'm a creative writing instructor. Facilitate a workshop once a week. Wednesday mornings. 10 am to 11:30 am. What am I supposed to do now, in this post 4/16 world? Look for signs? Be alert for red flags. Drop a dime on a writer whose story disturbs me or other writers in the room?
Mr. Cho was an English major. They can be weird. They read books and write stories, essays and poems. They keep journals, have blogs. I was an English major.
I have a modest proposal. Keep an eye on those who decide to major in English. Know what they read and read what they write. Look for signs and red flags. If what they read is " disturbing, " and if what they write is that, too...
Keep an eye on the bastards. No telling what they might do.
Yesterday we knew nothing about the guy. Today? We know his name. What he was majoring in. His nationality. And his mental status. Monday it was Mr. Cho we hardly hardly know ye. Tuesday? We know more about this guy than we know about half of our cousins.
English major. Wrote scary stuff. They shoulda known! He was crying out for help for Christ's sake. Sure. Using that kind of logic Stephen King would have been in protective custody before he had a chance to write Carrie.
I'm a creative writing instructor. Facilitate a workshop once a week. Wednesday mornings. 10 am to 11:30 am. What am I supposed to do now, in this post 4/16 world? Look for signs? Be alert for red flags. Drop a dime on a writer whose story disturbs me or other writers in the room?
Mr. Cho was an English major. They can be weird. They read books and write stories, essays and poems. They keep journals, have blogs. I was an English major.
I have a modest proposal. Keep an eye on those who decide to major in English. Know what they read and read what they write. Look for signs and red flags. If what they read is " disturbing, " and if what they write is that, too...
Keep an eye on the bastards. No telling what they might do.
YouTube - The Zimmers "My Generation"
Eat your young heart out, Pete Townsend. This is a video of the world's oldest rock and roll band, The Zimmers. Thanks to Terrance Collins for the heads up on this one. Cool!YouTube - The Zimmers "My Generation"
Monday, April 16, 2007
This probably isn't big news in Darfur, but the price of lobsters here in Rhode Island is going through the roof. That is if you still have a roof. We had this big storm last night and the wind was howling and Jim Cantore was out there with his army of fans and those million dollar summer homes down the street took a good hit.
It hasn't been easy for us bobos in paradise.
Donna and I were going to have lobsters tonight. She's on vacation. Something good happened yesterday and we wanted to celebrate. So we said, " Let's get some lobsters. "
Easier said than done. The seafood place we went to to get them was closed. OK we said. We'll get them tomorrow. Maybe not. There was a story in the Times today. Dateline Providence, Rhode Island. Its headline:
Lobster Elusive, and Price Exclusive, as Harvest Suffers
They're blaming the cold. April, that cruelest of months. T.S. Eliot hated April. Loved lobster. But as a struggling writer, couldn't afford it. Actually I don't know that. Maybe he could. Maybe he could afford those Twin Lobster specials at whatever pub he frequented.
Speaking of which. Twin lobsters. How do they know? How do they know the pair are actually twins? The suckers all look alike to me.
Where the hell was I?
LobsterLand. The south coast of Rhode Island. Which took such a hit from this Nor'easter. It's been colder than the chrome on a witch's 55 Chevy down here. April? You call this April? When I was a kid the first day of the month was set aside for the fools. Now it's every fookin' day of the month mocking those of us who haven't sold our homes and moved to Fort Myers.
The Times story today reported that lobsters have rarely been as scarce and expensive as they have been for the past few weeks. The retail price is about $15 a pound for a one pound lobster. That's twice what we fools paid last year at this time.
Why? The experts say that a pattern of strong northwest winds has made it difficult for the guys who man the lobster boats to head out to sea. Unseasonably cold weather this spring has lowered ocean temperatures by about six degrees, much too chilly for lobsters to want to feed on the bait the lobstermen toss into their traps.
So. Donna and I were planning on eating lobsters this week. Maybe we won't. Enough is enough. The price is too high.
Anyone out there know what they're asking for cavier this week?
It hasn't been easy for us bobos in paradise.
Donna and I were going to have lobsters tonight. She's on vacation. Something good happened yesterday and we wanted to celebrate. So we said, " Let's get some lobsters. "
Easier said than done. The seafood place we went to to get them was closed. OK we said. We'll get them tomorrow. Maybe not. There was a story in the Times today. Dateline Providence, Rhode Island. Its headline:
Lobster Elusive, and Price Exclusive, as Harvest Suffers
They're blaming the cold. April, that cruelest of months. T.S. Eliot hated April. Loved lobster. But as a struggling writer, couldn't afford it. Actually I don't know that. Maybe he could. Maybe he could afford those Twin Lobster specials at whatever pub he frequented.
Speaking of which. Twin lobsters. How do they know? How do they know the pair are actually twins? The suckers all look alike to me.
Where the hell was I?
LobsterLand. The south coast of Rhode Island. Which took such a hit from this Nor'easter. It's been colder than the chrome on a witch's 55 Chevy down here. April? You call this April? When I was a kid the first day of the month was set aside for the fools. Now it's every fookin' day of the month mocking those of us who haven't sold our homes and moved to Fort Myers.
The Times story today reported that lobsters have rarely been as scarce and expensive as they have been for the past few weeks. The retail price is about $15 a pound for a one pound lobster. That's twice what we fools paid last year at this time.
Why? The experts say that a pattern of strong northwest winds has made it difficult for the guys who man the lobster boats to head out to sea. Unseasonably cold weather this spring has lowered ocean temperatures by about six degrees, much too chilly for lobsters to want to feed on the bait the lobstermen toss into their traps.
So. Donna and I were planning on eating lobsters this week. Maybe we won't. Enough is enough. The price is too high.
Anyone out there know what they're asking for cavier this week?
The massacre at Virginia Tech story is still unfolding. It's been on all the cable channels all afternoon. All that time. So little information. We know this. Thirty two dead so far, including the shooter. That is, essentially, it.
I'm always fascinated by how stories unfold on cable news. What we're really watching isn't news; it's the gathering of news. I've said this before. It's like when I was a newspaper reporter. I'd get a call in the middle of the night. It would be Ziggy, a news photographer whose job it was to call me, who at the time was covering the police and fire beats.
The phone would ring at unGodly hours. Two A.M. Three A.M.
" Hullo? "
" It's Ziggy. "
" Ah shit, I was hoping it was Bo Derek. Wanting me to come over and help her make it through the night. "
" Got a big one on Elm Street. Three story tenement. Chief says there might be fatalities. "
" Be there in fifteen minutes. "
I'd get dressed and off I'd go. Get to the scene and start asking questions. Taking notes. Gathering information that would be the news that would appear in the paper later that day.
What we're all seeing now is people like me asking questions and taking copious notes. Difference is readers of the paper I worked for didn't get to see the story until it had been filtered, vetted, written, edited.
On and on the coverage of this Virginia Tech story goes. It's been on for hours. What do I know? Thirty two dead, including the shooter.
CNN, MSNBC, Fox ( Hole ) News. So many reporters. So much money. So much time. So much they could do to educate and inform. But what we got in five hours today is this one " story. "
Thirty two dead, including the shooter.
That isn't a story. That's a headline. Everything else is just filler. Everything else is just notes scribbled in haste.
I'm always fascinated by how stories unfold on cable news. What we're really watching isn't news; it's the gathering of news. I've said this before. It's like when I was a newspaper reporter. I'd get a call in the middle of the night. It would be Ziggy, a news photographer whose job it was to call me, who at the time was covering the police and fire beats.
The phone would ring at unGodly hours. Two A.M. Three A.M.
" Hullo? "
" It's Ziggy. "
" Ah shit, I was hoping it was Bo Derek. Wanting me to come over and help her make it through the night. "
" Got a big one on Elm Street. Three story tenement. Chief says there might be fatalities. "
" Be there in fifteen minutes. "
I'd get dressed and off I'd go. Get to the scene and start asking questions. Taking notes. Gathering information that would be the news that would appear in the paper later that day.
What we're all seeing now is people like me asking questions and taking copious notes. Difference is readers of the paper I worked for didn't get to see the story until it had been filtered, vetted, written, edited.
On and on the coverage of this Virginia Tech story goes. It's been on for hours. What do I know? Thirty two dead, including the shooter.
CNN, MSNBC, Fox ( Hole ) News. So many reporters. So much money. So much time. So much they could do to educate and inform. But what we got in five hours today is this one " story. "
Thirty two dead, including the shooter.
That isn't a story. That's a headline. Everything else is just filler. Everything else is just notes scribbled in haste.
YouTube - Simon & Garfunkel - Mrs. Robinson
Where have you gone, Jackie Robinson? YouTube - Simon & Garfunkel - Mrs. Robinson
You're going to be seeing the number 42 all over the place this week. Forty two. That's the number associated with the first black man ever to...
Be president of the United States.
You thought maybe I was referring to Jackie Robinson? Silly you. Yes, that was Jackie Robinson's number. And yes, they are celebrating the 60th anniversary of Jackie breaking into major league baseball.
And Bill Clinton, our " First black president, " was our 42nd president.
What a coincidence, huh?
Significant in the large scheme of things? No. Coincidences are everywhere. You just need to keep your eyes open. I could go on and on with coincidences concerning Bill Clinton and Jackie Robinson. How, for instance, Robinson played for the Brooklyn Dodgers and how Clinton was branded a " draft dodger. " But I won't go on and on.
They say baseball is a game of inches. Statisticians like Bill James reign. Numbers are everywhere. Ted Williams hit .406. Babe Ruth hit 60 home runs. Maris, 61. Sixty feet six inches. Three outs.
42? It's just aother number. Or would be, if the great Jackie Robinson hadn't worn it on his back. Then again, it wasn't what he wore on his back that was most important; it was what he carried on his shoulders. That weight. No number would do it justice.
Be president of the United States.
You thought maybe I was referring to Jackie Robinson? Silly you. Yes, that was Jackie Robinson's number. And yes, they are celebrating the 60th anniversary of Jackie breaking into major league baseball.
And Bill Clinton, our " First black president, " was our 42nd president.
What a coincidence, huh?
Significant in the large scheme of things? No. Coincidences are everywhere. You just need to keep your eyes open. I could go on and on with coincidences concerning Bill Clinton and Jackie Robinson. How, for instance, Robinson played for the Brooklyn Dodgers and how Clinton was branded a " draft dodger. " But I won't go on and on.
They say baseball is a game of inches. Statisticians like Bill James reign. Numbers are everywhere. Ted Williams hit .406. Babe Ruth hit 60 home runs. Maris, 61. Sixty feet six inches. Three outs.
42? It's just aother number. Or would be, if the great Jackie Robinson hadn't worn it on his back. Then again, it wasn't what he wore on his back that was most important; it was what he carried on his shoulders. That weight. No number would do it justice.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
YouTube - Creedence Clearwater Revival - Have you ever seen the rain?
Ladies and Gentlemen. Creedence Clearwater Revival... YouTube - Creedence Clearwater Revival - Have you ever seen the rain?
You know the weather's bad when the Weather Channel's Jim Cantori is doing a standup in your own back yard.
The weather's bad. How bad? Don DeLillo's taking notes. His next novel's going to be about this long weekend in April, 2007. The weekend that confirmed, after all these years, that T.S. Eliot was right.
Sheesh. I'm starting to sound like a stand up comedian. But give me credit. At least I'm not lining up today on the bridge that connects Jamestown to Newport. The weather's depressing, but so far at least, I'm not thinking of throwing myself off a bridge. killing myself. I'm joking.
No! Not about killing myself, rather NOT killing myself. I'm not joking about that. I'm holding onto my sense of humor, despite the weather. Despite Jim Cantori being out there attracting attention, with the neighbors out there, tearing up the lawn. ( I'm kidding; he's not out there. He is, however, a short distance up the coast. Somewhere north of Boston. )
I'm laughing. The weather's horrible. A wind driven rain, a hard rain is falling. But I'm laughing. I am fookin' laughing!
Don't let this weather get you down.
The weather's bad. How bad? Don DeLillo's taking notes. His next novel's going to be about this long weekend in April, 2007. The weekend that confirmed, after all these years, that T.S. Eliot was right.
Sheesh. I'm starting to sound like a stand up comedian. But give me credit. At least I'm not lining up today on the bridge that connects Jamestown to Newport. The weather's depressing, but so far at least, I'm not thinking of throwing myself off a bridge. killing myself. I'm joking.
No! Not about killing myself, rather NOT killing myself. I'm not joking about that. I'm holding onto my sense of humor, despite the weather. Despite Jim Cantori being out there attracting attention, with the neighbors out there, tearing up the lawn. ( I'm kidding; he's not out there. He is, however, a short distance up the coast. Somewhere north of Boston. )
I'm laughing. The weather's horrible. A wind driven rain, a hard rain is falling. But I'm laughing. I am fookin' laughing!
Don't let this weather get you down.
I hope this is the last time I'll bring Imus up on this blog. But it really isn't something of which I have total control. The muse occasionally snatches me out of my easy chair, drags me into the woods and puts a gun to my head. Screams like a banshee: WRITE THIS!!
I'm in the woods now. And here's what it wants me to write:
You thought the governor of New Jersey angle to this Imus story was weird? John Corzine in critical condition, breathing with the help of a vent after the SUV in which he was a passenger crashed. On its way to the meeting Imus was having with the Rutgers womens basketball team.
Now this. Of all the entertainers in all the world to die on the last day of the week that was Imus.
Don Ho.
You really can't make this stuff up. Even with a gun to your head.
I'm in the woods now. And here's what it wants me to write:
You thought the governor of New Jersey angle to this Imus story was weird? John Corzine in critical condition, breathing with the help of a vent after the SUV in which he was a passenger crashed. On its way to the meeting Imus was having with the Rutgers womens basketball team.
Now this. Of all the entertainers in all the world to die on the last day of the week that was Imus.
Don Ho.
You really can't make this stuff up. Even with a gun to your head.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
In October, 2002 I quit my job as a counselor on a locked psychiatric unit in Springfield, Massachusetts. I had worked there for eleven years. Donna, who had been teaching high school Spanish since the 1980s, gave notice. Our plan was to sell our house in Connecticut and move into the Rhode Island vacation home we’d had built in 1986.
We followed through with that plan, and have been, as I write this “ semi-retired “ for four years. I tell people I’m semi-retired and they look at me like I was speaking in tongues, or in Latin. They look at me like they’re thinking: “ Semi-retired? Is that like being kind of pregnant?
It is and it isn’t. Pregnant with possibilities? Yes, that’s what semi-retirement is. Guaranteed to deliver? No guarantees.
Life is like baseball. And for most of us, it’s minor league baseball. Sure, some of us have had, at one time or another, a shot at the majors, The Big Dance. The Show. That’s what ballplayers call it. If you’re an accountant, it’s called something else. If you’re a dentist, something else. A comic? The Tonight Show or Letterman. That’s The Big Dance. That’s what you aim for.
Among the three careers I had before semi-retiring was advertising. I was a copywriter, a job writers like Don DeLillo, Joseph Heller, Fay Weldon, Salmon Rushdie and even Carl Sandburg had before they made it big. I won some awards as a copywriter. One year I won the Gold Award, for the best radio spot produced in the state of Connecticut. I was surprised when they announced my name at the show, the show being The Annual Greater Hartford Advertising Club Awards. I wasn’t expecting to win. I didn’t think what I’d written, directed and helped produce was very good. But some guy from New York City did. He was one of the judges. The big wig among them. He worked for an ad agency in the biggest show of them all, the Big Apple. The Madison Avenue guy loved the spot and shined the spotlight on me. For a minute or two.
Among the responsibilities I had at the Hartford agency for which I was a copywriter was running the internship program. It was my job to get prep school and college students to work, for nothing, for three months, at our place on Allyn Street in what is known as The Insurance City. In the spring of 1985 we had an intern, her name was Elizabeth. She was a student at Miss Porter’s School in nearby Farmington. I liked Elizabeth. She was only 17, but she had a quiet confidence and she was determined to be a writer. Elizabeth liked me, too. And she seemed to have some respect for me, more respect than I had for myself.
Elizabeth said to me, and I’ll never forget this.
“ You’re going to be on the cover of Time magazine some day. “
Donna and I moved three years ago into the smallest state in the union, Rhode Island. Rhode Island, which is famous for, among other things, its minor league baseball team, The Pawtucket Red Sox.
The Pawtucket Red Sox played in the longest game in professional baseball history. The game began on April 18, 1981 and went 33 innings. The first 32 innings ended at 4:07 a.m. on April 19. The game resumed two months later when the opposing team, The Rochester Red Wings, returned to Pawtucket’s McCoy Stadium for another series. The Pawsox won the33 inning game by a score of 3-2.
Among the Rochester players who took part in that game was a young Cal Ripkin Jr. Ripkin went on to play for the Baltimore Orioles, where he set the record for most consecutive games played by a major league player. He was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in 2007.
Pawtucket, that minor league town in the smallest state in the union is a 45 minutes drive north from where Donna, our dog Gracie and I have been living since we “ semi-retired. “ Donna’s been to a few games at McCoy. I’ve never been.
Here I am, as I write this, somewhere south of Pawtucket. I just turned 60. The game I’ve been playing is now in late innings.
Baseball is boring to some. All that standing around. Not much happens until it does. But those late innings.
I think I was eight when my father drove me to Boston. Took me to a Red Sox game. This was in the mid 1950s, when Ted Williams was still playing for The Hose. The Sox were behind in the 7th. My father wanted to get the hell out of Boston, before the Fenway crowd hit the streets. Wanted to hit the road before they all hit the road. So we left the park.
As we were walking towards Copley Square, we heard a loud noise, a great roar. It was the sound of 30,000 fans screaming, laughing, clapping and stomping their feet.
We heard on the radio, in the car on the turnpike on our way back to western Massachusetts, that Ted Williams had hit a homerun. Won the game in late innings.
I will never forget that sound. It will stay with me forever.
We followed through with that plan, and have been, as I write this “ semi-retired “ for four years. I tell people I’m semi-retired and they look at me like I was speaking in tongues, or in Latin. They look at me like they’re thinking: “ Semi-retired? Is that like being kind of pregnant?
It is and it isn’t. Pregnant with possibilities? Yes, that’s what semi-retirement is. Guaranteed to deliver? No guarantees.
Life is like baseball. And for most of us, it’s minor league baseball. Sure, some of us have had, at one time or another, a shot at the majors, The Big Dance. The Show. That’s what ballplayers call it. If you’re an accountant, it’s called something else. If you’re a dentist, something else. A comic? The Tonight Show or Letterman. That’s The Big Dance. That’s what you aim for.
Among the three careers I had before semi-retiring was advertising. I was a copywriter, a job writers like Don DeLillo, Joseph Heller, Fay Weldon, Salmon Rushdie and even Carl Sandburg had before they made it big. I won some awards as a copywriter. One year I won the Gold Award, for the best radio spot produced in the state of Connecticut. I was surprised when they announced my name at the show, the show being The Annual Greater Hartford Advertising Club Awards. I wasn’t expecting to win. I didn’t think what I’d written, directed and helped produce was very good. But some guy from New York City did. He was one of the judges. The big wig among them. He worked for an ad agency in the biggest show of them all, the Big Apple. The Madison Avenue guy loved the spot and shined the spotlight on me. For a minute or two.
Among the responsibilities I had at the Hartford agency for which I was a copywriter was running the internship program. It was my job to get prep school and college students to work, for nothing, for three months, at our place on Allyn Street in what is known as The Insurance City. In the spring of 1985 we had an intern, her name was Elizabeth. She was a student at Miss Porter’s School in nearby Farmington. I liked Elizabeth. She was only 17, but she had a quiet confidence and she was determined to be a writer. Elizabeth liked me, too. And she seemed to have some respect for me, more respect than I had for myself.
Elizabeth said to me, and I’ll never forget this.
“ You’re going to be on the cover of Time magazine some day. “
Donna and I moved three years ago into the smallest state in the union, Rhode Island. Rhode Island, which is famous for, among other things, its minor league baseball team, The Pawtucket Red Sox.
The Pawtucket Red Sox played in the longest game in professional baseball history. The game began on April 18, 1981 and went 33 innings. The first 32 innings ended at 4:07 a.m. on April 19. The game resumed two months later when the opposing team, The Rochester Red Wings, returned to Pawtucket’s McCoy Stadium for another series. The Pawsox won the33 inning game by a score of 3-2.
Among the Rochester players who took part in that game was a young Cal Ripkin Jr. Ripkin went on to play for the Baltimore Orioles, where he set the record for most consecutive games played by a major league player. He was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in 2007.
Pawtucket, that minor league town in the smallest state in the union is a 45 minutes drive north from where Donna, our dog Gracie and I have been living since we “ semi-retired. “ Donna’s been to a few games at McCoy. I’ve never been.
Here I am, as I write this, somewhere south of Pawtucket. I just turned 60. The game I’ve been playing is now in late innings.
Baseball is boring to some. All that standing around. Not much happens until it does. But those late innings.
I think I was eight when my father drove me to Boston. Took me to a Red Sox game. This was in the mid 1950s, when Ted Williams was still playing for The Hose. The Sox were behind in the 7th. My father wanted to get the hell out of Boston, before the Fenway crowd hit the streets. Wanted to hit the road before they all hit the road. So we left the park.
As we were walking towards Copley Square, we heard a loud noise, a great roar. It was the sound of 30,000 fans screaming, laughing, clapping and stomping their feet.
We heard on the radio, in the car on the turnpike on our way back to western Massachusetts, that Ted Williams had hit a homerun. Won the game in late innings.
I will never forget that sound. It will stay with me forever.
YouTube - Rufus Wainwright - Everybody Knows
Leonard Cohen again? Hey, for the past eight days it's been all Don Imus all the time. Frame this as an improvement.... I for one just can't get enough of this guy - and Loudon's kid - tonight... YouTube - Rufus Wainwright - Everybody Knows
YouTube - I'm Your Man - Chelsea Hotel/Leonard Cohen/Rufus Wainwright
Oh what the hell. One more. I'm in a Leonard Cohen kind of mood tonight...
YouTube - I'm Your Man - Chelsea Hotel/Leonard Cohen/Rufus Wainwright
YouTube - I'm Your Man - Chelsea Hotel/Leonard Cohen/Rufus Wainwright
Leonard Cohen - "Suzanne" - Google Video
This song has haunted me for years.... What is it about this song? Leonard Cohen - "Suzanne" - Google Video
In October, 2002 I quit my job as a counselor on a locked psychiatric unit in Springfield, Massachusetts. I had worked there for eleven years. Donna, who had been teaching high school Spanish since the 1980s, gave notice. Our plan was to sell our house in Connecticut and move into the Rhode Island vacation home we’d had built in 1986.
We followed through with that plan, and have been, as I write this “ semi-retired “ for four years. I tell people I’m semi-retired and they look at me like I was speaking in tongues, or in Latin. They look at me like they’re thinking: “ Semi-retired? Is that like being kind of pregnant?
It is and it isn’t. Pregnant with possibilities? Yes, that’s what semi-retirement is. Guaranteed to deliver? No guarantees.
Life is like baseball. And for most of us, it’s minor league baseball. Sure, some of us have had, at one time or another, a shot at the majors, The Big Dance. The Show. That’s what ballplayers call it. If you’re an accountant, it’s called something else. If you’re a dentist, something else. A comic? The Tonight Show or Letterman. That’s The Big Dance. That’s what you aim for.
Among the three careers I had before semi-retiring was advertising. I was a copywriter, a job writers like Don DeLillo, Joseph Heller, Fay Weldon, Salmon Rushdie and even Carl Sandburg had before they made it big. I won some awards as a copywriter.
One year I won the Gold Award, for the best radio spot produced in the state of Connecticut. I was surprised when they announced my name at the show, the show being The Annual Greater Hartford Advertising Club Awards. I wasn’t expecting to win. I didn’t think what I’d written, directed and helped produce was very good. But some guy from New York City did. He was one of the judges. The big wig among them. He worked for an ad agency in the biggest show of them all, the Big Apple. The Madison Avenue guy loved the spot and shined the spotlight on me. For a minute or two.
Among the responsibilities I had at the Hartford agency for which I was a copywriter was running the internship program. It was my job to get prep school and college students to work, for nothing, for three months, at our place on Allyn Street in what is known as The Insurance City. In the spring of 1985 we had an intern, her name was Elizabeth. She was a student at Miss Porter’s School in nearby Farmington. I liked Elizabeth. She was only 17, but she had a quiet confidence and she was determined to be a writer. Elizabeth liked me, too. And she seemed to have some respect for me, more respect than I had for myself.
Elizabeth said to me, and I’ll never forget this.
“ You’re going to be on the cover of Time magazine some day. “
Years later Donna and I moved to the smallest state in the union, Rhode Island. Rhode Island, which is famous for, among other things, its minor league baseball team, The Pawtucket Red Sox.
The Pawtucket Red Sox played in the longest game in professional baseball history. The game began on April 18, 1981 and went 33 innings. The first 32 innings ended at 4:07 a.m. on April 19. The game resumed two months later when the opposing team, The Rochester Red Wings, returned to Pawtucket’s McCoy Stadium for another series. The Pawsox won the33 inning game by a score of 3-2.
Among the Rochester players who took part in that game was a young Cal Ripkin Jr. Ripkin went on to play for the Baltimore Orioles, where he set the record for most consecutive games played by a major league player. He was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in 2007.
Pawtucket, that minor league town in the smallest state in the union is a 45 minutes drive north from where Donna, our dog Gracie and I have been living since we “ semi-retired. “ Donna’s been to a few games at McCoy. I’ve never been.
Here I am, as I write this, somewhere south of Pawtucket. I just turned 60. The game I’ve been playing is now in late innings.
Baseball is boring to some. All that standing around. Not much happens until it does. But those late innings.
I think I was eight when my father drove me to Boston. Took me to my first Red Sox game. This was in the mid 1950s, when Ted Williams was still playing for The Hose. The Sox were behind in the 7th. My father wanted to get the hell out of Boston, before the Fenway crowd hit the streets. Wanted to hit the road before they all hit the road. So we left the park.
As we were walking towards Copley Square, we heard a loud noise, a great roar. It was the sound of 30,000 fans screaming, laughing, clapping and stomping their feet.
We heard on the radio, in the car on the turnpike on our way back to western Massachusetts, that Ted Williams had hit a homerun. Won the game in late innings.
I will never forget that sound. It will stay with me forever.
We followed through with that plan, and have been, as I write this “ semi-retired “ for four years. I tell people I’m semi-retired and they look at me like I was speaking in tongues, or in Latin. They look at me like they’re thinking: “ Semi-retired? Is that like being kind of pregnant?
It is and it isn’t. Pregnant with possibilities? Yes, that’s what semi-retirement is. Guaranteed to deliver? No guarantees.
Life is like baseball. And for most of us, it’s minor league baseball. Sure, some of us have had, at one time or another, a shot at the majors, The Big Dance. The Show. That’s what ballplayers call it. If you’re an accountant, it’s called something else. If you’re a dentist, something else. A comic? The Tonight Show or Letterman. That’s The Big Dance. That’s what you aim for.
Among the three careers I had before semi-retiring was advertising. I was a copywriter, a job writers like Don DeLillo, Joseph Heller, Fay Weldon, Salmon Rushdie and even Carl Sandburg had before they made it big. I won some awards as a copywriter.
One year I won the Gold Award, for the best radio spot produced in the state of Connecticut. I was surprised when they announced my name at the show, the show being The Annual Greater Hartford Advertising Club Awards. I wasn’t expecting to win. I didn’t think what I’d written, directed and helped produce was very good. But some guy from New York City did. He was one of the judges. The big wig among them. He worked for an ad agency in the biggest show of them all, the Big Apple. The Madison Avenue guy loved the spot and shined the spotlight on me. For a minute or two.
Among the responsibilities I had at the Hartford agency for which I was a copywriter was running the internship program. It was my job to get prep school and college students to work, for nothing, for three months, at our place on Allyn Street in what is known as The Insurance City. In the spring of 1985 we had an intern, her name was Elizabeth. She was a student at Miss Porter’s School in nearby Farmington. I liked Elizabeth. She was only 17, but she had a quiet confidence and she was determined to be a writer. Elizabeth liked me, too. And she seemed to have some respect for me, more respect than I had for myself.
Elizabeth said to me, and I’ll never forget this.
“ You’re going to be on the cover of Time magazine some day. “
Years later Donna and I moved to the smallest state in the union, Rhode Island. Rhode Island, which is famous for, among other things, its minor league baseball team, The Pawtucket Red Sox.
The Pawtucket Red Sox played in the longest game in professional baseball history. The game began on April 18, 1981 and went 33 innings. The first 32 innings ended at 4:07 a.m. on April 19. The game resumed two months later when the opposing team, The Rochester Red Wings, returned to Pawtucket’s McCoy Stadium for another series. The Pawsox won the33 inning game by a score of 3-2.
Among the Rochester players who took part in that game was a young Cal Ripkin Jr. Ripkin went on to play for the Baltimore Orioles, where he set the record for most consecutive games played by a major league player. He was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in 2007.
Pawtucket, that minor league town in the smallest state in the union is a 45 minutes drive north from where Donna, our dog Gracie and I have been living since we “ semi-retired. “ Donna’s been to a few games at McCoy. I’ve never been.
Here I am, as I write this, somewhere south of Pawtucket. I just turned 60. The game I’ve been playing is now in late innings.
Baseball is boring to some. All that standing around. Not much happens until it does. But those late innings.
I think I was eight when my father drove me to Boston. Took me to my first Red Sox game. This was in the mid 1950s, when Ted Williams was still playing for The Hose. The Sox were behind in the 7th. My father wanted to get the hell out of Boston, before the Fenway crowd hit the streets. Wanted to hit the road before they all hit the road. So we left the park.
As we were walking towards Copley Square, we heard a loud noise, a great roar. It was the sound of 30,000 fans screaming, laughing, clapping and stomping their feet.
We heard on the radio, in the car on the turnpike on our way back to western Massachusetts, that Ted Williams had hit a homerun. Won the game in late innings.
I will never forget that sound. It will stay with me forever.
Friday, April 13, 2007
Jackie Robinson broke into major league baseball sixty years ago Sunday. Yeah, the Rutgers womens basketball team is now doing windsprints in a gymnasium in hell. They're a classy bunch. But Jackie Robinson. What he was called and what he went through. Alone. Well, almost alone. There was Branch Rickey. But you know what I mean.
The word " Hero " is tossed around like a frisbee these days. The term has been devalued. The inflation of vocabulary has taken its toll. " Heroes " now are as common as pigeon shit splattered on statues.
Jackie Robinson. He was a hero. Remember that name. Look up that word. And you might also wish to read the works of one Joseph Campbell, who wrote The Hero With A Thousand Faces. Campbell wrote: " Go with your feelings. trust your feelings...When Ben Kenobi ( Of Star Wars ) says, ' May the Force be with you,' he's speaking of the power and energy of life, not of programed political intentions... The world is full of people who have stopped listening to themselves or have listened only to their neighbors to learn what they ought to do, how they ought to behave, and what the values are that they should be living for. "
On Sunday it will have been sixty years since that true hero emerged. Where have you gone Jackie Robinson? Coo Ka choo. Coo Ka choo...
The word " Hero " is tossed around like a frisbee these days. The term has been devalued. The inflation of vocabulary has taken its toll. " Heroes " now are as common as pigeon shit splattered on statues.
Jackie Robinson. He was a hero. Remember that name. Look up that word. And you might also wish to read the works of one Joseph Campbell, who wrote The Hero With A Thousand Faces. Campbell wrote: " Go with your feelings. trust your feelings...When Ben Kenobi ( Of Star Wars ) says, ' May the Force be with you,' he's speaking of the power and energy of life, not of programed political intentions... The world is full of people who have stopped listening to themselves or have listened only to their neighbors to learn what they ought to do, how they ought to behave, and what the values are that they should be living for. "
On Sunday it will have been sixty years since that true hero emerged. Where have you gone Jackie Robinson? Coo Ka choo. Coo Ka choo...
" There was only one catch and that was Catch-22. Orr would be crazy to fly more missions and sane if he didn't, but if he was sane he had to fly them. If he flew them he was crazy and didn't have to; but if he didn't want to he was sane and had to. " Joseph Heller
Troops in Iraq learned this week that their tours have been extended by three months. That's some catch that Catch 22. In Heller's novel, the top brass kept increasing the number of missions bomber pilots needed to rotate back home. They'd keep reaching the number needed, then the number was upped.
Same as it ever was. Same as it ever was...
Troops in Iraq learned this week that their tours have been extended by three months. That's some catch that Catch 22. In Heller's novel, the top brass kept increasing the number of missions bomber pilots needed to rotate back home. They'd keep reaching the number needed, then the number was upped.
Same as it ever was. Same as it ever was...
Packing for the Ineffable - New York Times
The following essay appeared on the New York Times op-ed page yesterday. It was written by a woman who serves on the board of which Jane C., a frequent commenter, is the president. It packs a hell of a punch. Packing for the Ineffable - New York Times
People were trying very hard to get a horse stuck in the mud out of the mud yesterday. You may have seen the video of this rescue attempt; it was all over the cable news. Well, as it turns out, the horse was being ridden by a man by the name of Ernest K. Pondscombe. Mr. Ponscombe is a freelance reporter who was on his way to cover the meeting last evening between Don Imus and the Rutgers University womens basketball team, formerly known as the Scarlet Knights. They will now be known as the Scarlet Letters. That letter being " H."
Thanks to Bernard McGuirk and Don Imus.
Actually I'm kidding about the horse. But the way this story is developing, and how quickly, I wouldn't be surprised if the horse that got stuck in the mud was, in fact, connected in some way to the Imus/Rutgers story. Stranger things have happened. Take the governor of New Jersey angle for instance.
Governor John Corzine was critically injured in an SUV crash last evening, on HIS way to the meeting. Corzine remains in critical condition in a New Jersey hospital. As Imus was fond of saying, " You can't make this stuff up. "
Unless you're Tom Wolfe. Who wrote a novel titled Bonfire of the Vanities, which this Imus story is reminding some folks, including yours truly, of.
Don Imus was not available for comment following the meeting in New Jersey. And he was not on the air this morning, the last morning for Imus in the Morning. CBS, following MSNBC's lead last evening cancelled the show, effective Monday.
Sitting in for Imus this morning was Ianother Imus. Diedre Imus, wife of Don, mother of Wyatt, author of the recently published book Green This. Diedre Imus had been scheduled to begin a book tour to promote the new book, but cancelled those plans in the wake of the controversy swirling around her husband.
The book is based on her crusade to encourage people to clean up their act. To " Green " up their act by using cleaning products that aren't toxic.
Pretty ironic, huh? Diedre having to put the brakes on her book tour on which she'd be selling the idea of cleaning up our acts?
I'm thinking about that horse again. There in the mud. Dirty as hell. Stuck. Like the media has been stuck on this story for days.
Thanks to Bernard McGuirk and Don Imus.
Actually I'm kidding about the horse. But the way this story is developing, and how quickly, I wouldn't be surprised if the horse that got stuck in the mud was, in fact, connected in some way to the Imus/Rutgers story. Stranger things have happened. Take the governor of New Jersey angle for instance.
Governor John Corzine was critically injured in an SUV crash last evening, on HIS way to the meeting. Corzine remains in critical condition in a New Jersey hospital. As Imus was fond of saying, " You can't make this stuff up. "
Unless you're Tom Wolfe. Who wrote a novel titled Bonfire of the Vanities, which this Imus story is reminding some folks, including yours truly, of.
Don Imus was not available for comment following the meeting in New Jersey. And he was not on the air this morning, the last morning for Imus in the Morning. CBS, following MSNBC's lead last evening cancelled the show, effective Monday.
Sitting in for Imus this morning was Ianother Imus. Diedre Imus, wife of Don, mother of Wyatt, author of the recently published book Green This. Diedre Imus had been scheduled to begin a book tour to promote the new book, but cancelled those plans in the wake of the controversy swirling around her husband.
The book is based on her crusade to encourage people to clean up their act. To " Green " up their act by using cleaning products that aren't toxic.
Pretty ironic, huh? Diedre having to put the brakes on her book tour on which she'd be selling the idea of cleaning up our acts?
I'm thinking about that horse again. There in the mud. Dirty as hell. Stuck. Like the media has been stuck on this story for days.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
The Age of U-Turns | TIME
A regular commentista remarked recently of the changing of my mind. The gentleman from Jacksonville and I share something in common. We have both worked with the mentally ill on locked psychiatric units. At one time we worked together. He is the best I have ever seen doing that job. I'd follow him into any room, down any hallway, in which violence loomed. He knew what to say and what not to say. He knew what tone of voice was right.
On the unit where we worked together once, I offered a patient what we called a " conditional voluntary " paper to sign. His signature would indicate that he agreed with us staff: That he was crazy enough to be hospitalized, kept behind thick doors that were locked. It was my job to offer him this paper to sign. That did not mean I agreed he was crazy. I thought he was troubled. I thought he was overwhelmed. I thought his history made it easy for others to determine that his recent behavior fit into a pattern. I wasn't so sure. But again, it was my job to give him the chance to " sign in. "
He chose not to. I said, " OK. But if you change your mind, you know where to find me. "
And he said:
" I'm not going to change my mind; I like the one I have. "
I'll never forget that....
The Age of U-Turns TIME
On the unit where we worked together once, I offered a patient what we called a " conditional voluntary " paper to sign. His signature would indicate that he agreed with us staff: That he was crazy enough to be hospitalized, kept behind thick doors that were locked. It was my job to offer him this paper to sign. That did not mean I agreed he was crazy. I thought he was troubled. I thought he was overwhelmed. I thought his history made it easy for others to determine that his recent behavior fit into a pattern. I wasn't so sure. But again, it was my job to give him the chance to " sign in. "
He chose not to. I said, " OK. But if you change your mind, you know where to find me. "
And he said:
" I'm not going to change my mind; I like the one I have. "
I'll never forget that....
The Age of U-Turns TIME
RAF Museum Aircraft Collection Postcard
Just got this postcard from my friend, Fred, with whom I was stationed at an RAF ( Royal Air Force ) base in England in the early 1970s.... Pretty cool! RAF Museum Aircraft Collection Postcard
www.kansascity.com | 04/11/2007 | Imus isn’t the real bad guy
The Imus story is still developing, and I'm still in the process of getting my mind around it. Click on this if you want to read what I think is a unique perspective. Whitlock, who is black, frames it in a way I haven't heard yet. His points are well taken to say the least. http://www.kansascity.com/182/story/66339.html
And now, the news.
Stories we are covering at this hour include:
North Korea launches nuclear missile attack on South Korea. Tens of thousands reportedly killed.
A tsunami in the south Pacific has destroyed Guam and threatens to wipe out all of Orange County, California.
The Reverand Billy Graham has died in a bizarre gardening accident in Jacksonville, Florida.
The news of Kurt Vonnegut's death appears to have been inaccurate. Vonnegut was reportedly seen eating lunch today in a Manhattan reastaurant.
And the Empire State Building has just been struck by what appears to be a Delta Airlines 747...
But first, the latest concerning MSNBC's firing of Don Imus....
Stories we are covering at this hour include:
North Korea launches nuclear missile attack on South Korea. Tens of thousands reportedly killed.
A tsunami in the south Pacific has destroyed Guam and threatens to wipe out all of Orange County, California.
The Reverand Billy Graham has died in a bizarre gardening accident in Jacksonville, Florida.
The news of Kurt Vonnegut's death appears to have been inaccurate. Vonnegut was reportedly seen eating lunch today in a Manhattan reastaurant.
And the Empire State Building has just been struck by what appears to be a Delta Airlines 747...
But first, the latest concerning MSNBC's firing of Don Imus....
YouTube - Kurt Vonnegut
Kurt Vonnegut died yesterday. He was 84 years old... You may or not be familiar with Kurt Vonnegut. If you are my age or thereabouts, and if you're a reader, you know him well. For those of you who fall into that category, the following will refamiliarize you with him. For those who do not know Kurt Vonnegut - I give you: Kurt Vonnegut....YouTube - Kurt Vonnegut
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
The famous St.Louis Cardinal broadcaster died in 1998, a year before Ichiro made his appearance on the Major League Baseball stage. Ichiro was the first Japanese superstar. Other suns have risen to the occasion. Including this seasons Fee-Nom Dice-K.
What was that late broadcaster's name? Harry Caray.
Oh to have Harry Caray back, just for one night. Tonight, when Dice-K met Ichiro for the very first time.
Dice-K! Ichiro! Harry Caray!!
Bonsai!
What was that late broadcaster's name? Harry Caray.
Oh to have Harry Caray back, just for one night. Tonight, when Dice-K met Ichiro for the very first time.
Dice-K! Ichiro! Harry Caray!!
Bonsai!
As I write this the Red Sox Matsusaka has been pulled in the 7th. His debut not exactly going as hoped or planned. If the game continues on this track, the headline in tomorrow's Boston Herald should be:
DICE K-Oed
Because he was knocked out after giving up 8 hits and 3 runs. And the opposing pitcher?
Hernandez is tossing a no hitter.
How do you say Oy Vey! in Japanese?
Make note. I write this at 9:10 pm. The game is not over. If the Herald uses that headline, they stole it.
DICE K-Oed
Because he was knocked out after giving up 8 hits and 3 runs. And the opposing pitcher?
Hernandez is tossing a no hitter.
How do you say Oy Vey! in Japanese?
Make note. I write this at 9:10 pm. The game is not over. If the Herald uses that headline, they stole it.
I listened to Imus this morning. Choosing not to listen at this point is choosing not to take part in the conversation. I know I wrote earlier that I wouldn't be listening. After giving it some thought and having listened to other opinions, I changed my mind.
This is one more reason why I don't like the two week suspension idea. Callers in to the show this morning included Paul Bigala and Mike Barnicle, both of whom were tough on Imus. But they were fair and shed some light. If the show were on for the next two weeks ( The suspension begins Monday ) regular guests like Frank Rich, Jeff Greenfield, Doris Kearns Goodwin, Anna Quindlen and others could continue the conversation.
Imus was called a " serial apologizer " by one commentator this week. She was referring to his past transgressions, for which he said he was sorry, and would change.
I'm cutting the I Man more slack than I did. I'm hoping we'll all learn something from this, then move on.
This is one more reason why I don't like the two week suspension idea. Callers in to the show this morning included Paul Bigala and Mike Barnicle, both of whom were tough on Imus. But they were fair and shed some light. If the show were on for the next two weeks ( The suspension begins Monday ) regular guests like Frank Rich, Jeff Greenfield, Doris Kearns Goodwin, Anna Quindlen and others could continue the conversation.
Imus was called a " serial apologizer " by one commentator this week. She was referring to his past transgressions, for which he said he was sorry, and would change.
I'm cutting the I Man more slack than I did. I'm hoping we'll all learn something from this, then move on.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Remember that George Goble line? “ Did you ever think the whole world was a tuxedo and you were a pair of brown shoes? “ That’s what I thought when I met my wife’s family for the first time.
Donna’s family was big. Mine wasn’t. Donna’s family was Jewish. Mine wasn’t. I am an only child; Donna’s one of four siblings. I can count with the fingers on one of my hands how many first cousins I have. Donna? She has enough first cousins to field a football team. Both the offensive and defensive platoons.
We celebrated Passover on Saturday. The seder was held at Donna’s brother Alan’s house in western Massachusetts. We walked into the house and the first person I made contact with was Mike, Alan’s daughter’s boyfriend. He’s like me. Majored in English, he’s not Jewish. And he’s shy.
I was very shy when I first met Donna. I remembered dreading my first seder.
“ I’ll have to read something aloud? “ I asked Donna
“ Yes, “ she said. “ My father will be the leader and you’ll be one of the participants. You’ll be reading a short passage. Nothing to it. “
“ Easy for you to say, “ I said.
“ You can do it, “ Donna said.
I went to my first seder. It was 1974. Donna was right. I could do it. But I wondered, when Donna’s father read: “ Why is this night different from other nights? “ I wondered if someone would point to me and say:
“ For one thing there’s this Irish guy here… “
But that didn’t happen. Nothing bad happened. I read my part. My voice didn’t shake. I wasn’t embarrassed. The shy guy passed the audition.
Passover 2007. I greeted Mike, who I had not seen since Lisa received her Masters last year from Brown University. “ Hi Mike, “ I said. “ Happy Easter. “
Then I thought: No, no. Wrong thing to say. Faux paux. It’s Passover for Christ’s sake. I took a step back. Then said to Mike:
“ Happy Hannukah. “
I felt like an idiot. Then again, who hasn’t in situations like this. You haven’t? You who live in this tuxedo world? You need to walk a mile in my shoes, which are sometimes brown.
Mike’s not one of the cousins. But he’s part of the family. A recent addition. Lisa and he have been together for about two years. I’m still trying to get to know him and vice versa.
That band of cousins I mentioned. I connect with them every now and then. At seders, weddings. Bar and bat Mitzvahs. And funerals.
Donna’s Uncle Mitch died a few days before the seder. He’d been sick for years. Parkinson’s Disease. I didn’t know Mitch well. He lived out his last years in Florida. But back when Donna and I were newlyweds, back in the 70s, we’d run into him at weddings and bar and bat mitzvahs. It was at someone’s wedding that Mitch and I had a run-in. I’d walked up to the bar and ordered a drink. Mitch was up there. I was waiting for the barkeep to bring me my beer.
When Donna’s Uncle Mitch looked over at me, he said, “ Why doncha smile? This is a wedding. A happy occasion. Smile why doncha? “
I’d always been self conscious about my glum look. I wasn’t, and never have been a smiler, no hail fellow well met type am I. I could be having the very best of times, but judging from the look on my face you’d swear: This guy’s thinking about killing himself. Or someone else.
When I quit my job in 2002 as a counselor and human rights officer on a psychiatric unit in Massachusetts, a party was thrown for me. Among those who came to the party were the unit’ s medical director, program director and nursing supervisor. They gave me a card and wrote things down. Nurses, social workers and other counselors wrote things down on the card. The common thread that ran through the comments was my “sense of humor. “ How I’d made people laugh, staff and patients alike. I looked for the humor, and found it in stressful situations. That was the feedback I got as I left that job.
They knew I didn’t smile much. But they saw beyond the look on my face.
I pull out that card every now and then and reread those comments. Wow, I think. How in the world did a guy who majored in English, who was a reporter, then an advertising creative director, fit into THAT world?
How did I become a member, in good standing , of that kind of large family?
Where was I?
Sitting in the second row. Next to Donna, who was sitting next to her mother, who was sitting next to Estelle, one of the cousins. I was listening to Julie, Mitch’s eldest daughter, talk about her father’s last days. And she talked about how when she and her five siblings lived together on Brown Avenue in the Paper City, Holyoke. How her Aunt Bess and Uncle Doc lived upstairs with their three kids.
Mitch, Rae, Bess, Doc and the cousins. Julie, Estelle, Myra, Lonny, Steven, Jack, Philip Bonnie and Mark. A house thick with cousins.
The cousin I’ve connected most easily with, over the years, is Jack. Who knows why? I’m a shy guy. Maybe it was Jack who made me feel most comfortable when Donna and I went to the weddings, the bar and bat mitzvahs. And the funerals. Jack was an air traffic controller in Washington DC. He’s retired now. Retired young from a stressful job.
I think about this. I think about what it must have been like for Jack to have been in that house on Brown Avenue. All those cousins, and four full grown adults. Living in one house. Sharing the same space. Was it Jack’s role to keep them apart when they started getting too close? Was it Jack’s job to make sure they didn’t bump into each other? Collide on the stairs and in the halls.
Jack. I shook his hand the other day at the funeral. The funeral at which his father, Mitch, was the focus. But as I shook hands with Mitch’s next to youngest son, I thought: What you did for a living, and are being paid a pension for now. Air Traffic Controller. You went to school for that didn’t you? On Brown Avenue in Holyoke.
And, I thought, Jack's role was not unlike mine on the unit. I was the human rights officer whose reponsibilities included preventing collisions. Human collisions. And repairing the damage when colliding could not be avoided.
The funeral started right on time. 11 a.m. The rabbi spoke first. Alan’s his name, but for years we’ve called him “ Rocky the Rabbi. “ I’m not sure who started calling him that. Maybe Donna’s father, Danny. Me? I’ve never called him that to his face. I’m not even sure he knows that’s what some folks in the family call him.
Rocky’s married to Julie, Jack’s sister. Julie got up there and spoke, for thirty minutes about Mitch.
Julie was just about to wrap up her speech. Said her father, near the end of his life, liked to listen to music. She didn’t say what kind of music and I wished that she had. Maybe it was music that I liked. Sinatra maybe. Or Benny Goodman. Or Tommy Dorsey. Maybe Mitch and I had something in common. Then Julie said that her father, right near the very end, looked up at her from his death bed. She was weeping, and he said to her in a weak voice:
“Smile. “
I thought back to that wedding back in the 70s. When Mitch got on me for frowning at a festive occasion. I sat there, listening to Julie talk about her late father. She wept.
I smiled.
Donna’s family was big. Mine wasn’t. Donna’s family was Jewish. Mine wasn’t. I am an only child; Donna’s one of four siblings. I can count with the fingers on one of my hands how many first cousins I have. Donna? She has enough first cousins to field a football team. Both the offensive and defensive platoons.
We celebrated Passover on Saturday. The seder was held at Donna’s brother Alan’s house in western Massachusetts. We walked into the house and the first person I made contact with was Mike, Alan’s daughter’s boyfriend. He’s like me. Majored in English, he’s not Jewish. And he’s shy.
I was very shy when I first met Donna. I remembered dreading my first seder.
“ I’ll have to read something aloud? “ I asked Donna
“ Yes, “ she said. “ My father will be the leader and you’ll be one of the participants. You’ll be reading a short passage. Nothing to it. “
“ Easy for you to say, “ I said.
“ You can do it, “ Donna said.
I went to my first seder. It was 1974. Donna was right. I could do it. But I wondered, when Donna’s father read: “ Why is this night different from other nights? “ I wondered if someone would point to me and say:
“ For one thing there’s this Irish guy here… “
But that didn’t happen. Nothing bad happened. I read my part. My voice didn’t shake. I wasn’t embarrassed. The shy guy passed the audition.
Passover 2007. I greeted Mike, who I had not seen since Lisa received her Masters last year from Brown University. “ Hi Mike, “ I said. “ Happy Easter. “
Then I thought: No, no. Wrong thing to say. Faux paux. It’s Passover for Christ’s sake. I took a step back. Then said to Mike:
“ Happy Hannukah. “
I felt like an idiot. Then again, who hasn’t in situations like this. You haven’t? You who live in this tuxedo world? You need to walk a mile in my shoes, which are sometimes brown.
Mike’s not one of the cousins. But he’s part of the family. A recent addition. Lisa and he have been together for about two years. I’m still trying to get to know him and vice versa.
That band of cousins I mentioned. I connect with them every now and then. At seders, weddings. Bar and bat Mitzvahs. And funerals.
Donna’s Uncle Mitch died a few days before the seder. He’d been sick for years. Parkinson’s Disease. I didn’t know Mitch well. He lived out his last years in Florida. But back when Donna and I were newlyweds, back in the 70s, we’d run into him at weddings and bar and bat mitzvahs. It was at someone’s wedding that Mitch and I had a run-in. I’d walked up to the bar and ordered a drink. Mitch was up there. I was waiting for the barkeep to bring me my beer.
When Donna’s Uncle Mitch looked over at me, he said, “ Why doncha smile? This is a wedding. A happy occasion. Smile why doncha? “
I’d always been self conscious about my glum look. I wasn’t, and never have been a smiler, no hail fellow well met type am I. I could be having the very best of times, but judging from the look on my face you’d swear: This guy’s thinking about killing himself. Or someone else.
When I quit my job in 2002 as a counselor and human rights officer on a psychiatric unit in Massachusetts, a party was thrown for me. Among those who came to the party were the unit’ s medical director, program director and nursing supervisor. They gave me a card and wrote things down. Nurses, social workers and other counselors wrote things down on the card. The common thread that ran through the comments was my “sense of humor. “ How I’d made people laugh, staff and patients alike. I looked for the humor, and found it in stressful situations. That was the feedback I got as I left that job.
They knew I didn’t smile much. But they saw beyond the look on my face.
I pull out that card every now and then and reread those comments. Wow, I think. How in the world did a guy who majored in English, who was a reporter, then an advertising creative director, fit into THAT world?
How did I become a member, in good standing , of that kind of large family?
Where was I?
Sitting in the second row. Next to Donna, who was sitting next to her mother, who was sitting next to Estelle, one of the cousins. I was listening to Julie, Mitch’s eldest daughter, talk about her father’s last days. And she talked about how when she and her five siblings lived together on Brown Avenue in the Paper City, Holyoke. How her Aunt Bess and Uncle Doc lived upstairs with their three kids.
Mitch, Rae, Bess, Doc and the cousins. Julie, Estelle, Myra, Lonny, Steven, Jack, Philip Bonnie and Mark. A house thick with cousins.
The cousin I’ve connected most easily with, over the years, is Jack. Who knows why? I’m a shy guy. Maybe it was Jack who made me feel most comfortable when Donna and I went to the weddings, the bar and bat mitzvahs. And the funerals. Jack was an air traffic controller in Washington DC. He’s retired now. Retired young from a stressful job.
I think about this. I think about what it must have been like for Jack to have been in that house on Brown Avenue. All those cousins, and four full grown adults. Living in one house. Sharing the same space. Was it Jack’s role to keep them apart when they started getting too close? Was it Jack’s job to make sure they didn’t bump into each other? Collide on the stairs and in the halls.
Jack. I shook his hand the other day at the funeral. The funeral at which his father, Mitch, was the focus. But as I shook hands with Mitch’s next to youngest son, I thought: What you did for a living, and are being paid a pension for now. Air Traffic Controller. You went to school for that didn’t you? On Brown Avenue in Holyoke.
And, I thought, Jack's role was not unlike mine on the unit. I was the human rights officer whose reponsibilities included preventing collisions. Human collisions. And repairing the damage when colliding could not be avoided.
The funeral started right on time. 11 a.m. The rabbi spoke first. Alan’s his name, but for years we’ve called him “ Rocky the Rabbi. “ I’m not sure who started calling him that. Maybe Donna’s father, Danny. Me? I’ve never called him that to his face. I’m not even sure he knows that’s what some folks in the family call him.
Rocky’s married to Julie, Jack’s sister. Julie got up there and spoke, for thirty minutes about Mitch.
Julie was just about to wrap up her speech. Said her father, near the end of his life, liked to listen to music. She didn’t say what kind of music and I wished that she had. Maybe it was music that I liked. Sinatra maybe. Or Benny Goodman. Or Tommy Dorsey. Maybe Mitch and I had something in common. Then Julie said that her father, right near the very end, looked up at her from his death bed. She was weeping, and he said to her in a weak voice:
“Smile. “
I thought back to that wedding back in the 70s. When Mitch got on me for frowning at a festive occasion. I sat there, listening to Julie talk about her late father. She wept.
I smiled.
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