Dasani

It is the suffocating nature of the poverty, its relentlessness, the damage it causes to everyone in its path, that is so overwhelming. It has to be much more than coincidence that homeless and hopeless share all but one letter.

Dasani's world is startling. The privacy we take for granted in our lives is nowhere evident for this young girl. It is a life of survival where the most that can be said at the end of each day is that she is still there. It is no way for anyone to have to exist.

 
How can we not, viewing the reality of what our decisions engender, watch with dismay the reductions in the SNAP program and in unemployment assistance, the diminished resources for the educational system, and the understanding that the possibilities for the underclass, if not a better tomorrow, at least a fairer one are almost non-existent?

No one, not Dasani or any of the thousands like her in New York, and the millions throughout this nation, deserve to be treated by society with such disrespect. Her story ends today with a tiny miracle, a new apartment and a momentary reprieve from the worst of the nightmare. But we are left with the undeniable suspicion that her future holds not the promise of a little girl rising above her surroundings through her strength of body and mind, but of despair where her environment eventually wins and Dasani becomes yet one more victim of  impossible circumstances.

The Great Grey Bridge and the Governor

("The New Jersey Traffic Conspiracy")

It is too early to give it a name like "bridge over troubled water-gate". However, it may be much more than something that Governor Christie can continue to treat in his trademark cavalier and dismissive fashion.

Would ordering the Fort Lee lane closures as retribution seem an act our governor would consider?  If one answers "yes" to that question, does this not go to the heart of the nature of the man and create serious and troubling implications of its own accord?

The early returns on the investigation make clear that there was no traffic study being undertaken at the George Washington Bridge. The trail already leads dangerously close to the governor's office.

The career of the Republican front runner for 2016 may not be de-railed or even tarnished by this incident if and when all the facts are brought to light. But until that occurs, and until the Governor demonstrates that he will give this incident the seriousness and transparency it mandates, suspicions will remain.

$leeping in $eattle

In his version of "show me the money" Robinson Cano and his suitcase laden with gold head 2800 hundred miles west.

This is a new universe for the Yankees. When was the last time they let their best player leave for greener pasture$? The closest call was the near fiasco of allowing Bernie Williams (then at the peak of his considerable skills) to roam center field for the hated Red Sox.

The specter of  the A-Rod fiasco and the luxury tax were not the only determinants here.

For all his wondrous talents, Robby never seemed the perfect fit in NY. He had his best buddy, Melky, cast aside in part because the C and C boys were apparently too distracted playing together off the field to play their best on it. He made the game appear too easy too often as if the lack of dirt and grass stains on his uniform was an indication that he just didn't care enough. He was never fully appreciated by either team or fans.

And thus the sense of loss is muted. Yankee history was waiting along with $175 million but it could not equal the extra money that the Mariners  served up to Cano like an All-Star game home run derby offering from his father.

For the evil empire, being fiscally prudent is a new part of their lexicon, and if this means exchanging their super-nova for some slightly less glowing stars, then this is the price they (did not) have to pay.

It is a strange sensation for those of us who have lived a lifetime of watching the best players on other teams suddenly call themselves Yankees. From the days of treating Kansas City as a farm team and looting them of the likes of Maris, to the era of free agency and the signing of Catfish and Reggie all the way to A-Rod, the Bronx Bombers were also fitting some other team's best in their finest pinstripes.

Will this mark the beginning of the end? Is the team with the interlocking NY no longer too big to fail? If money can't buy us love, or at least championships, then what is left?

Drone On

("Mommy, The Drone's Here")

Why has the story of the delivery drone created such tremendous interest? I believe it is due to the multiple responses this small piece of 21st century sci-fi equipment elicits.

On foreign shores, the drone has taken on an outsized role in war zones which makes us fully aware of its ability to do harm. The sense of it an an instrument of destruction attaches to any of its potential applications.

Domestically, we live with the reality that we are being thoroughly examined and analyzed every day. This feeling is amplified by the thought of unmanned objects whizzing overhead.

Finally, there is an ample body of evidence demonstrating we are never satisfied with the response to our needs, as overnight has morphed into same day and eventually to the time it takes for instant coffee to be readied. Amazon.com and its fulfillment centers has already conditioned us to the expectations of immediate gratification.

The image that flashed on our screen as Mr. Bezos showed the future to Mr. Rose was not itself so astounding. But, on a range of levels, the package that landed on the front doorstep had meaning that leaves us intrigued. possibly somewhat repulsed and more than a little terrified.

And finally, one last burning concern. Is it necessary to tip a drone?

The Problem with Hanukkah

Hanukkah can't catch a break.  It is the undersized sibling, dwarfed each year by the monster that devoured everything in its path. Christmas is the brightest star in the constellation and trying to compete with it is like sending me to play a game of one on one with Kevin Durant.

So, Hanukkah must have considered it a stroke of genius this year when it decided to give Christmas not only its own space, but basically its own month. Sure it would stumble into December on the back end, but for all intents and purposes it would move to November to allow the big guy undisputed top billing.

And who would think that it would then run head first into another obstacle. Thanksgiving, thanks for nothing. You have clearly taken all the air out of the Hanukkah balloon. Where is the Macy's day parade latke? The feathers on the turkey actually look like a menorah in the right light, and the real thing remains stuck in the corner, waiting for sundown to come out of the shadows.

Hanukkah has to think deeply where it belongs, has to find the right time of year when it is not crowded out, pushed aside, left asunder. It has to study the calendar to make sure we are not otherwise involved when it arrives for its annual  celebration. Don't bump into Uncle Sam in July, can't collide with Lincoln and Washington in February.

Hanukkah takes over a week to percolate before it comes to full boil. Yet even there it is overwhelmed by the whole twelve night thing with Christmas.

Maybe America is just the wrong venue. Maybe Hanukkah can never be more than a character actor here. Maybe it will always be a footnote. Maybe it should reconsider this whole US thing.

Maybe it will decide to declare its free agency, to see if Scott Boras is interested in taking it on as a client.  To see if it can find itself a top shelf deal where its luminosity will radiate without interference, where its eight days of light will shine on a welcoming universe.

So today, when Hanukkah is finished eating the sweet potatoes, the stuffing, the turkey and the apple pie, when it has watched all the football games and the parades, when it is finally time to do its thing, don't be surprised if it announces to the assembled that this may well be its farewell song.

And if that happens, when we put on our coats and say our goodbyes to family and friends, we will shed a tear for the possibility that Hanukkah will soon no longer be ours to ignore. And then we will turn for solace to the next entry in the pantheon of days we hold most dear: Black Friday. For us, there is always another tradition to fill the void.

 ,

Tick-tock

"Hello, my name is Robert and I am neurotic." Or maybe it is "Hello my name is Robert and I am a neurotic." (Isn't it strange that the same word, with the same meaning, can be used as adjective or noun? Or maybe it isn't strange, it is only that it is now 3 AM).


Woody Allen recently wrote of making a trip to the emergency room, concerned with the weird red mark that had suddenly appeared on his neck. He was examined and advised by the doctor that no one dies from a hickey.  I would have sided with Woody on this one.

Some men see things as they are and wonder why, others see things that are not and wonder if they should be writing a codicil to the will.


I had been diagnosed with skin cancer, in its most benign iteration, earlier this year, The offending area was removed, I was cured and was advised to report back in six months for a checkup. When a growth appeared on my stomach about a week ago, seemingly out of thin air, I made the appointment. I had already announced my diagnosis to my wife,and merely went to the doctor for confirmation.

When the doctor took a look at the spot I pointed out to her, I could see her recoil slightly. In that moment I thought, "this is not good."

"That is a tick. How long did you say it has been there?"

 Say WHAT?

You know those terrible movies where the character feels a sudden rumbling in his stomach and in the next instant there is a serpent coming through his belly button and emerging, twenty feet long and weighing at least a thousand pounds? That is what I saw when I looked down at the monster that had taken up residence on and in me.

Why you might ask had I not paid closer attention, or removed the offending bugger when first it appeared on the scene? Don't ask.

The doctor reached for a tweezer I think. She reported to me that she hates bugs and "I always call my husband when one is around, but he's not here today." Is that what you call bedside manner?

"It's moving" she stated in a slightly animated tone. This was not for the purpose of keeping me informed, so much as an indication of disgust. "And its been very happy" she reported.

And then it was over, or at least this part of it. She held up the perpetrator for my review.  "I am giving you a prescription for a lyme titer" (maybe in another context it would have been a "lime tighter" which would be some exotic drink that gets you drunk in mere seconds). I was to wait until next week to get the test done, as lyme's disease evidently takes a while to percolate in your body before it exposes itself. And then, depending on the results (there are, of course, false negatives) I might have to repeat the test several weeks later. Only with the right finding, would I be treated.

In my mind, I could be dead before they come up with a diagnosis. What bug lives in your body for this period of time, sucking your blood like a new born baby on a mother's breast, and does not leave its residue behind? Treat me now, give me your best shot. But it is not to be.

For a neurotic, waiting is the death knell. Woody Allen would not wait. Or at least not without several trips to the emergency room.

Republican Right and Wrongs

While it may appear that senate Republicans have been much more reasonable than their brethren in the House, look closer.

Virtually all of the legislation they have passed (eg immigration reform) was clearly doomed to defeat in John Boehner's House. So the actions in the senate were, if in some measure admirable, nothing more than hypotheticals which all knew were never destined to see the light of day.

And when they did not have the cover of the House, as with judicial approvals, the Republican senators brought this part of the process to a virtual halt.

It has been a tag team match with these two bodies of Republican leaders intending to exact a terrible toll on their opponents, no matter the cost to the American people or to our system of government.

For these people to now cry foul is the ultimate in hypocrisy. They have abused and manipulated, utilizing leverage that was never intended and yet they somehow claim to be the victim.

While the procedural filibuster in one area may have been removed, I have a suggestion for those who feel so aggrieved. Make your best arguments as to why some potential appointee is not qualified to hold the position. Use your power of persuasion, not your practiced shenanigans, to try to reach the result you desire.

Become what you should be and not what you are.

The A-Rod Show

As I watched and listened to Alex Rodriguez's conversation with Mike Francesca, I was struck by the depth of his apparent indignation. His repeated denials of any wrongdoing were accompanied by expressions that conveyed hurt, anger and betrayal by a deeply tarnished system.

Was he being subjected to an updated version of George Steinbrenner and Dave Winfield, now in the form of  Bud Selig and A-Rod? Had Major League baseball paid lots of money to set up the demise of someone it wanted desperately to discard? Was Anthony Bosch nothing more than Howie Spira redux?

But that version of the tale seems patently absurd. In a parallel universe, how long did we hear and read of Lance Armstrong accusing his accusers? How often did he look this nation in the face and proclaim his absolute innocence?

Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens, and countless others spent years trying to paint themselves as victims, but in the end we all knew it was but charade. And so too, there was the distinct feeling that A-Rod's theatrics yesterday were just that, a player on a stage, acting out a role.

A-Rod's performance, before a live audience of one, who was armed with neither the evidence against him or the will to challenge him, proved little. Except maybe that A-Rod has a promising future as a thespian.

The Health Care "Plan"?

Whether practiced deception or mere political oversimplification,  the health care misstatements of the President have proven a colossal blunder. While his intention was noble, to insure protection for many millions who had been neglected and abandoned by our society, his execution has been abysmal.

What this 11th hour fix will accomplish is anyone's guess, but it appears it will neither appease the detractors nor improve the plan. Rube Goldberg couldn't have conjured up a more convoluted mess.

And what has been laid to waste is the core strength of this President: his integrity. The result is the Obama image is in jeopardy of suffering irreparable damage and his central achievement of being decimated. It has all the indicia of becoming a monumental catastrophe.

Ruby and Oswald

I was 11 in November of 1963, much more concerned about Mantle than Mao. The realities of the world barely intruded, the Cuban missile crisis merely a footnote. The somewhat annoying ritual of hiding under one's desk at school to ward off evil was but an inconvenience in my life.

But those days beginning on November 22, a half century ago, left an indelible mark. In a time when television coverage was still in its relative infancy and the notion of capturing events in real time was not a given, the live image of Lee Harvey Oswald meeting his demise while doing his version of a perp walk, was overwhelming.

Even now, 50 years removed, it is that moment, more than any other in the swirl of the hysteria surrounding the killing of our President, that remains most vivid. The rest, the image of Walter Cronkite half choking on his words of the passing of the President, of John-John giving a military salute while saying a goodbye that he little understood, and all else that came in the days after Oswald fired from that book depository, I don't know if these are seared memories from that time or teachings memorized over the succeeding decades.

I think it must be hard for today's youth to understand the distance between event and image back then. Now we have cameras on our phones and our ski helmets, and little or no separation between what is and what is broadcast. We are intimately, immediately aware of war and death, of famine and flood, of triumph and tragedy, and of almost everything big and small.

But then, the immediacy of the intersection of Ruby, Oswald and the rest of the world was unique. And for me, it was a wake up call. The television screen brought me face to face with the ugliness, the depravity, the worst that dwells within us.


And while Mantle still remained my central focus, there was after watching the events in that police precinct unfold, a difference in what I saw when I looked out at the world.