What has been a sideshow until now — boviators on parade and now the Host Wars — is serious business. Glenn Beck has two kills on his holster in the last three days. More scalps to come. And now this terrible scandal in the ACORN office in Baltimore, at which two conservatives, posing as pimp and prostitute showed up and got tax advice on how to start a prostitution ring, with under-aged girls. Can you imagine how Rush will play this?
Keith Obermann licked his lips at the thought of revenge then decided otherwise. Still, you can see how this is going to turn into American Sunni and Shia, and how this will transform old time McCarthyism to a new art form.
There are extremists on all sides but it's the Reaganissimos, above all. There's no getting around it. It's those folks still listening to the aw-shucks patter of a 20-mule team Borax commercial, to the ghost in the attic of Ronnie MacBeth watching 12 O'Clock High, imagining he and Robert Stack had flown their B-17s right off the back lot and were suddenly over Germany, and later they would be among the first to break open the concentration camps.
And now Ronnie's kids, hanging on for dear life, are having an identity crisis. 'Where's Pappi?' They want to know because they're feeling powerlessness and the scoreboard says, political defeat. Plus all the economic uncertainty and paranoia, and above all, there's a nigger who got uppity and smart and who the fuck is he to tell us what to do. Boy! And now Ronnie's runnions have tripped the wire. Now they've done it.
It's been happening for months. There's breadcrumbs going back for years, actually. "Obama is a racist." "Poison Nancy Pelosi." Just that stuff in the last 45 days. And now all these little acts of defiance — it's no longer a matter of being civil — and just now this new form of personal destruction. Not to mention, murder. John Von Unn's shooting the Holocaust museum guard is one of several incidents in which deranged minds found refuge in right wing monologues. It's all coming to a head.
And there will be more killings. And the killer, or killers, whether from the Right of the Left, will imagine themselves as martyrs. One act will lead to another. And it will spread. Less the violence than the recrimination. What seemed like small polarities will become large. Barack will be in ever greater danger, just as that woman in the Bay View told me nearly a year ago.
And how did this happen? We all know. People said, "You're A Great American". And they meant it. Otherwise, technology, mostly. The death of Walter Chonkites, the end of newspapers, the extreme nature of meritocracy in private schools, just the end of things, the lack of personal filters, the free-for-all quality of public discourse. The comfort of political camps. The delirious quality of carelessness, itself.
What's needed is a clunker program for egos.
And all the while we indulge ourselves in expression without intellectual representation.... Expression without imagining an effect. I have done it myself.
What's needed is a great sleep, laughing gas from the Le Petit Prince's asteroid, which puts everybody to sleep for 30 days. After that, lost ability to utter a sound for six months. Quiet things down. Communicate by other means.
Sep 10, 2009
Aug 27, 2009
It happened last Friday night, around ten minutes before 11. A 13-year-old girl left her home.
This was in Palo Alto, the home of the Stanford Cardinal. The Cambridge, Mass and the Cambridge, UK of California. If California has the 8th largest economy in the world, roughly speaking, Palo Alto is the cowling on the intellectual engine that drives it. It is the cradle of Internet startup civilization.
It is also the center of the known world for many kids looking not merely for higher education but the highest education. And for a moment we will put aside East Palo Alto, which is the dark side of the moon, which is the chaos next to the order.
And so this young girl leaves her home — the details are not clear still — and walks past or near her school, and then on to the tracks that hold the commuter trains that run up and down the peninsula, between San Jose and San Francisco, at 60-70 miles an hour....
Her school is Gunn High. A public school but for all intents and purposes and despite the good feeling liberal parents may derive, private.... This is one of those places where your daughter may be in 3 AP sections and be completely distraught because her friends are in 5. This is one of those schools where you get into NYU and your life is over. This is one of cookers where you are the best and the brightest by definition but if you are not the best and brightest you have failed, you have betrayed the trust, you have not climbed to the summit after all. That you may have EQ to match is no consolation. That your life will unfold like the yellow brick road in the Wizard of Oz does not matter.
So this girl goes to the tracks and when she sees the train coming she steps over the rail — is she facing toward the train or away? I don't know. Is she sitting or standing? I don't know. All I know is that she is in the darkness, alone, recklessly, courageously, confidently, feeling the leading edge of smithereens, the engineer's horn, the roaring, the wind, and then the meteorite itself.
(to be continued)
This was in Palo Alto, the home of the Stanford Cardinal. The Cambridge, Mass and the Cambridge, UK of California. If California has the 8th largest economy in the world, roughly speaking, Palo Alto is the cowling on the intellectual engine that drives it. It is the cradle of Internet startup civilization.
It is also the center of the known world for many kids looking not merely for higher education but the highest education. And for a moment we will put aside East Palo Alto, which is the dark side of the moon, which is the chaos next to the order.
And so this young girl leaves her home — the details are not clear still — and walks past or near her school, and then on to the tracks that hold the commuter trains that run up and down the peninsula, between San Jose and San Francisco, at 60-70 miles an hour....
Her school is Gunn High. A public school but for all intents and purposes and despite the good feeling liberal parents may derive, private.... This is one of those places where your daughter may be in 3 AP sections and be completely distraught because her friends are in 5. This is one of those schools where you get into NYU and your life is over. This is one of cookers where you are the best and the brightest by definition but if you are not the best and brightest you have failed, you have betrayed the trust, you have not climbed to the summit after all. That you may have EQ to match is no consolation. That your life will unfold like the yellow brick road in the Wizard of Oz does not matter.
So this girl goes to the tracks and when she sees the train coming she steps over the rail — is she facing toward the train or away? I don't know. Is she sitting or standing? I don't know. All I know is that she is in the darkness, alone, recklessly, courageously, confidently, feeling the leading edge of smithereens, the engineer's horn, the roaring, the wind, and then the meteorite itself.
(to be continued)
Aug 19, 2009
The following is an edited excerpt from several letters, in effect a compression, explaining to a former dean at the school why we took our son out of the San Francisco Waldorf High School this year.....
...In essence, we are paying a great sum of money, by our standard, for what? If you look at the colleges that SFWS seniors went to this year, I would argue the tuition is too high. If you look at what our son learned this last year, the tuition is too high. If you look at what the school is offering against comparable schools, the tuition is too high.
Or this. It says much about this school that there was such prolonged discussion among parents, a small number of parents, about acquiring a temporary gym but not much about asking teachers to take less salary. Does anyone seriously think Rudolf Steiner would put a gym before teachers?
I realize that’s a little unfair because the monies for the gym are separate from the school's operating budget. Still, if you were trying to find $1 million to pay teachers more not less, and create new courses we would be with you. But don’t you see that’s the identity problem I’ve tried to express so many times. What is it we're staying with? Those who would like a traditional school want a gym. Those who want an alternative school prefer the best teachers money can buy. And this is always the issue, for me: Is this a traditional school or an alternative school, and what do these terms mean? And what really is the Waldorf High School-offering?
No one has even been able to explain that fully and coherently… For me, the offering will always be in the ideas of Henry Barnes who explained to me once the need to teach, to imbue young people with a moral instinct, which, along with the most refined ability to reason and think critically, could help them approach the most difficult problems of our time — scientific problems, political problems, economic issues that demand not just a 'solution' but a solution with a moral dimension.... To get there you need to be able to first imagine something, an approach that may not exist, which may have to be created. Hence the endless emphasis on imagination and creativity.....
But how do you do that? And how do you manage the requirement for the most basic skills?
For my wife the decision to reconsider Waldorf came when she gave our son an impromptu summer writing course and found that after 9th grade he could not spell very well, nor could he write a simple comparative essay. He didn’t have a clear sense of the difference between an inductive essay and a deductive essay. He didn’t know what a topic sentence was. In sum, he did not know how to begin with an idea and develop it. All things that Barbara felt he should have known. All things that I for one had learned in 8th grade.
Another related issue was the design of the block system, in which students read several significant works but with no time to get below the surface. Another issue was poor communication between teachers and parents. Another issue was that several good people were leaving the school. Another issue was the matter of having parents sign a series of protocols designed to protect children from parents who, it was feared, might not guard the liquor cabinet or bedrooms. This was a parent-generated idea. Other schools do it. But it was not thought through. It's fear based. There was no effort to address these issues with students,who are after all the one who need to accept moral resonsibility.
Moreover, I don't agree with the premise. Rather than relying on signatures, I would rather rely on knowing the parents hosting the evening. And more than that I would rather rely on my trust of my son.....
Having said all that, the school has many wonderful teachers. Dr. Carini and Ms. Alba are great teachers, the best. There are none better.
But here’s the abstraction I'm trying to establish. The curriculum, and indeed the whole tone of the school, is not about thinking critically. It’s not about deconstructing. It’s not about questioning. The Socratic dialogue is weak. It’s about going along, acquiescing, harmonizing with… Not such a bad thing, I suppose, and you may well disagree, maybe I’ve shaded this too much. But from my perspective the school is finally built on a hierarchical model that you either agree with or don’t agree with. As any good school is. But what is this model? It’s not clear, nothing is clear, but whatever the model it’s built around a 'college'. In effect, it’s committee rule with the weight given to long time members of the community. Not always but generally speaking they seem unwilling to incorporate ideas from other schools. And by doing that, whether true or not, they further the notion that the Waldorf education is finally the expression of a cult. I don't think that's necessarily true. It depends on the Waldorf school you're talking about. And there are good cults and bad. The problem here is that the school has not done much to market itself properly and so the notion of a 'cult' education lingers.
Recently, the school has tried to present itself in a more traditional light, but without establishing a clear and an agreed upon identity. Agreed upon by faculty, administrators and parents. You can say you're 'traditional' all you like, however you define the word, but then you have to do substantive things to be that. Having a temporary gym in the parking lot is not enough. And I would argue the mistake is try to compete with so-called 'traditional' schools in this city. Better to work from a core strength, which is finally alternative and make that work. But how do you do that? The answer begins with working out a clear identity, which is made difficult because the further you get away from primary education the harder it is to find direction from Rudolf Steiner.
Ironically, the Head, Hands, Heart mantra, which should be the motto of Waldorf has been taken by Lick-Wilmerding, which is, I would argue, the finest school in the city. For many reasons.
But even a committee directing the Waldorf high school wouldn't be so bad if there was a consensus. But there isn't and no one has risen up who can lead the school on its way. This problem of direction is partly in the nature of Waldorf schools. From my experience over the last nearly 20 years... There is something about the personality of Waldorf parents, some call it a passive-aggressive quality (in my own case it's simply aggressive), which may suggest things are being worked out on the ethereal plain, but not on the physical plain. I don't know how else to describe it. Passivity and utter calm at one end of the spectrum; repressed anger and neurosis on the other end. I don't exclude myself.
The real problem is that there is much pressure to go along, to be loyal to the school, to suppress criticism. And once you become an outsider, as I did, then you have no say. At the last parent meeting of the year I volunteered to serve this coming year but as I looked around the room I realized that beyond being the bull in the china shop, I was not the conciliator that was required. I was never going to be in a position to change things, even as I came to realize how many parents agreed with me. And there are many. Many more than the administration might imagine. I would never be trusted by the people on the inside….
And so where does that leave us? In a school — and you may be surprised to hear this, a school that I dearly love — which I am forever at odds with, am forever frustrated with because it is finally not the high energy, courageous experiment that it could be. It’s low energy, careful, conservative, quiet, highly controlled, and becoming more and more traditional. And how can that be? Because after all it is the legacy of a mind at war with, among other things, the most dramatic evil of the 20th Century.
...In essence, we are paying a great sum of money, by our standard, for what? If you look at the colleges that SFWS seniors went to this year, I would argue the tuition is too high. If you look at what our son learned this last year, the tuition is too high. If you look at what the school is offering against comparable schools, the tuition is too high.
Or this. It says much about this school that there was such prolonged discussion among parents, a small number of parents, about acquiring a temporary gym but not much about asking teachers to take less salary. Does anyone seriously think Rudolf Steiner would put a gym before teachers?
I realize that’s a little unfair because the monies for the gym are separate from the school's operating budget. Still, if you were trying to find $1 million to pay teachers more not less, and create new courses we would be with you. But don’t you see that’s the identity problem I’ve tried to express so many times. What is it we're staying with? Those who would like a traditional school want a gym. Those who want an alternative school prefer the best teachers money can buy. And this is always the issue, for me: Is this a traditional school or an alternative school, and what do these terms mean? And what really is the Waldorf High School-offering?
No one has even been able to explain that fully and coherently… For me, the offering will always be in the ideas of Henry Barnes who explained to me once the need to teach, to imbue young people with a moral instinct, which, along with the most refined ability to reason and think critically, could help them approach the most difficult problems of our time — scientific problems, political problems, economic issues that demand not just a 'solution' but a solution with a moral dimension.... To get there you need to be able to first imagine something, an approach that may not exist, which may have to be created. Hence the endless emphasis on imagination and creativity.....
But how do you do that? And how do you manage the requirement for the most basic skills?
For my wife the decision to reconsider Waldorf came when she gave our son an impromptu summer writing course and found that after 9th grade he could not spell very well, nor could he write a simple comparative essay. He didn’t have a clear sense of the difference between an inductive essay and a deductive essay. He didn’t know what a topic sentence was. In sum, he did not know how to begin with an idea and develop it. All things that Barbara felt he should have known. All things that I for one had learned in 8th grade.
Another related issue was the design of the block system, in which students read several significant works but with no time to get below the surface. Another issue was poor communication between teachers and parents. Another issue was that several good people were leaving the school. Another issue was the matter of having parents sign a series of protocols designed to protect children from parents who, it was feared, might not guard the liquor cabinet or bedrooms. This was a parent-generated idea. Other schools do it. But it was not thought through. It's fear based. There was no effort to address these issues with students,who are after all the one who need to accept moral resonsibility.
Moreover, I don't agree with the premise. Rather than relying on signatures, I would rather rely on knowing the parents hosting the evening. And more than that I would rather rely on my trust of my son.....
Having said all that, the school has many wonderful teachers. Dr. Carini and Ms. Alba are great teachers, the best. There are none better.
But here’s the abstraction I'm trying to establish. The curriculum, and indeed the whole tone of the school, is not about thinking critically. It’s not about deconstructing. It’s not about questioning. The Socratic dialogue is weak. It’s about going along, acquiescing, harmonizing with… Not such a bad thing, I suppose, and you may well disagree, maybe I’ve shaded this too much. But from my perspective the school is finally built on a hierarchical model that you either agree with or don’t agree with. As any good school is. But what is this model? It’s not clear, nothing is clear, but whatever the model it’s built around a 'college'. In effect, it’s committee rule with the weight given to long time members of the community. Not always but generally speaking they seem unwilling to incorporate ideas from other schools. And by doing that, whether true or not, they further the notion that the Waldorf education is finally the expression of a cult. I don't think that's necessarily true. It depends on the Waldorf school you're talking about. And there are good cults and bad. The problem here is that the school has not done much to market itself properly and so the notion of a 'cult' education lingers.
Recently, the school has tried to present itself in a more traditional light, but without establishing a clear and an agreed upon identity. Agreed upon by faculty, administrators and parents. You can say you're 'traditional' all you like, however you define the word, but then you have to do substantive things to be that. Having a temporary gym in the parking lot is not enough. And I would argue the mistake is try to compete with so-called 'traditional' schools in this city. Better to work from a core strength, which is finally alternative and make that work. But how do you do that? The answer begins with working out a clear identity, which is made difficult because the further you get away from primary education the harder it is to find direction from Rudolf Steiner.
Ironically, the Head, Hands, Heart mantra, which should be the motto of Waldorf has been taken by Lick-Wilmerding, which is, I would argue, the finest school in the city. For many reasons.
But even a committee directing the Waldorf high school wouldn't be so bad if there was a consensus. But there isn't and no one has risen up who can lead the school on its way. This problem of direction is partly in the nature of Waldorf schools. From my experience over the last nearly 20 years... There is something about the personality of Waldorf parents, some call it a passive-aggressive quality (in my own case it's simply aggressive), which may suggest things are being worked out on the ethereal plain, but not on the physical plain. I don't know how else to describe it. Passivity and utter calm at one end of the spectrum; repressed anger and neurosis on the other end. I don't exclude myself.
The real problem is that there is much pressure to go along, to be loyal to the school, to suppress criticism. And once you become an outsider, as I did, then you have no say. At the last parent meeting of the year I volunteered to serve this coming year but as I looked around the room I realized that beyond being the bull in the china shop, I was not the conciliator that was required. I was never going to be in a position to change things, even as I came to realize how many parents agreed with me. And there are many. Many more than the administration might imagine. I would never be trusted by the people on the inside….
And so where does that leave us? In a school — and you may be surprised to hear this, a school that I dearly love — which I am forever at odds with, am forever frustrated with because it is finally not the high energy, courageous experiment that it could be. It’s low energy, careful, conservative, quiet, highly controlled, and becoming more and more traditional. And how can that be? Because after all it is the legacy of a mind at war with, among other things, the most dramatic evil of the 20th Century.
Jul 26, 2009
Jul 21, 2009
Fr. Floyd often spoke of himself in the third person. "Fr. Floyd knows his responsibility to the poor," he would say, "Fr. Floyd also knows the grace of God."
In the beginning, Floyd had an outrageous desire to be graced by the media as well, which is how I met him, more than 20 years ago. Then, he was a dashing Franciscan priest, in his brown robe and proud piety, or else his Giant's warm-up jacket and matching cap.
Next to God he loved celebrities. "Did I tell you I met Obama?" he said to me a few months ago. "A good man. I was impressed. And I was very direct. I asked him, 'what are you going to do about the poor.' He looked me right in the eye, I liked that, he looked me right in the eye and I think it caught him a little, but you know how Fr. Floyd is, and he said it was going to be a real priority.' No, I think he's going to be a great president. I was very impressed. He makes me think of Rooseveldt."
Fr. Floyd could never have worked with the poor had he not had equal access to the rich. For years he had a patron, a Nob Hill matron, a stocky, sexy blonde if I remember, who invited him to dinner and introduced him to the hoity-toity. And they would turn to him at dinner and as much as pat him on the head for his work with St. Anthony's diningroom and living down next to St. Boniface as he did, and then later out in the Mission District. "What is that like, working those people?" they would ask. "How do you do it?"
In fact, he did it very well, although I didn't accept that until the last time I saw him. I took him to a Thai restaurant over behind the Hall of Justice. A few months earlier we'd had dinner and he was off his game. He looked terrified. He had nothing to say.
Today, was his funeral and he would have been happy to see a full house and of course the archbishop, who was separated at birth from Dick Cheney, and a handful of friars, who looked as though they'd been separated at birth from reality, not to mention a comb or a wash cloth, they looked like a disheveled bunch of night afters, folks still on the Bataan death march, and ne'er do wells, not that you have to be a brill cream man to be a friar, but the look of kempt and some projection of hopefullness and well being would have helped, and there was also the Speaker of the House's husband, and various cops and people Floyd worked with at the foundation and people who just came in off the street to see what all the music was about. The whole service was like a musical, as the woman standing next to me said.
They wheeled in the casket and you'd thought he was being buried in Afghanistan; the coffin was that simple. A lot of people got up and said what they could, which wasn't much in most cases. Fr. Finian gave the eulogy and it would have made Floyd weep. No one knew him better than Finian who is the real lineage in the order. What's left of it. Looking at the friars you wondered whether the effort was about over. All of them over middle age, save a few who looked distinctly gay. Fr. Floyd said they were nearly all gay and he was worried about that.
As the incense was pitched to the four corners and sallow-skinned church bureaucrats presided over the mass and the parishonners got their transsubstantiation and people wept, because it was sad, no question, and while police horses pawed at the cement outside and two traffic cops gabbed in the middle of the street, and some kid came up to the side door with his boombox on high, and after Paul Pelosi got up and talked about how wonderful it was that Fr. Floyd had been able to work with 'those people', he actually said that, and you thought, 'Paul, you're not at the Gettys now, you're actually talking to 'those people,' ' but the speaker's husband didn't care, it's just never occurred to him — he had a mustard-colored kerchief in his breast pocket and stood stiffly like a mannikin in a store window — he was just here to say, on Nancy's behalf, what a great loss this is, and thank you to the foundation for all you've done, that was his real thrust, and then Dick Cheney's twin, the archbishop, got up and said he had the last word, and first he had a joke to tell about how Floyd wore a Dodger's shirt under his Giant's jacket, and then he rattled on about Matthew 24 and 34 and you wanted to yell out, "hike," and afterwards he ended with the fearsome promise that God has the last word and there was something in the way he said that left you with the impression that his God does not take personal phone calls and will be out of the office all this week.
"I think Fr. Floyd was well represented here, don't you think?" Floyd would have said to me after the service, and then he would have relished the details, the nuances, the back stories and he would have wondered how the TV stations would play it, because at least two stations were there, and he would have wanted to insure the press releases went out and he would have been miffed that his death was not better played the day after he died, and he would have wept to hear his sister's rememberances...
At that last dinner we had, he didn't speak in the third person. The affectation was gone. The fear in his eyes was gone. Resignation but not fear. Even his loneliness was over. He was face to face. He said, "I don't really believe in it anymore." What's that, I said. "The church, I don't believe in the institution. I love the people but I don't think..." He let the point go.
Later, I dropped him off and I had to help get him in the door, moving between sleeping homeless, and he seemed genuinely happy to be home.
If I'd given the eulogy I would have said how Floyd might have once thought of the poor as 'those people' but at the end he was saying to himself, and believing it for once that, "we are all 'the poor', we are all naked and strangers, we really are no different, and there is no duality and God will grant us His grace and that's all we can believe in but it's enough...."
In the beginning, Floyd had an outrageous desire to be graced by the media as well, which is how I met him, more than 20 years ago. Then, he was a dashing Franciscan priest, in his brown robe and proud piety, or else his Giant's warm-up jacket and matching cap.
Next to God he loved celebrities. "Did I tell you I met Obama?" he said to me a few months ago. "A good man. I was impressed. And I was very direct. I asked him, 'what are you going to do about the poor.' He looked me right in the eye, I liked that, he looked me right in the eye and I think it caught him a little, but you know how Fr. Floyd is, and he said it was going to be a real priority.' No, I think he's going to be a great president. I was very impressed. He makes me think of Rooseveldt."
Fr. Floyd could never have worked with the poor had he not had equal access to the rich. For years he had a patron, a Nob Hill matron, a stocky, sexy blonde if I remember, who invited him to dinner and introduced him to the hoity-toity. And they would turn to him at dinner and as much as pat him on the head for his work with St. Anthony's diningroom and living down next to St. Boniface as he did, and then later out in the Mission District. "What is that like, working those people?" they would ask. "How do you do it?"
In fact, he did it very well, although I didn't accept that until the last time I saw him. I took him to a Thai restaurant over behind the Hall of Justice. A few months earlier we'd had dinner and he was off his game. He looked terrified. He had nothing to say.
Today, was his funeral and he would have been happy to see a full house and of course the archbishop, who was separated at birth from Dick Cheney, and a handful of friars, who looked as though they'd been separated at birth from reality, not to mention a comb or a wash cloth, they looked like a disheveled bunch of night afters, folks still on the Bataan death march, and ne'er do wells, not that you have to be a brill cream man to be a friar, but the look of kempt and some projection of hopefullness and well being would have helped, and there was also the Speaker of the House's husband, and various cops and people Floyd worked with at the foundation and people who just came in off the street to see what all the music was about. The whole service was like a musical, as the woman standing next to me said.
They wheeled in the casket and you'd thought he was being buried in Afghanistan; the coffin was that simple. A lot of people got up and said what they could, which wasn't much in most cases. Fr. Finian gave the eulogy and it would have made Floyd weep. No one knew him better than Finian who is the real lineage in the order. What's left of it. Looking at the friars you wondered whether the effort was about over. All of them over middle age, save a few who looked distinctly gay. Fr. Floyd said they were nearly all gay and he was worried about that.
As the incense was pitched to the four corners and sallow-skinned church bureaucrats presided over the mass and the parishonners got their transsubstantiation and people wept, because it was sad, no question, and while police horses pawed at the cement outside and two traffic cops gabbed in the middle of the street, and some kid came up to the side door with his boombox on high, and after Paul Pelosi got up and talked about how wonderful it was that Fr. Floyd had been able to work with 'those people', he actually said that, and you thought, 'Paul, you're not at the Gettys now, you're actually talking to 'those people,' ' but the speaker's husband didn't care, it's just never occurred to him — he had a mustard-colored kerchief in his breast pocket and stood stiffly like a mannikin in a store window — he was just here to say, on Nancy's behalf, what a great loss this is, and thank you to the foundation for all you've done, that was his real thrust, and then Dick Cheney's twin, the archbishop, got up and said he had the last word, and first he had a joke to tell about how Floyd wore a Dodger's shirt under his Giant's jacket, and then he rattled on about Matthew 24 and 34 and you wanted to yell out, "hike," and afterwards he ended with the fearsome promise that God has the last word and there was something in the way he said that left you with the impression that his God does not take personal phone calls and will be out of the office all this week.
"I think Fr. Floyd was well represented here, don't you think?" Floyd would have said to me after the service, and then he would have relished the details, the nuances, the back stories and he would have wondered how the TV stations would play it, because at least two stations were there, and he would have wanted to insure the press releases went out and he would have been miffed that his death was not better played the day after he died, and he would have wept to hear his sister's rememberances...
At that last dinner we had, he didn't speak in the third person. The affectation was gone. The fear in his eyes was gone. Resignation but not fear. Even his loneliness was over. He was face to face. He said, "I don't really believe in it anymore." What's that, I said. "The church, I don't believe in the institution. I love the people but I don't think..." He let the point go.
Later, I dropped him off and I had to help get him in the door, moving between sleeping homeless, and he seemed genuinely happy to be home.
If I'd given the eulogy I would have said how Floyd might have once thought of the poor as 'those people' but at the end he was saying to himself, and believing it for once that, "we are all 'the poor', we are all naked and strangers, we really are no different, and there is no duality and God will grant us His grace and that's all we can believe in but it's enough...."
Jul 13, 2009
Jul 12, 2009
I know what you saying: "but all these stories sound the same. It must be the same couple over and over. Why do you find such people interesting? Who cares?"
But it's not the same couple over and over. It's that the circumstance is so pervasive. If you ask me to tell a happy marriage story, I can't do it. Which is not to say there aren't any happy stories, it's just I haven't heard any. I don't know those people. What I hear is this: a woman talking about her marriage who says, "I am grieving, I am in a state of grief." Or the woman, at wit's end, who says to her husband, "as soon as she goes away to college (referring to their daughter) I am leaving you."
Or the woman at the next table in a Noe Street restaurant, a very sincere and dignified woman describing the moment last week when her husband, in the middle of the night, after a tumultuous dinner with a one time neighbor, in the middle of the night grabbed her hand, stuffed her fingers in his mouth and bit them. Not hard enough to cause great damage, but hard enough to hurt onr finger badly, bad enough to be struck dead at the shock and the bizarness of it, badenough to be shaking her head for days afterward and not a little fearful of her husband. "I don't know what we've come to," she told her friend.
Still another woman, blonde, in her 60s but looking 40, confided to a friend, "I am not playing by the rules anymore. Enough is enough. I just won't. I've paid my dues."
And so it's as though this city had turned into a 19th Century French novel, as though all your friends, and their friends, had come down with mal-de-siecle. If only Chateaubriand were here. If only Flaubert could see this.
Go to dinner at anyone's home and at some point the conversation always turns to mal. Old and new mal at the same time — and on the surface rooted in lost jobs or the effect of lost jobs, lost properties, lost inheritances, lost social status, lost ambition, higher tuitions. The prospect of never being able to retire. For women, of a certain age, say between 45 and 60, the mal is about fading marriages and the urgency of finding a lover, of either sex, or keeping a lover in need of repair himself, or else finding someone to help them with their much older husband. What seemed to her so far off and possible is now suddenly here and impossible. It was supposed to be life in a DH Lawrence novel, life by a crackling hearth. That was the picture when the man was 55 and the woman was 40. But now he is 70 and she is 55. And he is not Robert Redford at 70, he is either obsessively introspective or ill, or dangerously unaware, or else a Republican, which is the same thing. Meanwhile, she is just coming into still another bloom, rich with sensuality and bravado.
But that's the surface. There is something else. Ennui is not the word for it. Rage is more the word and all its corollaries: resentment, denial, lethargy, mindlessness, lack of confidence, childish yearnings, outrageous sentimentality — along with strange illnesses, fantastic nightmares, sexual listlessness and yet spiritual hope, but with no real desire for enlightenment. As though you'd woken up in a burning house and were too drunk or drugged, or just too worn out to crawl out the door.
But it's not the same couple over and over. It's that the circumstance is so pervasive. If you ask me to tell a happy marriage story, I can't do it. Which is not to say there aren't any happy stories, it's just I haven't heard any. I don't know those people. What I hear is this: a woman talking about her marriage who says, "I am grieving, I am in a state of grief." Or the woman, at wit's end, who says to her husband, "as soon as she goes away to college (referring to their daughter) I am leaving you."
Or the woman at the next table in a Noe Street restaurant, a very sincere and dignified woman describing the moment last week when her husband, in the middle of the night, after a tumultuous dinner with a one time neighbor, in the middle of the night grabbed her hand, stuffed her fingers in his mouth and bit them. Not hard enough to cause great damage, but hard enough to hurt onr finger badly, bad enough to be struck dead at the shock and the bizarness of it, badenough to be shaking her head for days afterward and not a little fearful of her husband. "I don't know what we've come to," she told her friend.
Still another woman, blonde, in her 60s but looking 40, confided to a friend, "I am not playing by the rules anymore. Enough is enough. I just won't. I've paid my dues."
And so it's as though this city had turned into a 19th Century French novel, as though all your friends, and their friends, had come down with mal-de-siecle. If only Chateaubriand were here. If only Flaubert could see this.
Go to dinner at anyone's home and at some point the conversation always turns to mal. Old and new mal at the same time — and on the surface rooted in lost jobs or the effect of lost jobs, lost properties, lost inheritances, lost social status, lost ambition, higher tuitions. The prospect of never being able to retire. For women, of a certain age, say between 45 and 60, the mal is about fading marriages and the urgency of finding a lover, of either sex, or keeping a lover in need of repair himself, or else finding someone to help them with their much older husband. What seemed to her so far off and possible is now suddenly here and impossible. It was supposed to be life in a DH Lawrence novel, life by a crackling hearth. That was the picture when the man was 55 and the woman was 40. But now he is 70 and she is 55. And he is not Robert Redford at 70, he is either obsessively introspective or ill, or dangerously unaware, or else a Republican, which is the same thing. Meanwhile, she is just coming into still another bloom, rich with sensuality and bravado.
But that's the surface. There is something else. Ennui is not the word for it. Rage is more the word and all its corollaries: resentment, denial, lethargy, mindlessness, lack of confidence, childish yearnings, outrageous sentimentality — along with strange illnesses, fantastic nightmares, sexual listlessness and yet spiritual hope, but with no real desire for enlightenment. As though you'd woken up in a burning house and were too drunk or drugged, or just too worn out to crawl out the door.
Jul 9, 2009
Would you come to dinner? the husband asks. It'll be boys night out.
The next day we arrive at the top of a hill, climb up Victorian stairs, the front door opens, the husband steps back. The livingroom is a wealth of glass and, above a small, carefully flowered backyard, there is all the city, at 7:30 on a summer evening, fog slopping over Twin Peaks, all of downtown in photoshop and craquelure.
Drinks, nuts, more drinks, dinner, 'will you have another?', 'I will,' and then more life stories, still more anecdotes about children, about schools and summer houses, names dropped and picked up, the whole IT of establishing a perspective by which to accept each other. And everything is fine. The animals in the wall paintings, the carefully picked jazz, the faces of young boys at the table, the food itself, everything is safe and sound.
Later and later his wife arrives. Pretty, sensuously European, dark hair, with the gray just arriving, in cashmere and soft wool, layers of browns and deep reds, and very quiet at first. Small, watching eyes. Altogether like a French garden, like her garden, everything at a sharp angle and carefully laid out. She's been out for the evening, a married woman out for the evening by herself, which in her case seemed immediately dangerous, not that she might be harmed physically but that she might become lost emotionally.
In passing, she leaves the word, Landmark.
You mean...
Yes, I think it was called EST. Yes?
Her husband knows very well: The old Werner, now in Indonesia, isn't he, and weren't there charges of financial impropriety and something else. A scandal. No one can remember.
Well how is Landmark? we ask.
It's actually very helpful. I have no baggage but it's interesting to hear others share.
Because, she goes on, I have no one to talk to. And not a coroner's trace of humor. He, she says, looking at her husband: he, doesn't like to communicate. He can't, it's beyond him. He smiles, responds. She, he says. And suddenly there's a triangulation, the guests have become unwitting therapists. He has a last word and did he say, 'well, all you can think about is sex.' Was that what he said? It could not have been. You wouldn't say such a thing in front of children, or in front of guests you hardly know. He could not have said that, it's what the guests heard, it's some problem, some association, they have.
People share things, she goes on, about themselves, it's often about their parents. But it's very brave. These people are really saying things....
The husband looks at us, rolling his eyes. She looks at us, rolling the wine in her glass. Everyone on quicksand, everyone about to be pulled under.
The next day we arrive at the top of a hill, climb up Victorian stairs, the front door opens, the husband steps back. The livingroom is a wealth of glass and, above a small, carefully flowered backyard, there is all the city, at 7:30 on a summer evening, fog slopping over Twin Peaks, all of downtown in photoshop and craquelure.
Drinks, nuts, more drinks, dinner, 'will you have another?', 'I will,' and then more life stories, still more anecdotes about children, about schools and summer houses, names dropped and picked up, the whole IT of establishing a perspective by which to accept each other. And everything is fine. The animals in the wall paintings, the carefully picked jazz, the faces of young boys at the table, the food itself, everything is safe and sound.
Later and later his wife arrives. Pretty, sensuously European, dark hair, with the gray just arriving, in cashmere and soft wool, layers of browns and deep reds, and very quiet at first. Small, watching eyes. Altogether like a French garden, like her garden, everything at a sharp angle and carefully laid out. She's been out for the evening, a married woman out for the evening by herself, which in her case seemed immediately dangerous, not that she might be harmed physically but that she might become lost emotionally.
In passing, she leaves the word, Landmark.
You mean...
Yes, I think it was called EST. Yes?
Her husband knows very well: The old Werner, now in Indonesia, isn't he, and weren't there charges of financial impropriety and something else. A scandal. No one can remember.
Well how is Landmark? we ask.
It's actually very helpful. I have no baggage but it's interesting to hear others share.
Because, she goes on, I have no one to talk to. And not a coroner's trace of humor. He, she says, looking at her husband: he, doesn't like to communicate. He can't, it's beyond him. He smiles, responds. She, he says. And suddenly there's a triangulation, the guests have become unwitting therapists. He has a last word and did he say, 'well, all you can think about is sex.' Was that what he said? It could not have been. You wouldn't say such a thing in front of children, or in front of guests you hardly know. He could not have said that, it's what the guests heard, it's some problem, some association, they have.
People share things, she goes on, about themselves, it's often about their parents. But it's very brave. These people are really saying things....
The husband looks at us, rolling his eyes. She looks at us, rolling the wine in her glass. Everyone on quicksand, everyone about to be pulled under.
Jun 9, 2009
Jun 4, 2009
You haven't gone for a walk in a week but tonight you walk. The moon is imperfectly full and shrouded. You walk north along 47th Avenue to the park. At the corner of Kirkam Street you stop for a car. The car is black and blacked out. As it passes, at a creep, the passenger in the back seat and the passenger in the front seat both reach out and arms unraveling like Frog tongues they slowly give you the finger. These shadows make no sound. The car makes no sound. And still they keep holding out their fuck-yous.
The car passes and you cross the street. Two blocks further on you glance at the dancing school on Irving where the dark-haired Lithuanian woman dances, sometimes by herself, sometimes with clients. The building is dark. Across the street, the Pacific Catch Restaurant is closing. Customers are filing out, saying their good-nights.
What time is it? You cannot see your watch in the dark. You keep walking until finally you can see hands. They're joined at midnight.
You come to Lincoln. There is no traffic. To the left, you can see the blue and red 76 sign above the neighborhood gas station. You cross the street diagonally, to the park entrance. There are no street lights. Three men stand in the shadows by the entrance. They're not blocking the path but you need to pass close to them to go on. The men are in their 20s. One is wearing a hair net, the way gangstas do. Another hops up and down. The third keeps lighting his cigarette. They're talking about one of their friends, how he's gonna get fucked up if he keeps acting stupid.
You pass them by and disappear into the black. There is only enough light to imagine the path, as it winds up and around. Eventually, you see a street light far ahead. The light at the end of the tunnel comes to mind.
Meanwhile, you imagine the contents of the dark. You hear a stick snapping, a voice in the bushes. You tune yourself for flight or fight.
But nothing happens, and now you've come to the light at the end of the tunnel. You can see your surroundings. You are inside the park with the Polo fields a quarter mile to the east, to your right. In the other direction, toward the south windmill, the ocean. If you stop you can hear it. You cross a road and continue walking north toward the other side of the park. You pass the entrance to the soccer fields. Just before the north windmill you see the path that cuts down in behind Beach Chalet. You turn in. There is no light. The path is narrow, like a hiker's path. It runs over a bridge. Someone could set upon you but they don't. Then you round a corner and there's the bar in back of Beach Chalet. You watch the people for a moment, listen to the music, and go on.
Now you walk south, toward home, but instead of going out to the lighted way that runs along the park edge, with the car lights and traffic lights if nothing else, you take the path that runs close by the soccer fields. There is no light, save the day-for-night light from a shorted moon. This used to be a wooded closet where gay men trysted, but the park service has cleared out the underbrush. In the day, no one comes here anymore, but at night, once again, it's a haunt for men who prefer the nuances of shadow to the bulb swinging slowly in a club bathroom.
As you walk along the path, wide enough for a narrow car, you see the tips of lighted cigarettes in among the bushes and trees. Figures move out of the shadows. Occasionally, out of nowhere a figure stands in the middle of the path. It moves aside as you pass. It says nothing. You are in someone's nightgiest, you are in a palace of extreme anonymity. And for that reason, you are more safe than you might imagine. But there's something else. Something else that is appealing about this place. It conveys, however theatrically, a vision of after life, as if you had suddenly passed over into deathtown. You might think of it as a practice area, to train your fear away.
But just when you have found a comfort, even a justification for being in such a place, you are nearly shot dead with fear — from a howling, a horribly piercing howling, so animal-like and so close that for a moment you think there is an animal right there in front of you. It bring you to a crouch.
But it's not an animal, it's another figure-spirit, standing in the middle of the path. Now suddenly he's coming toward you still howling. You brace yourself for destruction. You say something by way of shield, 'what do you want?' It wants nothing. It passes. It has a knapsack. It speaks Spanish under its breath. It's a jin, an angry, nutty jin, a creature from the inferno, but for that instant it had you, it drew you over, over and into a bardo where they work with live ammunition.
The car passes and you cross the street. Two blocks further on you glance at the dancing school on Irving where the dark-haired Lithuanian woman dances, sometimes by herself, sometimes with clients. The building is dark. Across the street, the Pacific Catch Restaurant is closing. Customers are filing out, saying their good-nights.
What time is it? You cannot see your watch in the dark. You keep walking until finally you can see hands. They're joined at midnight.
You come to Lincoln. There is no traffic. To the left, you can see the blue and red 76 sign above the neighborhood gas station. You cross the street diagonally, to the park entrance. There are no street lights. Three men stand in the shadows by the entrance. They're not blocking the path but you need to pass close to them to go on. The men are in their 20s. One is wearing a hair net, the way gangstas do. Another hops up and down. The third keeps lighting his cigarette. They're talking about one of their friends, how he's gonna get fucked up if he keeps acting stupid.
You pass them by and disappear into the black. There is only enough light to imagine the path, as it winds up and around. Eventually, you see a street light far ahead. The light at the end of the tunnel comes to mind.
Meanwhile, you imagine the contents of the dark. You hear a stick snapping, a voice in the bushes. You tune yourself for flight or fight.
But nothing happens, and now you've come to the light at the end of the tunnel. You can see your surroundings. You are inside the park with the Polo fields a quarter mile to the east, to your right. In the other direction, toward the south windmill, the ocean. If you stop you can hear it. You cross a road and continue walking north toward the other side of the park. You pass the entrance to the soccer fields. Just before the north windmill you see the path that cuts down in behind Beach Chalet. You turn in. There is no light. The path is narrow, like a hiker's path. It runs over a bridge. Someone could set upon you but they don't. Then you round a corner and there's the bar in back of Beach Chalet. You watch the people for a moment, listen to the music, and go on.
Now you walk south, toward home, but instead of going out to the lighted way that runs along the park edge, with the car lights and traffic lights if nothing else, you take the path that runs close by the soccer fields. There is no light, save the day-for-night light from a shorted moon. This used to be a wooded closet where gay men trysted, but the park service has cleared out the underbrush. In the day, no one comes here anymore, but at night, once again, it's a haunt for men who prefer the nuances of shadow to the bulb swinging slowly in a club bathroom.
As you walk along the path, wide enough for a narrow car, you see the tips of lighted cigarettes in among the bushes and trees. Figures move out of the shadows. Occasionally, out of nowhere a figure stands in the middle of the path. It moves aside as you pass. It says nothing. You are in someone's nightgiest, you are in a palace of extreme anonymity. And for that reason, you are more safe than you might imagine. But there's something else. Something else that is appealing about this place. It conveys, however theatrically, a vision of after life, as if you had suddenly passed over into deathtown. You might think of it as a practice area, to train your fear away.
But just when you have found a comfort, even a justification for being in such a place, you are nearly shot dead with fear — from a howling, a horribly piercing howling, so animal-like and so close that for a moment you think there is an animal right there in front of you. It bring you to a crouch.
But it's not an animal, it's another figure-spirit, standing in the middle of the path. Now suddenly he's coming toward you still howling. You brace yourself for destruction. You say something by way of shield, 'what do you want?' It wants nothing. It passes. It has a knapsack. It speaks Spanish under its breath. It's a jin, an angry, nutty jin, a creature from the inferno, but for that instant it had you, it drew you over, over and into a bardo where they work with live ammunition.
May 28, 2009
Francoise died yesterday, in the afternoon. At home, surrounded by two of her three children, along with grand children and her husband, of course.
He and Francoise had been together for half a century or more, and you should have seen them in their hay day. They were perfect complements to each other. Which is one reason it was so painful for him to watch her mind disappear and at the end listen to her say, referring to her husband, "who is that man?"
She was born in Paris, was instantly tall, black-haired with a stunning beautiful smile. She grew up during the occupation, with all of its horrors, but do I remember correctly she said once that occasionally during those years she played tennis in the Bois de Boulogne? Her family were well-to-do and royalists, and although she turned away from the Church in her 20s she never quite lost her affection for the trappings of old republics, and some 19th Century prejudices. For one, she was still convinced Alfred Dreyfus was a German spy.
Hardly out of school she met and married a Swiss doctor. Not welcomed by her parents but Francoise was adventurous and stubborn. They moved to America where she had hoped to get a PhD in English literature. Her husband was the love of her life but next to him was Thomas Wolfe.
And then all these years later, after all those fabulous dinners and lunches, after so much grace and creativity. I often wished she had been my mother.... After all that she was alone in that huge stone house with her husband. Who was still one cigarette after another, and one glass of thick red wine after another. So there was some question at the end how to undo that bond between them, so that she could move on.
Toward the end, a shaman was in attendance for several days and suggested that in order to let Francoise go, it might be best if there could be some physical break between she and her husband, if she could have space to leave. And finally she got it and left.
And what happened to him? He has managed along without her. Perhaps, he is relieved. Perhaps, his own mind is enough.
(unfinished)
He and Francoise had been together for half a century or more, and you should have seen them in their hay day. They were perfect complements to each other. Which is one reason it was so painful for him to watch her mind disappear and at the end listen to her say, referring to her husband, "who is that man?"
She was born in Paris, was instantly tall, black-haired with a stunning beautiful smile. She grew up during the occupation, with all of its horrors, but do I remember correctly she said once that occasionally during those years she played tennis in the Bois de Boulogne? Her family were well-to-do and royalists, and although she turned away from the Church in her 20s she never quite lost her affection for the trappings of old republics, and some 19th Century prejudices. For one, she was still convinced Alfred Dreyfus was a German spy.
Hardly out of school she met and married a Swiss doctor. Not welcomed by her parents but Francoise was adventurous and stubborn. They moved to America where she had hoped to get a PhD in English literature. Her husband was the love of her life but next to him was Thomas Wolfe.
And then all these years later, after all those fabulous dinners and lunches, after so much grace and creativity. I often wished she had been my mother.... After all that she was alone in that huge stone house with her husband. Who was still one cigarette after another, and one glass of thick red wine after another. So there was some question at the end how to undo that bond between them, so that she could move on.
Toward the end, a shaman was in attendance for several days and suggested that in order to let Francoise go, it might be best if there could be some physical break between she and her husband, if she could have space to leave. And finally she got it and left.
And what happened to him? He has managed along without her. Perhaps, he is relieved. Perhaps, his own mind is enough.
(unfinished)
May 1, 2009
I have very strange news: I received a letter from Ruth Madoff. I had no idea we knew each other, but then I remembered a girl named Ruth at Mrs. DeRam's dancing school in about 1962. Dance instruction was in waltz, fox trot, rumba, chacha, and twist. Class was held every Thursday at 5 p.m. sharp at the Colony Club, on 64th and Park Avenue. I remember Ruth as a homely girl with glasses and feet that turned in, which made her a difficult dance partner. Her mother sat in the mezzanine and watched her daughter closely. She always had a scoldful-expression and sometimes after class ran Ruth down for not showing more enthusiasm.
Why would I think that that Ruth became Ruth Madoff, who is now offering me money? Here's why. I've come to believe that life really is like living in one of those summer reading classics, like Joseph Andrews, Tristram Shandy, or of course Tom Jones; with those plots that always end up at the beginning, those characters ignored as a child, or unknown, who turn out to be your mother, father or sister. I believe in irony, that's the reason I think it's the same Ruth. Also, I had a very promising tarot chart this week; money is on the way it said.
But there was one jarring thing about this letter. After reading it I was surprised and a little disappointed. I'd imagined Ruth to be somewhat better educated. So many grammatical errors. Not to mention the fact that she didn't capitalize her married name. That makes me think she doesn't think highly of Bernard anymore. But that's psychobabble; these are hurried and stressful times and actually her dancing was not precise.
Here's the email that came to me, exactly as it appeared.....
Dear Friend ,
I am Mrs.Ruth Madoff, wife of bernard madoff.
I am actually going through some kind of difficult time with my family right now, as my husband is at the Metropolitan Correctional Center, New York City.
My husband Sentencing is scheduled for June 16, 2009 and he is likely to face a maximum sentence of 150 years in prison and $170 billion in restitution, so there is need for me to move out alot of my personal funds and peronal belongings around the world , particularly from outside america, but i need somebody to trust now, because i cannot receive funds here in america right now.
I would need your help in acquiring some properties and keeping some large cash amount for me. but first i would prefer to chat with you either on yahoo chat or Skype. if you are not comfortable with yahoo then write me,so we can communicate via email.
This is very urgent, i would have to entrust a large amount of money into your hands and some personal valueables. But this would have to be very confidential, just between me and you, because the press are afetr me and my husband name all over the headlines, because of his Wall street business.
Anyway! don't be scared about the risk, it is a very safe deal i can assure you of your condidentiality.
Yours Sincerely
Mrs. Ruth Alpern Madoff
Email Contact: ruthmadoff02@live.com
I wrote back a very warm reply, pretended to know something of her life since dance class. I said I would do anything to help her and mentioned some friends of mine, from Nigeria, who are always willing to buy or sell hot properties. I added that I was married and as long as I didn't have to get involved with her romantically I hoped we could become friends and maybe business partners.
Why would I think that that Ruth became Ruth Madoff, who is now offering me money? Here's why. I've come to believe that life really is like living in one of those summer reading classics, like Joseph Andrews, Tristram Shandy, or of course Tom Jones; with those plots that always end up at the beginning, those characters ignored as a child, or unknown, who turn out to be your mother, father or sister. I believe in irony, that's the reason I think it's the same Ruth. Also, I had a very promising tarot chart this week; money is on the way it said.
But there was one jarring thing about this letter. After reading it I was surprised and a little disappointed. I'd imagined Ruth to be somewhat better educated. So many grammatical errors. Not to mention the fact that she didn't capitalize her married name. That makes me think she doesn't think highly of Bernard anymore. But that's psychobabble; these are hurried and stressful times and actually her dancing was not precise.
Here's the email that came to me, exactly as it appeared.....
Dear Friend ,
I am Mrs.Ruth Madoff, wife of bernard madoff.
I am actually going through some kind of difficult time with my family right now, as my husband is at the Metropolitan Correctional Center, New York City.
My husband Sentencing is scheduled for June 16, 2009 and he is likely to face a maximum sentence of 150 years in prison and $170 billion in restitution, so there is need for me to move out alot of my personal funds and peronal belongings around the world , particularly from outside america, but i need somebody to trust now, because i cannot receive funds here in america right now.
I would need your help in acquiring some properties and keeping some large cash amount for me. but first i would prefer to chat with you either on yahoo chat or Skype. if you are not comfortable with yahoo then write me,so we can communicate via email.
This is very urgent, i would have to entrust a large amount of money into your hands and some personal valueables. But this would have to be very confidential, just between me and you, because the press are afetr me and my husband name all over the headlines, because of his Wall street business.
Anyway! don't be scared about the risk, it is a very safe deal i can assure you of your condidentiality.
Yours Sincerely
Mrs. Ruth Alpern Madoff
Email Contact: ruthmadoff02@live.com
I wrote back a very warm reply, pretended to know something of her life since dance class. I said I would do anything to help her and mentioned some friends of mine, from Nigeria, who are always willing to buy or sell hot properties. I added that I was married and as long as I didn't have to get involved with her romantically I hoped we could become friends and maybe business partners.
Apr 19, 2009
In the Dept. of Outrageous Dinner Conversation, the award for most consistently strange and amazing, and often in-bad-taste anecdotes goes to our friend S, who arrived last night from Los Angeles, with her most recent lover, N.
If I were tweeting you this, in 140 characters, less the URL, the message might be something like, “one woman broad-squad wants (her own) penis for her 50th”.
S’s husband, D, who stayed with us a few months ago, knows about his wife and N and one of the revelations from last night was that S has recently been going to a therapist specializing in polyamorous relationships. Indeed, two therapists. One she goes to with her husband; the other with her lover. The common thread is that S loves both men, and actually there are others but I’ll get to that, and so the goal is to help these two men understand both her needs and her nature, as well as the awkward situation they find themselves in.
So far therapy has not been effective. When S goes off on one of her erotic adventures she does not say where she is going or with whom and, if pressed, may respond with a half lie or some banter from the therapists or does a little ideo-philosophic number on why it’s okay to be secretive AND polyamorous — although I always thought the hope and promise of being polyamorous was that you could be open. Anyway, as she goes out the door her husband says to her, “I know you’re going off with that Nazi, pseudo-intellectual, scumbag, fuck-face. I hope you have a good time.”
She always does.
By the same token the therapy has not worked for N who has no regard for D. “Well admit it he’s the classic, hippy-Jew-aristocrat, with a lot of money and absolutely no talent. I can’t understand what you see in him.”
S sees everything in her husband and loves him as best she can. They’ve been married for nearly 20 years. And if you met him you would say, how could she not love him? Although she is independent financially, still he provides her with access to material worlds, houses on this coast and that, exotic vacations — in sum real and imagined properties she would not have otherwise. But more important her husband is a really good guy. He’s very kind and also steady and reliable and full of dry humor, and if he hadn’t gotten caught up in allure of New York investment banking for so many years, maybe S would never have discovered her polyamorous needs.
Actually, that’s not true. My wife who has known S since college days will tell you that she was always like that but more so now.
By way of 9 to 5, S works for one of the top literary agencies in New York. She plays the viola in a traveling string quartet. Ten years ago she wanted to learn German — to explore her roots — and so went to Heidelberg, studied at the university and for a year volunteered at a methadone clinic.
My wife insists S is a “serious person”, which means someone who 1) reads books; 2) cares about literature, regardless of culture and can hold a discussion about literature for two and a half hours without moving; and 3) and most important, S reads poetry but doesn’t write it. For my wife that’s a slam-dunk indication that S is a serious person, along with the fact that S will say or do anything, which my wife has begun to do lately, in earnest.
And you understand S doesn’t do or say these outrageous things entirely for effect. It’s just her way of being, and so last night at dinner, the rest of us floating in North Sea Vodka, she broke a much-needed silence by saying, “my 50th birthday is coming up and I’m hoping to get a penis.”
My first thought was, ‘but you already have at least three that I know of, how many more do you need?’
I put that thought in a smile.
“No,” she said. “I want a penis, I want to know what that’s like. I really do. Haven’t you ever wondered what it would be like to have a vagina?
She said it as though the only possible answer was, “Of course I have, and I’m dying to experience the whole feemo, femmi, amazonio, cockamamie, hygienic business of being a woo-man…. Just as described by Charlotte Roche in Wetlands…”
That was roughly my answer.
“Oh you’ve read Wetlands,” she said, eyes lighting up and becoming oval, which I read somewhere recently means, for a woman, you want to be fucked.
I shook my head. Actually, part way through the book review I nearly threw up.
That made no sense to her at all. Why would reading all about the bodily liquidity of a woman not be interesting?
It just isn’t, I said. Nothing to do with women. I just think there should be a bare minimum of mystery, that’s all.
Meanwhile, N was paying close attention and even though he had not read the book or the review fully agreed with his polyamorotic obsession.
Incidentally, N is a professor of advanced languages at an Ivy league university and a consultant to various organizations that can benefit from his study. He’s in his late 30’s, quick witted, chatty, and always keen to talk about Israeli politics. He’s also German, as are nearly all of S’s lovers. His father was taken prisoner at Stalingrad and his grandmother on his mother’s side was Jewish. Several years ago he officially converted to Judaism and since then has spent considerable time in Israel. He considers himself anti-Zionist, which puts him at odds with S’s parents who both over-the-top Zionists.
With S’s parents, did you say? I did. He met them recently. Although introduced as a friend, S’s mother said to her, very slyly, ‘this is your fellow-traveler friend that you went to Jerusalem with last year?”
Exactly.
N would have you believe he is a comrade-in-arms with the working class. Perhaps, he was growing up, but not now. He lives in a rooftop penthouse in downtown Los Angeles, in the Rampart District, which if you know about such places, is well known as ground zero for corrupt LA sheriff’s deputies. I once wrote a story about a deputy nearly killed by his fellows, literally run down on his motorcycle by deputies in cars, because as an under cover agent in the department he had found some dirty dealings.
Which has nothing to do with N, although I find it vaguely ironic that he is at once comrade and constable. He lives in a rotten neighborhood, but in a penthouse. He says he doesn’t like cops but consults for some law enforcement agencies. He’s from the working class but he’s beginning to cool on Obama because of the new tax rates (From 33% to 36% for those making more than $250,000 a year).
At one point I asked him about Obama’s position on directing the American economy, and culture, away from growth and spending toward saving and investment. “Well, you see this is where I don’t know. I’m just over this threshold and I’m a little worried. I don’t think you should be taxed to death.”
This from a man who had said earlier that he was to the left of Obama and if forced to choose between being subservient to big business or big government would side with big government. All this said, I liked the man, and much I always assume women pick lovers who are much different than their husbands I found him very much like her husband, only younger and more forceful.
But I had to laugh when the question of S’s other lover came up. Call him Y, a 20-something, prize winning short story writer. In fact, S doesn’t like his writing but is attracted to his lack of sexual experience.
“That sniveling little slave,” said N. “No talent whatsoever. I just don’t see it.” And there was a long silence. Which was broken when S said she wanted a penis on her 50th. She was quite serious and said she’d even looked into having an operation.
The way she said it, so longingly, as though her life would be complete — “I want my own penis”. I don’t know why but I immediately thought of a brand new, 1957 red Thunderbird floating down the Sunset Strip, at midnight, with Whiskey-a-go-go at full blast.
If I were tweeting you this, in 140 characters, less the URL, the message might be something like, “one woman broad-squad wants (her own) penis for her 50th”.
S’s husband, D, who stayed with us a few months ago, knows about his wife and N and one of the revelations from last night was that S has recently been going to a therapist specializing in polyamorous relationships. Indeed, two therapists. One she goes to with her husband; the other with her lover. The common thread is that S loves both men, and actually there are others but I’ll get to that, and so the goal is to help these two men understand both her needs and her nature, as well as the awkward situation they find themselves in.
So far therapy has not been effective. When S goes off on one of her erotic adventures she does not say where she is going or with whom and, if pressed, may respond with a half lie or some banter from the therapists or does a little ideo-philosophic number on why it’s okay to be secretive AND polyamorous — although I always thought the hope and promise of being polyamorous was that you could be open. Anyway, as she goes out the door her husband says to her, “I know you’re going off with that Nazi, pseudo-intellectual, scumbag, fuck-face. I hope you have a good time.”
She always does.
By the same token the therapy has not worked for N who has no regard for D. “Well admit it he’s the classic, hippy-Jew-aristocrat, with a lot of money and absolutely no talent. I can’t understand what you see in him.”
S sees everything in her husband and loves him as best she can. They’ve been married for nearly 20 years. And if you met him you would say, how could she not love him? Although she is independent financially, still he provides her with access to material worlds, houses on this coast and that, exotic vacations — in sum real and imagined properties she would not have otherwise. But more important her husband is a really good guy. He’s very kind and also steady and reliable and full of dry humor, and if he hadn’t gotten caught up in allure of New York investment banking for so many years, maybe S would never have discovered her polyamorous needs.
Actually, that’s not true. My wife who has known S since college days will tell you that she was always like that but more so now.
By way of 9 to 5, S works for one of the top literary agencies in New York. She plays the viola in a traveling string quartet. Ten years ago she wanted to learn German — to explore her roots — and so went to Heidelberg, studied at the university and for a year volunteered at a methadone clinic.
My wife insists S is a “serious person”, which means someone who 1) reads books; 2) cares about literature, regardless of culture and can hold a discussion about literature for two and a half hours without moving; and 3) and most important, S reads poetry but doesn’t write it. For my wife that’s a slam-dunk indication that S is a serious person, along with the fact that S will say or do anything, which my wife has begun to do lately, in earnest.
And you understand S doesn’t do or say these outrageous things entirely for effect. It’s just her way of being, and so last night at dinner, the rest of us floating in North Sea Vodka, she broke a much-needed silence by saying, “my 50th birthday is coming up and I’m hoping to get a penis.”
My first thought was, ‘but you already have at least three that I know of, how many more do you need?’
I put that thought in a smile.
“No,” she said. “I want a penis, I want to know what that’s like. I really do. Haven’t you ever wondered what it would be like to have a vagina?
She said it as though the only possible answer was, “Of course I have, and I’m dying to experience the whole feemo, femmi, amazonio, cockamamie, hygienic business of being a woo-man…. Just as described by Charlotte Roche in Wetlands…”
That was roughly my answer.
“Oh you’ve read Wetlands,” she said, eyes lighting up and becoming oval, which I read somewhere recently means, for a woman, you want to be fucked.
I shook my head. Actually, part way through the book review I nearly threw up.
That made no sense to her at all. Why would reading all about the bodily liquidity of a woman not be interesting?
It just isn’t, I said. Nothing to do with women. I just think there should be a bare minimum of mystery, that’s all.
Meanwhile, N was paying close attention and even though he had not read the book or the review fully agreed with his polyamorotic obsession.
Incidentally, N is a professor of advanced languages at an Ivy league university and a consultant to various organizations that can benefit from his study. He’s in his late 30’s, quick witted, chatty, and always keen to talk about Israeli politics. He’s also German, as are nearly all of S’s lovers. His father was taken prisoner at Stalingrad and his grandmother on his mother’s side was Jewish. Several years ago he officially converted to Judaism and since then has spent considerable time in Israel. He considers himself anti-Zionist, which puts him at odds with S’s parents who both over-the-top Zionists.
With S’s parents, did you say? I did. He met them recently. Although introduced as a friend, S’s mother said to her, very slyly, ‘this is your fellow-traveler friend that you went to Jerusalem with last year?”
Exactly.
N would have you believe he is a comrade-in-arms with the working class. Perhaps, he was growing up, but not now. He lives in a rooftop penthouse in downtown Los Angeles, in the Rampart District, which if you know about such places, is well known as ground zero for corrupt LA sheriff’s deputies. I once wrote a story about a deputy nearly killed by his fellows, literally run down on his motorcycle by deputies in cars, because as an under cover agent in the department he had found some dirty dealings.
Which has nothing to do with N, although I find it vaguely ironic that he is at once comrade and constable. He lives in a rotten neighborhood, but in a penthouse. He says he doesn’t like cops but consults for some law enforcement agencies. He’s from the working class but he’s beginning to cool on Obama because of the new tax rates (From 33% to 36% for those making more than $250,000 a year).
At one point I asked him about Obama’s position on directing the American economy, and culture, away from growth and spending toward saving and investment. “Well, you see this is where I don’t know. I’m just over this threshold and I’m a little worried. I don’t think you should be taxed to death.”
This from a man who had said earlier that he was to the left of Obama and if forced to choose between being subservient to big business or big government would side with big government. All this said, I liked the man, and much I always assume women pick lovers who are much different than their husbands I found him very much like her husband, only younger and more forceful.
But I had to laugh when the question of S’s other lover came up. Call him Y, a 20-something, prize winning short story writer. In fact, S doesn’t like his writing but is attracted to his lack of sexual experience.
“That sniveling little slave,” said N. “No talent whatsoever. I just don’t see it.” And there was a long silence. Which was broken when S said she wanted a penis on her 50th. She was quite serious and said she’d even looked into having an operation.
The way she said it, so longingly, as though her life would be complete — “I want my own penis”. I don’t know why but I immediately thought of a brand new, 1957 red Thunderbird floating down the Sunset Strip, at midnight, with Whiskey-a-go-go at full blast.
Apr 18, 2009
I ran into Arty while circling the polo fields this morning. "Arthur Strife" we call him because his last name rimes roughly with strife and life. For him the two are synonymous. There's always some calamity with his children or one of his ex-wives. He would like you to think he comes to the track to run off his frustration but really he comes to talk about it.
"Did you read the New York Times Sunday Magazine last week?" he asked.
I had not.
"You got to read it. They had an article on SeekingArrangement dot com."
I don't know what that is.
"It's a website for sugar daddy's looking for little side dish. But boy is it expensive."
So this is where you find each other.
"Correcto. And then $3,000 to $5,000 a month. And that's in a recession."
Sounds like alimony to me.
"Correcto. That was my very first thought, but then of course you can stop it at any time, although I wasn't quite clear on how that works. I mean what if the side dish wants to blackmail you with your main dish. You know what I mean?"
Uh huh, I said. And then Arty stopped running, which means he wants you to be his therapist and grant approvals.
"But see it's not just sugar daddies looking for sugar," he said.
What are the other possibilities?"
He was so glad I showed interest.
"Well, you have 'sugar daddy', 'sugar baby' (female); and 'sugar daddy' (male)." He made the quote signs each time with his chubby fingers. "But then you also have 'sugar mommy'."
What's that?
"Well that's what's interesting. It's kind of eclectic. You have your Mistress Cruella who whips the shit out of you and for that you pay, get this, are you ready for this, I couldn't believe this number... Twenty-thousand dollars... Not for a life time of abuse, not for a year of abuse, but every month. 'Are you fuckin' kidding me?' I said. And in a recession."
But Artie you're not looking for abuse are you? I thought we'd finished with that.
"Well, yes, but see here's what else there is under sugar mommy. They have women who actually want to be your mommy. And of course they don't charge as much."
How much do they charge?
"Maybe a grand a month if you don't take up too much time. More time and you pay maybe 2 grand. But even then you're actually getting something."
You mean you're getting 'mommy sex'. What is that? You recreate coming out of the womb? Something like that?
"Sure, you could get that. But I'm looking for a different kind of mommy. Sure, sex has to be there, definitely. But I'm looking for someone that you can go to for...."
Emotional stuff...
"I know this going to sound strange. But I'm just thinking of someone who knows you, you know what I mean, who can talk to you and make your lunch and make sure you've done all your errands, but in a nice way, and can pay your bills and make you a really good peanut butter and jelly sandwich and tell you jokes, reassure you if you've had a bad dream, which I'm having more and more lately, be optimistic about the economy, and then, and this really important, they remember who you were when you were growing up. I've told my wife all these things about my childhood but she doesn't remember a thing..."
But Artie, do you remember anything about her childhood?
"Absolutely, when she ran away, her first boyfriend. All that. But I'm talking about the nuances. Like when I used to go shopping for shoes with my Dad. Very important themes in my life."
I completely understand.
"So I found someone who might be able to do it."
You're kidding.
"I think I have."
When are you going to see her?
"Soon. I'm getting together all my old picture albums, books I used to read, journals, some old vinyl records, short pants I had when I was five. Did you ever see 8 1/2. that scene where he's having this fantasy of being at dinner with all of his mistresses and his wife, who is wife and mother at the same time, is managing it all." He shook his head as though to say, "idn' that the truth? "That's my fantasy," he said and ran on.
"Did you read the New York Times Sunday Magazine last week?" he asked.
I had not.
"You got to read it. They had an article on SeekingArrangement dot com."
I don't know what that is.
"It's a website for sugar daddy's looking for little side dish. But boy is it expensive."
So this is where you find each other.
"Correcto. And then $3,000 to $5,000 a month. And that's in a recession."
Sounds like alimony to me.
"Correcto. That was my very first thought, but then of course you can stop it at any time, although I wasn't quite clear on how that works. I mean what if the side dish wants to blackmail you with your main dish. You know what I mean?"
Uh huh, I said. And then Arty stopped running, which means he wants you to be his therapist and grant approvals.
"But see it's not just sugar daddies looking for sugar," he said.
What are the other possibilities?"
He was so glad I showed interest.
"Well, you have 'sugar daddy', 'sugar baby' (female); and 'sugar daddy' (male)." He made the quote signs each time with his chubby fingers. "But then you also have 'sugar mommy'."
What's that?
"Well that's what's interesting. It's kind of eclectic. You have your Mistress Cruella who whips the shit out of you and for that you pay, get this, are you ready for this, I couldn't believe this number... Twenty-thousand dollars... Not for a life time of abuse, not for a year of abuse, but every month. 'Are you fuckin' kidding me?' I said. And in a recession."
But Artie you're not looking for abuse are you? I thought we'd finished with that.
"Well, yes, but see here's what else there is under sugar mommy. They have women who actually want to be your mommy. And of course they don't charge as much."
How much do they charge?
"Maybe a grand a month if you don't take up too much time. More time and you pay maybe 2 grand. But even then you're actually getting something."
You mean you're getting 'mommy sex'. What is that? You recreate coming out of the womb? Something like that?
"Sure, you could get that. But I'm looking for a different kind of mommy. Sure, sex has to be there, definitely. But I'm looking for someone that you can go to for...."
Emotional stuff...
"I know this going to sound strange. But I'm just thinking of someone who knows you, you know what I mean, who can talk to you and make your lunch and make sure you've done all your errands, but in a nice way, and can pay your bills and make you a really good peanut butter and jelly sandwich and tell you jokes, reassure you if you've had a bad dream, which I'm having more and more lately, be optimistic about the economy, and then, and this really important, they remember who you were when you were growing up. I've told my wife all these things about my childhood but she doesn't remember a thing..."
But Artie, do you remember anything about her childhood?
"Absolutely, when she ran away, her first boyfriend. All that. But I'm talking about the nuances. Like when I used to go shopping for shoes with my Dad. Very important themes in my life."
I completely understand.
"So I found someone who might be able to do it."
You're kidding.
"I think I have."
When are you going to see her?
"Soon. I'm getting together all my old picture albums, books I used to read, journals, some old vinyl records, short pants I had when I was five. Did you ever see 8 1/2. that scene where he's having this fantasy of being at dinner with all of his mistresses and his wife, who is wife and mother at the same time, is managing it all." He shook his head as though to say, "idn' that the truth? "That's my fantasy," he said and ran on.
Apr 5, 2009
Barbara Simpson is a radio talk show host on KSFO, a San Francisco radio station that features a complete line of conservative hosts, beginning with Rush Limbaugh and ending, you could say, with Ms. Simpson and Brian Sussman, who is actually the more outrageous of the two.
The other day Ms. Simpson, who describes herself as 'the babe in the bunker', railed against the Obamas in Europe, accusing them not least of showing bad manners with the Queen of England and other heads of state. I wrote an email criticizing her criticism and raising some questions about things Ms. Simpson has written. Here's part of what I wrote...
But do you ever question what you're doing or what the effect is? It was particularly troubling to read this, especially in the context of other things you've said and written (about President Obama)....
"In his political ivory tower he cannot see that by taking
American independence and love of freedom for granted,
he's sowing the seeds of a revolution against him and
his politics.
"Someone, somewhere, told him he was untouchable.
"That someone was wrong."
That sounds vaguely threatening. And again, political views aside, inappropriate. Why? Because you give comfort and encouragement to people of slim mind and scruple. I'm not for the fairness doctrine, but when you say these things and write these things, with no sense of how they become part of the steroid driving people these days,
then I'm beginning to think it is time to shut off the spigot.
Ms. Simpson answered, in part, by asking... "you're just full of questions. i have just one: why do you listen?"
I responded (Sunday, April 5).
Barbara,
Here's an AP portrait of Richard Poplawski who shot and killed three police officers yesterday....
— 23 years old, caucasian.
— Feared "the Obama gun ban that's on the way" and "didn't like our rights being infringed upon."
— had an Internet talk show but that wasn't successful.
— had an AK-47 rifle and several powerful handguns, including a .357 Magnum.
— had been laid off from his job at a glass factory earlier this year.
— had been upset about losing his job.
— lived in a neighborhood of well-kept single-family houses and manicured lawns is home to many police officers, firefighters, paramedics and other city workers.
Here's what little is known about Jiverly Wong....
— often mocked for his inability to speak English, was taking language classes at the association until dropping out in the first week of March.
— slipped into despair after recently losing his job at a local factory.
Here's the unemployment rate in California...
— 10.1% in January 2009; will march upward until at least the end of the year, economists predicted (March 9).
Here's an excerpt from an October 1991 New York Times article about mass murders in the U.S....
Dr. Fox, who defines mass murder as the killing of four or more people, said there were now an average of two mass murders a month in this country. Most are in Texas, California and Florida, heavily populated states with a large influx of migrants searching for new jobs or families after disappointments or frustrations elsewhere.
It is this kind of unhappy, angry people, almost always middle-aged white men in their 30's or 40's, who are most likely to become mass murderers, said Dr. Fox, the dean of the College of Criminal Justice at Northeastern and a co-author of "Mass Murder," (Plenum Publishing, 1985) widely considered the most authoritative study of this type of crime.
Typically mass murderers are men with no previous criminal record or history of mental illness, said Dr. Marvin E. Wolfgang, professor of criminology and law at the University of Pennsylvania, and their killings "are not really planned."
Like Mr. Hennard, they may be rude to their neighbors and have occasional outbursts that frighten people, but that is true of thousands of people around the country and offers no clue that they will become mass murderers, added Dr. Fox.
"What is really striking is our complete inability to predict this kind of violence," said Deborah Denno, a criminologist and an associate professor of law at Fordham University.
What seems to happen with men who become mass murderers, Dr. Fox said, is that after a prolonged period of being lonely, frustrated and filled with rage, "There is some precipitating event, often a catastrophe in their lives," which drives them over the edge. It may be getting divorced or losing their jobs, Dr. Fox said.
Here are my questions to you?
Forget Jiverly Wong for a moment, since I would guess you don't have a high percentage of immigrants listening to KSFO. Particularly those that have recently arrived and don't speak English well. I hope I'm right. Pray to Mary, mother of God, if I'm not. But how many of your listeners fit the profile of Richard Poplawski? And how many of those that fit the profile are close to a tipping point? And how many of those close to a tipping point get fed their mistrust and hatred from you, in large measure or small? Or any of the other people on 'hate radio'? And then put aside killings, how many domestic violence cases do you suppose go unreported that could be attributed to anger fanned by your program? How many women have been slapped or humiliated, or punched or God knows what, because of the emotions you keep on simmer? How many times is the proximate cause of domestic violence something people have heard on these shows?
Which leads to the question, what responsibility do you have to this community? You might say, 'well, we are the government in exile.' 'We're the loyal opposition.' But you're certainly not in the same league as say, George Will or William F. Buckley, who kept and keep a high standard of discourse. Or what about Marc Ambinder? Your intention is not to have a thoughtful, reasoned discussion. Your intention is not to help conservatives join in a genuine public dialogue... The intention is to accentuate differences, to rile up, to make money on people's anger and their baser instincts. The things that Poplawski told his friends were all things you hear on your show, they're ideas you've written about yourself. You give encouragement and license to these people.... You endorse their fear.
And then to throw gasoline on the fire — you oppose gun control. That's the real madness. Tell that to the wives and children of the seven police officers killed in the last two weeks in this country. What possible justification is there for anyone to own an AK-47?
And you don't deny these things.....
You said that you were ashamed and embarrassed by the Obamas in Europe, for their lack of manners. Which I found very amusing since they have come to represent the best of America — the smart, urbane, friendly, and confident people that we can be. People with "no side" as they say in the South. And people all over the world are responding. As opposed to the fearful, sneering, arrogant stupidity that became America's brand under W. Now, you can feel great about being an America again. Now, we're back in the driver's seat.
And then as you kept going on and on all I could think was, 'but you're so far off the mark; the truth is, you should be deeply ashamed and embarrassed for yourself." But then how could you? You don't have that kind of self-knowledge. It doesn't occur to you that you need to take responsibility for these things you're saying and that your friends and colleagues are saying.....
But how are you going to feel, how are any of you going to feel at KSFO, if some local Poplawski goes nuts?
Finally, an answer to your question? Why do I listen? If it's all so shameful, why do I listen? It's a good question and the answer is evolving. I began listening originally out of curiosity. Like watching the fat lady or some misshapened poor bastard at the county fair. More than that, the expression of hatred is compelling. Hitler knew that. The radio priest of the Great Depression, Fr. Charles Coughlin, knew that. You know that. And that you know and still do it is compelling. I suppose it's the intellectual equivalent of watching fake wrestling. But then you wonder, the audience may not always know the difference between entertainment and sincere political belief, but does the talk show host know?
Rush Limbaugh used to know the difference, but now he's lost his humor and meshed the two together. His imitators have done the same because the economic model is so successful.
In any case, now I've begun listening in earnest. Because it's time to challenge what you're doing. Think of it as a backlash to the backlash. And it's not about free speech anymore. That argument is void. It's about falsely shouting 'fire' in a crowded movie theater. It's the equivalent to drunk driving or gross negligence, or as I'm afraid we're going to find out one of these days, manslaughter. I can even see a day where in civil court a talk show host might be sued for promoting untruths or half-truths leading to a death. Or deaths.
The other day Ms. Simpson, who describes herself as 'the babe in the bunker', railed against the Obamas in Europe, accusing them not least of showing bad manners with the Queen of England and other heads of state. I wrote an email criticizing her criticism and raising some questions about things Ms. Simpson has written. Here's part of what I wrote...
But do you ever question what you're doing or what the effect is? It was particularly troubling to read this, especially in the context of other things you've said and written (about President Obama)....
"In his political ivory tower he cannot see that by taking
American independence and love of freedom for granted,
he's sowing the seeds of a revolution against him and
his politics.
"Someone, somewhere, told him he was untouchable.
"That someone was wrong."
That sounds vaguely threatening. And again, political views aside, inappropriate. Why? Because you give comfort and encouragement to people of slim mind and scruple. I'm not for the fairness doctrine, but when you say these things and write these things, with no sense of how they become part of the steroid driving people these days,
then I'm beginning to think it is time to shut off the spigot.
Ms. Simpson answered, in part, by asking... "you're just full of questions. i have just one: why do you listen?"
I responded (Sunday, April 5).
Barbara,
Here's an AP portrait of Richard Poplawski who shot and killed three police officers yesterday....
— 23 years old, caucasian.
— Feared "the Obama gun ban that's on the way" and "didn't like our rights being infringed upon."
— had an Internet talk show but that wasn't successful.
— had an AK-47 rifle and several powerful handguns, including a .357 Magnum.
— had been laid off from his job at a glass factory earlier this year.
— had been upset about losing his job.
— lived in a neighborhood of well-kept single-family houses and manicured lawns is home to many police officers, firefighters, paramedics and other city workers.
Here's what little is known about Jiverly Wong....
— often mocked for his inability to speak English, was taking language classes at the association until dropping out in the first week of March.
— slipped into despair after recently losing his job at a local factory.
Here's the unemployment rate in California...
— 10.1% in January 2009; will march upward until at least the end of the year, economists predicted (March 9).
Here's an excerpt from an October 1991 New York Times article about mass murders in the U.S....
Dr. Fox, who defines mass murder as the killing of four or more people, said there were now an average of two mass murders a month in this country. Most are in Texas, California and Florida, heavily populated states with a large influx of migrants searching for new jobs or families after disappointments or frustrations elsewhere.
It is this kind of unhappy, angry people, almost always middle-aged white men in their 30's or 40's, who are most likely to become mass murderers, said Dr. Fox, the dean of the College of Criminal Justice at Northeastern and a co-author of "Mass Murder," (Plenum Publishing, 1985) widely considered the most authoritative study of this type of crime.
Typically mass murderers are men with no previous criminal record or history of mental illness, said Dr. Marvin E. Wolfgang, professor of criminology and law at the University of Pennsylvania, and their killings "are not really planned."
Like Mr. Hennard, they may be rude to their neighbors and have occasional outbursts that frighten people, but that is true of thousands of people around the country and offers no clue that they will become mass murderers, added Dr. Fox.
"What is really striking is our complete inability to predict this kind of violence," said Deborah Denno, a criminologist and an associate professor of law at Fordham University.
What seems to happen with men who become mass murderers, Dr. Fox said, is that after a prolonged period of being lonely, frustrated and filled with rage, "There is some precipitating event, often a catastrophe in their lives," which drives them over the edge. It may be getting divorced or losing their jobs, Dr. Fox said.
Here are my questions to you?
Forget Jiverly Wong for a moment, since I would guess you don't have a high percentage of immigrants listening to KSFO. Particularly those that have recently arrived and don't speak English well. I hope I'm right. Pray to Mary, mother of God, if I'm not. But how many of your listeners fit the profile of Richard Poplawski? And how many of those that fit the profile are close to a tipping point? And how many of those close to a tipping point get fed their mistrust and hatred from you, in large measure or small? Or any of the other people on 'hate radio'? And then put aside killings, how many domestic violence cases do you suppose go unreported that could be attributed to anger fanned by your program? How many women have been slapped or humiliated, or punched or God knows what, because of the emotions you keep on simmer? How many times is the proximate cause of domestic violence something people have heard on these shows?
Which leads to the question, what responsibility do you have to this community? You might say, 'well, we are the government in exile.' 'We're the loyal opposition.' But you're certainly not in the same league as say, George Will or William F. Buckley, who kept and keep a high standard of discourse. Or what about Marc Ambinder? Your intention is not to have a thoughtful, reasoned discussion. Your intention is not to help conservatives join in a genuine public dialogue... The intention is to accentuate differences, to rile up, to make money on people's anger and their baser instincts. The things that Poplawski told his friends were all things you hear on your show, they're ideas you've written about yourself. You give encouragement and license to these people.... You endorse their fear.
And then to throw gasoline on the fire — you oppose gun control. That's the real madness. Tell that to the wives and children of the seven police officers killed in the last two weeks in this country. What possible justification is there for anyone to own an AK-47?
And you don't deny these things.....
You said that you were ashamed and embarrassed by the Obamas in Europe, for their lack of manners. Which I found very amusing since they have come to represent the best of America — the smart, urbane, friendly, and confident people that we can be. People with "no side" as they say in the South. And people all over the world are responding. As opposed to the fearful, sneering, arrogant stupidity that became America's brand under W. Now, you can feel great about being an America again. Now, we're back in the driver's seat.
And then as you kept going on and on all I could think was, 'but you're so far off the mark; the truth is, you should be deeply ashamed and embarrassed for yourself." But then how could you? You don't have that kind of self-knowledge. It doesn't occur to you that you need to take responsibility for these things you're saying and that your friends and colleagues are saying.....
But how are you going to feel, how are any of you going to feel at KSFO, if some local Poplawski goes nuts?
Finally, an answer to your question? Why do I listen? If it's all so shameful, why do I listen? It's a good question and the answer is evolving. I began listening originally out of curiosity. Like watching the fat lady or some misshapened poor bastard at the county fair. More than that, the expression of hatred is compelling. Hitler knew that. The radio priest of the Great Depression, Fr. Charles Coughlin, knew that. You know that. And that you know and still do it is compelling. I suppose it's the intellectual equivalent of watching fake wrestling. But then you wonder, the audience may not always know the difference between entertainment and sincere political belief, but does the talk show host know?
Rush Limbaugh used to know the difference, but now he's lost his humor and meshed the two together. His imitators have done the same because the economic model is so successful.
In any case, now I've begun listening in earnest. Because it's time to challenge what you're doing. Think of it as a backlash to the backlash. And it's not about free speech anymore. That argument is void. It's about falsely shouting 'fire' in a crowded movie theater. It's the equivalent to drunk driving or gross negligence, or as I'm afraid we're going to find out one of these days, manslaughter. I can even see a day where in civil court a talk show host might be sued for promoting untruths or half-truths leading to a death. Or deaths.
Apr 2, 2009
Mar 29, 2009
Mar 2, 2009
The landlord arrives to plug up the air vents, which stream cigarette smoke from the downstairs tenant like stacks on the Lusitania. Afterward, the landlord wants a word: the word is he wants to raise the rent. After all, it's been a year and a half. I ask him if that's such a good idea, under the circumstances, with rents going down in many parts of the city. I also tell him that my wife is already looking for a new place and that if we move he will sorely miss the tremendous subsidy we've been putting into the backyard garden. "Well, you're getting something out of it," he says. Of course, I say, but the long term benefit is to you. No?"
He agrees. And we both pause to mark an agreement. I don't mention that I am keeping his secret, which is that he rents a small room off the garage illegally.
He moves into the kitchen. I invite him to sit down, have some tea. He sits down. Water will do.
We've talked two or three times before. We have hardly any relationship. Out of nowhere he unearths a piece of his life story. He is second generation Chinese. He has spent 30 years in real estate. He knows all the tricks in selling houses. He should have made more money over the years but for one reason or another he hasn't. He is defensive about appearing rich, and insists that even by the new Obama guidelines he is not rich. He concedes he makes more than $250,000 a year (from his many properties) but he owes more than $250,000 in expenses. The new stimulus will only cover properties up to $350,000; but in San Francisco, a special dispensation allows the limit to go up to $417,000. But what property could you find for that amount in San Francisco. So you see, he tells me, I am not a rich man. I'm just like you. He elaborates, he draws a portrait of a man who is anything but what he seems.
"You know about my wife, right?" he asks.
I don't.
He goes on to tell her story, how for years she has been fighting a brain tumor and thank god for the moment it's in remission. But you can't imagine, he says.
I can't.
The rain is coming down; the whole word seems like it's coming down. "You know," he says. "Sometimes lately I even consider...."
He doesn't finish. What is it you consider, I say.
"Suicide.... Suicide. Oh of course I would never do it. Absolutely no way But this is where I am. Even that thought. You see. That's how bad it is."
He stands up abruptly. We shake hands. He leaves. Ten minutes later he returns, to say that he recently received a ticket because we had left the garbage cans in plain view. What do you mean, I ask. I look down the street. By every house you can see the blue, black and green plastic cans. No, he says they are finally pressing an old city ordinance. All cans must be out of view.
And so this is what the city has come to. And what of the landlord. He wants to kill himself, he wants to raise the rent, he wants the garbage cans out of sight. His wife has a brain tumor. In which order should these things be listed to suggest who this man really is....
Later in the evening I receive a note from a good friend. "Right now I am depleting my already depressed "retirement accounts" -- by summer I will probably be homeless. Just to make sure you understand how serious the situation has become." He goes on to talk about how precarious his job is, how he's become a moth on his boss's palm and his boss has no interest in moths.
"To tell you the honest truth, if I lose that outlet, I'll become suicidal."
Suicide thoughts are on the wind. They're blowing every which way. And here we are, not even at the hard part yet.
He agrees. And we both pause to mark an agreement. I don't mention that I am keeping his secret, which is that he rents a small room off the garage illegally.
He moves into the kitchen. I invite him to sit down, have some tea. He sits down. Water will do.
We've talked two or three times before. We have hardly any relationship. Out of nowhere he unearths a piece of his life story. He is second generation Chinese. He has spent 30 years in real estate. He knows all the tricks in selling houses. He should have made more money over the years but for one reason or another he hasn't. He is defensive about appearing rich, and insists that even by the new Obama guidelines he is not rich. He concedes he makes more than $250,000 a year (from his many properties) but he owes more than $250,000 in expenses. The new stimulus will only cover properties up to $350,000; but in San Francisco, a special dispensation allows the limit to go up to $417,000. But what property could you find for that amount in San Francisco. So you see, he tells me, I am not a rich man. I'm just like you. He elaborates, he draws a portrait of a man who is anything but what he seems.
"You know about my wife, right?" he asks.
I don't.
He goes on to tell her story, how for years she has been fighting a brain tumor and thank god for the moment it's in remission. But you can't imagine, he says.
I can't.
The rain is coming down; the whole word seems like it's coming down. "You know," he says. "Sometimes lately I even consider...."
He doesn't finish. What is it you consider, I say.
"Suicide.... Suicide. Oh of course I would never do it. Absolutely no way But this is where I am. Even that thought. You see. That's how bad it is."
He stands up abruptly. We shake hands. He leaves. Ten minutes later he returns, to say that he recently received a ticket because we had left the garbage cans in plain view. What do you mean, I ask. I look down the street. By every house you can see the blue, black and green plastic cans. No, he says they are finally pressing an old city ordinance. All cans must be out of view.
And so this is what the city has come to. And what of the landlord. He wants to kill himself, he wants to raise the rent, he wants the garbage cans out of sight. His wife has a brain tumor. In which order should these things be listed to suggest who this man really is....
Later in the evening I receive a note from a good friend. "Right now I am depleting my already depressed "retirement accounts" -- by summer I will probably be homeless. Just to make sure you understand how serious the situation has become." He goes on to talk about how precarious his job is, how he's become a moth on his boss's palm and his boss has no interest in moths.
"To tell you the honest truth, if I lose that outlet, I'll become suicidal."
Suicide thoughts are on the wind. They're blowing every which way. And here we are, not even at the hard part yet.
Mar 1, 2009
At the end of a personal era, in the late 1970s, in early May perhaps, I took the elevator up to what seemed like the 500th floor of the AIG building, down at 70 Pine, all of lower Manhattan at your feet. The city was the starlight room of the world then, and the brag was still true that 'til you fought in the garden you ain't fought; but of course at the same time, the city was lowlit, a Plato's Retreat, with its gritty Jersey crowd and older women leading braces of younger men to private rooms — a city of people fucking you left and right, and you doing the same to them.
Of all the financial companies, Citibank was known for that. That's where you went to work if you enjoyed using a shiv and getting one in return.
All the while, the city's middle class was leaving; as it always seems to be. The economy was in shambles. MBAs unable to get on Wall Street took banking jobs on Water Street. Everyone got pushed down a notch. If you had an MA but not an MBA you might well end up in Insurance, which was then low caste finance and the wild west of careers.
Natalie Cole lived downstairs in our apartment building, which was on 94th and Riverside Drive. That was the edge of the known world in some respects, for some people. You paid a lot of money to ride the elevator, clinking and clanking, up and down with pimps and addicts and forensics in general. Nevertheless, the neighborhoood had tremendous charm: The year before, on July 4th the Tall Ships dropped anchor out the window, in the Hudson River. It was hot as bejesus and I kept rolling to Martha and the Vandellas singing Heat Wave, which had come out 15 years earlier, in September, 1963, the year I went off to boarding school and this personal era began.
The startle of that day in 1977 or 8, that day in May, was that you might not be able to write off a two martini lunch. That was bad news for people, including my friend, Bill G. who at nearly every lunch would have five double vodkas and tonic. I saw it day after day. Or else two litres of Saki. And then would go back to his office, sell $5 million in reinsurance, and dream up some new risk to sell. His claim to fame was Ransom insurance.
I'd just returned from a prolonged business trip to Saudi Arabia and London. I was working as a Casualty underwriter for American International Underwriters, the international arm of the American International Group (AIG), which in those days was all Hank Greenberg, all the time. He was the business primate of the moment, the matinee masshia of insurance and reinsurance.
The trip had not gone well. Bad right from the start. the plan was for my boss and I to go to Athens, meet an business contact and I would go on to Saudi Arabia to secure more business. We flew out of New York on March 15, passing through Rome the next day, the day Aldo Moro was kidnapped.
The next day, we were in Athens, having lunch below the Acropolis with a Palestinian insurance broker. This was six days after what has since been called the Coastal Road Massacre in which a woman lead a band of Palestinian terrorists in a small boat to Tel Aviv, highjacked a bus and got into a shootout with police. Thirty-eight people were killed, a dozen were children.
Over lunch I was in the delicate position of balancing the Palestinian and my boss, a Jew from New Jersey. Art was in the Hank Greenberg mold and although less refined, every bit as creative, energetic, street smart and determined. He made it clear that his ethnicity was to be secret and he also made clear how much he despised Arabs.
Inevitably, the conversation at lunch turned to the bus massacre. The Palestinian was defensive; he offered the standard defense, a history of victimhood, an argument I knew very well — the argument arc of Sykes-Picot, the McMahon Correspondence, Deir Yassin, the killing of Count Bernadette. I knew all the arguments. I was a sympathizer.
"You agree with me, don't you?" he said at one point. "I can tell you agree with me." I went back to my plate, trying to ease fish flesh off the bone.
Finally I shook my head. "No, I don't agree, you can't justify a massacre with history. Perhaps, understand it but you can't justify it, even your history...."
I tried to be forthright, and not to sound disingenuously diplomatic, but the Palestinian frowned.
"I thought you knew something about our culture, but clearly you don't." He went on and on about how I was like all Americans, how they think they know about the Palestinian cause but they don't.
In the cab afterward, my boss was furious. "Why did you get into an argument with this man?" he asked. "You idiot."
The next day he returned to New York. I and another person from AIU, went on to Riyadh and Jeddah. At each stop, casualty business was promised, tea was provided, and the backgammon was endless as you waited to be seen by someone from the royal family. After that I spent a month in Croydon, England, that blandest of financial capitals. I oversaw how the middle east operation was running. There were problems. The business, mostly in Saudi Arabia, had been built on uncertain and unreliable agreements, high commissions, and never a clear understanding of what the profits and losses were. Now that business was tight
I returned to New York and one day had lunch with an executive at the parent company, AIG. I gave an appraisal of what the Saudi business was and what it might be. After lunch I followed the man up to his office, on the 500th floor, with New York at your feet, with David Rockerfeller's office just across the sky, a few blocks away.
It was the middle of the afternoon; even with tinted windows the sun off the city made you squint. The man went behind his desk to retrieve some documents he wanted me to look at. He also wanted to hear more of my report. But after a moment he suddenly turned reflective. He asked how interested I was in the insurance business. I answered properly, diplomatically. I tried to err on the side of diplomacy, no matter how it came out, no matter how disingenuous I might sound.
But once again I misjudged. "I would have thought you were too smart for this," he said and added, "How old are you anyway?"
I told him. He paused for a long while and then explained how 20 years earlier he'd gotten caught up in the allure of Hank Greenberg's famous promise to make anyone that joined him at the AIG a millionaire. And now this man was a millionaire.
He paused again and then brushed his eyes with his pocket linen. At first, I thought perhaps he was having some sort of allergic reaction. Then I realized he was weeping.
"I'll tell you this," he went on. "I mean I don't know you. Who the hell are you? I don't know what you want. But if you've got anything else you'd rather do in your life, I would suggest you do it."
He wiped his eyes, and then looking out at the grandeur of lower Manhatten he added, "You don't want to spend your life here doing this....Nothing good will come of it."
I left his office and several months later left AIG. His advice turned out to be the right encouragement at the right moment.
But I sometimes wonder what it would have been like to stay on and all these years later be in a company that symbolizes such power run amok, such brilliance squandered, such greed run to ground. Who would you be? What role would you have played? What would you tell the young man coming up?
Of all the financial companies, Citibank was known for that. That's where you went to work if you enjoyed using a shiv and getting one in return.
All the while, the city's middle class was leaving; as it always seems to be. The economy was in shambles. MBAs unable to get on Wall Street took banking jobs on Water Street. Everyone got pushed down a notch. If you had an MA but not an MBA you might well end up in Insurance, which was then low caste finance and the wild west of careers.
Natalie Cole lived downstairs in our apartment building, which was on 94th and Riverside Drive. That was the edge of the known world in some respects, for some people. You paid a lot of money to ride the elevator, clinking and clanking, up and down with pimps and addicts and forensics in general. Nevertheless, the neighborhoood had tremendous charm: The year before, on July 4th the Tall Ships dropped anchor out the window, in the Hudson River. It was hot as bejesus and I kept rolling to Martha and the Vandellas singing Heat Wave, which had come out 15 years earlier, in September, 1963, the year I went off to boarding school and this personal era began.
The startle of that day in 1977 or 8, that day in May, was that you might not be able to write off a two martini lunch. That was bad news for people, including my friend, Bill G. who at nearly every lunch would have five double vodkas and tonic. I saw it day after day. Or else two litres of Saki. And then would go back to his office, sell $5 million in reinsurance, and dream up some new risk to sell. His claim to fame was Ransom insurance.
I'd just returned from a prolonged business trip to Saudi Arabia and London. I was working as a Casualty underwriter for American International Underwriters, the international arm of the American International Group (AIG), which in those days was all Hank Greenberg, all the time. He was the business primate of the moment, the matinee masshia of insurance and reinsurance.
The trip had not gone well. Bad right from the start. the plan was for my boss and I to go to Athens, meet an business contact and I would go on to Saudi Arabia to secure more business. We flew out of New York on March 15, passing through Rome the next day, the day Aldo Moro was kidnapped.
The next day, we were in Athens, having lunch below the Acropolis with a Palestinian insurance broker. This was six days after what has since been called the Coastal Road Massacre in which a woman lead a band of Palestinian terrorists in a small boat to Tel Aviv, highjacked a bus and got into a shootout with police. Thirty-eight people were killed, a dozen were children.
Over lunch I was in the delicate position of balancing the Palestinian and my boss, a Jew from New Jersey. Art was in the Hank Greenberg mold and although less refined, every bit as creative, energetic, street smart and determined. He made it clear that his ethnicity was to be secret and he also made clear how much he despised Arabs.
Inevitably, the conversation at lunch turned to the bus massacre. The Palestinian was defensive; he offered the standard defense, a history of victimhood, an argument I knew very well — the argument arc of Sykes-Picot, the McMahon Correspondence, Deir Yassin, the killing of Count Bernadette. I knew all the arguments. I was a sympathizer.
"You agree with me, don't you?" he said at one point. "I can tell you agree with me." I went back to my plate, trying to ease fish flesh off the bone.
Finally I shook my head. "No, I don't agree, you can't justify a massacre with history. Perhaps, understand it but you can't justify it, even your history...."
I tried to be forthright, and not to sound disingenuously diplomatic, but the Palestinian frowned.
"I thought you knew something about our culture, but clearly you don't." He went on and on about how I was like all Americans, how they think they know about the Palestinian cause but they don't.
In the cab afterward, my boss was furious. "Why did you get into an argument with this man?" he asked. "You idiot."
The next day he returned to New York. I and another person from AIU, went on to Riyadh and Jeddah. At each stop, casualty business was promised, tea was provided, and the backgammon was endless as you waited to be seen by someone from the royal family. After that I spent a month in Croydon, England, that blandest of financial capitals. I oversaw how the middle east operation was running. There were problems. The business, mostly in Saudi Arabia, had been built on uncertain and unreliable agreements, high commissions, and never a clear understanding of what the profits and losses were. Now that business was tight
I returned to New York and one day had lunch with an executive at the parent company, AIG. I gave an appraisal of what the Saudi business was and what it might be. After lunch I followed the man up to his office, on the 500th floor, with New York at your feet, with David Rockerfeller's office just across the sky, a few blocks away.
It was the middle of the afternoon; even with tinted windows the sun off the city made you squint. The man went behind his desk to retrieve some documents he wanted me to look at. He also wanted to hear more of my report. But after a moment he suddenly turned reflective. He asked how interested I was in the insurance business. I answered properly, diplomatically. I tried to err on the side of diplomacy, no matter how it came out, no matter how disingenuous I might sound.
But once again I misjudged. "I would have thought you were too smart for this," he said and added, "How old are you anyway?"
I told him. He paused for a long while and then explained how 20 years earlier he'd gotten caught up in the allure of Hank Greenberg's famous promise to make anyone that joined him at the AIG a millionaire. And now this man was a millionaire.
He paused again and then brushed his eyes with his pocket linen. At first, I thought perhaps he was having some sort of allergic reaction. Then I realized he was weeping.
"I'll tell you this," he went on. "I mean I don't know you. Who the hell are you? I don't know what you want. But if you've got anything else you'd rather do in your life, I would suggest you do it."
He wiped his eyes, and then looking out at the grandeur of lower Manhatten he added, "You don't want to spend your life here doing this....Nothing good will come of it."
I left his office and several months later left AIG. His advice turned out to be the right encouragement at the right moment.
But I sometimes wonder what it would have been like to stay on and all these years later be in a company that symbolizes such power run amok, such brilliance squandered, such greed run to ground. Who would you be? What role would you have played? What would you tell the young man coming up?
Feb 26, 2009
There's a boy who I've come to adopt, if not legally, in some other senses. He's already 15 or he's almost 15, depending on which certificates you've seen and believe. His father lives abroad, in Georgia. The two of them haven't seen each in years. Every year the boy is going to visit his father next summer. But then next summer comes and the trip is called off. His mother does what she can to survive. Perhaps, she is training to be an accountant; I don't know. She speaks very good English. She is exceptionally pretty and stylish. She always wears dark glasses. I've seen her eyes just once. She and her son live in a small run down apartment, in the Western Addition.
This boy is a very good soccer player, not on his way to the national team perhaps but very talented. He's strong, fast and quick. He's played in several state cups. You notice him right away; he's got a long ponytail. And he's relentlessly slaloming through a defense or running down a forward. He's also mouthy and quick to blame a teammate. I've told him to cool that and he's trying but his first instinct is to find fault. As a result he's unpopular with certain parents, particularly those who don't like his public rebuke of their sons. 'C'mon, what are you doing?' he'll say. 'Pass me the ball.' Some of these parents roll their eyes and curse him under their breath. "Ball hog," they'll say. "Shut up," they even shout out.
But then very often he'll save the game, he'll come up with the winning goal or the tying goal, and then what can anyone say? They don't like him, but he wins games and these are parents who need a winning team.
Many of the other boys go to exclusive private schools. One of the fathers drives a Maserati. One of the boys has a nanny, a late 20-something man, long and thin, who arrives with his charge and picks him up. The boy has that perm-a-press confident smile that you sometimes see on the faces of the entitled.
So the social differences are great. This boy goes to a large public school, which worries his mother no end. And who knows how well he is doing. One time he tells me he's getting all As; the next time it's Cs and Ds. He has problems speaking proper English; my wife helps him. He doesn't like Science but he loves History and sometimes at the dinner table he'll engage us. The other day he wanted to describe the battle of Stalingrad and wanted to know whatever we knew. One minute he takes pride in his Russian connection and teh next he'll say how he loathes the Russians, particularly after the fighting last summer.
So this boy and my son have been together for years and in recent months they've drawn ever closer. They have little in common and yet they see themselves as outcasts who have found this soccer theater to play in.
All was fine until the other day when the team manager began looking into his birth records. This manager is on the board of one of the leagues and serves on the disciplinary committee. She often has to decide what to do with kids and coaches who try to get kids to play up or down illegally. If caught, a player or coach can be suspended for up to two years. This would be a killshot for the coach in this case who depends heavily on income from players to make ends meet.
What the manager was able to confirm was that this boy was born not on 12/6 but on 6/12. Officials had been told over the years that this was merely a European affectation and that all was in good order. But the manager had the original document in Russian translated and found that the June birthday was the real one, which meant the boy would have to play on an underp-16 team, not the under-15 team, with all his friends, and with a record of success he was unlikely to have if he played up.
The woman came to me and asked what to do. I suggested nothing be done and the coach agreed. If he had gone this far then let it go. After all, only three of us knew the truth. The manager said that was impossible and after many calls back and forth and much headbanging she decided that if she gave up her position as manager (her son is on the team) then she could look the other way.
That seemed to be her position. The boy was relieved; his mother was relieved, at least partly. The coach was relieved. I was relieved.
But then a few days later the manager decided she could not stick with her decision. She talked to the boy still again, to find out why it was so important to stay on this team, especially when the older team needed plaers. She spoke to his mother twice. She wanted a moral conviction but she couldn't find it and couldn't pretend not to know the truth.
There were other factors. She didn't particularly like the mother. She wondered if the boy wanted to stay with his team only because he would have so much more success. She kept worrying that the boy would be found out and then what?
What's wrong with that, I asked. Even if that's true that he wants to stay on this team to succeed... Why not. The one solid structure he has in his life is this team. Why not let him have it? Why not risk this?
I'll call you back she said. That was a week ago. Nothing has been decided. And a moral question hangs in the air, a question that could be answered either way. There's morality at both ends.
It was the coach who first suggested 'doing nothing.' What an odd alternative I thought at first but I've come to accept the idea, for the first time in my life, that you could refuse to decide such a matter....
This boy is a very good soccer player, not on his way to the national team perhaps but very talented. He's strong, fast and quick. He's played in several state cups. You notice him right away; he's got a long ponytail. And he's relentlessly slaloming through a defense or running down a forward. He's also mouthy and quick to blame a teammate. I've told him to cool that and he's trying but his first instinct is to find fault. As a result he's unpopular with certain parents, particularly those who don't like his public rebuke of their sons. 'C'mon, what are you doing?' he'll say. 'Pass me the ball.' Some of these parents roll their eyes and curse him under their breath. "Ball hog," they'll say. "Shut up," they even shout out.
But then very often he'll save the game, he'll come up with the winning goal or the tying goal, and then what can anyone say? They don't like him, but he wins games and these are parents who need a winning team.
Many of the other boys go to exclusive private schools. One of the fathers drives a Maserati. One of the boys has a nanny, a late 20-something man, long and thin, who arrives with his charge and picks him up. The boy has that perm-a-press confident smile that you sometimes see on the faces of the entitled.
So the social differences are great. This boy goes to a large public school, which worries his mother no end. And who knows how well he is doing. One time he tells me he's getting all As; the next time it's Cs and Ds. He has problems speaking proper English; my wife helps him. He doesn't like Science but he loves History and sometimes at the dinner table he'll engage us. The other day he wanted to describe the battle of Stalingrad and wanted to know whatever we knew. One minute he takes pride in his Russian connection and teh next he'll say how he loathes the Russians, particularly after the fighting last summer.
So this boy and my son have been together for years and in recent months they've drawn ever closer. They have little in common and yet they see themselves as outcasts who have found this soccer theater to play in.
All was fine until the other day when the team manager began looking into his birth records. This manager is on the board of one of the leagues and serves on the disciplinary committee. She often has to decide what to do with kids and coaches who try to get kids to play up or down illegally. If caught, a player or coach can be suspended for up to two years. This would be a killshot for the coach in this case who depends heavily on income from players to make ends meet.
What the manager was able to confirm was that this boy was born not on 12/6 but on 6/12. Officials had been told over the years that this was merely a European affectation and that all was in good order. But the manager had the original document in Russian translated and found that the June birthday was the real one, which meant the boy would have to play on an underp-16 team, not the under-15 team, with all his friends, and with a record of success he was unlikely to have if he played up.
The woman came to me and asked what to do. I suggested nothing be done and the coach agreed. If he had gone this far then let it go. After all, only three of us knew the truth. The manager said that was impossible and after many calls back and forth and much headbanging she decided that if she gave up her position as manager (her son is on the team) then she could look the other way.
That seemed to be her position. The boy was relieved; his mother was relieved, at least partly. The coach was relieved. I was relieved.
But then a few days later the manager decided she could not stick with her decision. She talked to the boy still again, to find out why it was so important to stay on this team, especially when the older team needed plaers. She spoke to his mother twice. She wanted a moral conviction but she couldn't find it and couldn't pretend not to know the truth.
There were other factors. She didn't particularly like the mother. She wondered if the boy wanted to stay with his team only because he would have so much more success. She kept worrying that the boy would be found out and then what?
What's wrong with that, I asked. Even if that's true that he wants to stay on this team to succeed... Why not. The one solid structure he has in his life is this team. Why not let him have it? Why not risk this?
I'll call you back she said. That was a week ago. Nothing has been decided. And a moral question hangs in the air, a question that could be answered either way. There's morality at both ends.
It was the coach who first suggested 'doing nothing.' What an odd alternative I thought at first but I've come to accept the idea, for the first time in my life, that you could refuse to decide such a matter....
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
