September 12, 2017--9/11

After breakfast at the diner, driving toward town yesterday morning, approaching the information center, I noticed that the flag was flying at half mast.

"For Florida?" I wondered out loud. "That would be a bit strange. I'm not sure that's appropriate to do."

Living up here one pays attention to things such as the display of flags and other symbols of patriotism. Not everyone is gung ho, far from it--there's a full range of feelings about the meaning of America and how to think about what it means to be an American.

"It's not about Florida," Rona said, sounding a little exasperated  with me.

"If not that what does it mean? Did someone like the police chief die? I didn't read or hear anything about that."

"You can be so oblivious," Rona said.

"So what is it then?"

"Don't you know what today is?"

"Monday? What are you getting at?"

"Listen to yourself--Monday, September 11th." She let that hang in the air between us.

After a moment it hit me, "I can't believe it. It's 9/11 and I was unaware of that. Considering how we personally experienced that morning I thought it would be etched in my mind forever, that I would never forget the anniversary."

"The day the world changed."

"Sixteen years," I said, "A lifetime. But it feels like it happened just a short time ago. That was some horrific morning."

"Yes," Rona said, "We were in the city. It was a beautiful day and I went out on the terrace to check the weather. Whether I needed a sweater before heading to Balthazar for coffee."

"And I was inside mindlessly watching the local news on TV, probably to get the Yankees' score."

"Right above our building," Rona said, "flying much too low and too fast, what turned out to be the first plane passed right over us, heading south about half a mile to the World Trade Center."

"And then in about a minute, both from outdoors where you were and on the TV that I was watching, which was showing a shot of lower Manhattan to illustrate the glorious weather, there were what seemed like two explosions. Of course, there was just one--the live one you witnessed and the one on TV, which I assume in retrospect was being broadcast with a seven-second delay."

"Then all that followed," Rona said recalling the fear and sadness.

"I'm so out of it," I said, upset with myself, "That I forgot today's the anniversary. I can get too relaxed here. Sometimes too disconnected from the world and time. But that's a lame excuse. There is and should be no excuse for not remembering the anniversary."

"I forgot as well," Rona said, "Until I saw that flag." I had pulled off the road to be close to the flagpole, in that way to perhaps feel more directly connected to the memory and emotions.

"And then we raced down to the street," I said, "found our nephew who was living in an NYU dorm even further south, closer to the attack. How we found him with the thousands of people running through the streets I'll never know. And then the three of us went to Washington Square Park and saw the second plane hit and in a few minutes watched as the two buildings imploded." 

We sat I the car looking up at the flag.

"Sixteen years," Rona said with a sigh. Almost a third of my lifetime ago. Where did those years go? Will it be that in another 16 years we'll be on this same road and stop to see the flag which I am sure will again be at half mast? People here won't forget. They don't forget things of this kind. But we . . ."

"It will be a stretch for me to be still alive in another 16 years. I don't mean to make this about me. I'm just being realistic. And since the last 16 years went by so fast, does this mean, as I think about the next 16, that . . ."

I didn't complete the thought. I didn't want to complete the thought.

Feeling me struggling with this, Rona slide closer, held onto me and said, "Your mother lived to 107 and so . . ."

She trailed off as well.

"We'll be OK," I finally said. "We'll be OK."

January 4, 2016--Snowbirding: Adieu to Balthazar (Part One)

Adieu to Balthazar

Breakfast at Balthazar

"You're going where?"  This edgy query from Peggy Samson, the noted performance artist and Balthazar regular.  For the past five years, she and Alice and I and a group of others have been gathering for morning coffee and talk at this impossible-to-get-a reservation-at brasserie in Manhattan’s Soho.

"You know where."

"To do what?"  This from George Wyatt, architect to the very rich and almost famous.

"You know for what," I said feebly.

"And for how long?"  This from Sharon Short, the gorgeous and brilliant executive editor of one of America's leading fashion magazines who is best known in the business for being the first to take note of the flip-flop revolution.

"A week or two," Alice added quickly. "We'll be back before you know we're gone."

"Florida is where you're going," Peggy said, "Don't try to hide the truth from me. You know how intuitive I am.  You’re going to Florida where everyone is waiting to die."

"That's what Florida means in Spanish," world-class sociologist, James Hilberson chimed in with his faux British accent and the beginnings of a derisive smile.  He first became well know for his research on Bangkok rent boys. "'Waiting to die' is what ‘Florida’ means in Spanish.  The Conquistadors went there looking for the Fountain of Youth but instead discovered Medicare." 

Everyone, including Alice and I joined in the laughter.

"We're just going there to spend a few days with my 99-year-old mother,” I said.  “She had a small stroke.  One never knows about things of this kind for someone that old."

“You won’t be turning into one of those Snowbirds, will you?”

“What kind of bird was that?” George Wyatt looked puzzled.  He is not known to be much of a naturalist.  He spends all of his time indoors in chic cafés and 30,000 square foot houses.

“The kind of bird that goes south for the winter,” Sharon said.  Environmentally minded, she is a patron of the Audubon Society.

James added, “Like the Arctic Tern.  Except that Snowbirds fly south on Jet Blue.”

“Aren’t they extinct, like the Dodos?” George was showing off his erudition.

“Far from it,” Sharon laughed.  “Snowbirds are very much alive if you call going to Florida for the winter living.”  I chuckled along with her and the rest of our friends.

Looking to change the subject, Peggy still couldn’t resist saying, "And while you're down in Florida maybe look for a condo for yourselves.  You're not that young, Lloyd.  Alice, on the other hand is another matter.  She's still a child.” At that Alice nodded in agreement with her newest best friend. “And you have the time--you're between documentaries and Alice's job at the university doesn't require much of her.  She can telecommute. Or just like always continue to have coffee until 10:30 and then drift in for a few hours. Not like the rest of us who have real jobs."

"You call running around naked on stage splashed with paint a real job? " George said sotto voce but intentionally loud enough for all to hear.  But then, full voiced, looking directly at me, added, "If I hear that you're wearing a white belt and going to early-bird dinners I promise you I’ll fly down there and . . ."

"On one of your client’s private jets, George?" James needled him.  He thinks of himself as a man of the people in spite of his endowed chair and penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park.

Ignoring that, with a flip of the wrist, George continued, "As I was attempting to say, if I hear that you’ve taken up shuffleboard, I'll be on the first flight to bring you to your senses and put you on the next plane north."

"Look, we hate it there too,” I was quick to assure them, “All those gated communities and shopping plazas.  Where everyone is hard of hearing.  Did you ever go to the movies in Florida? It's a nightmare. Everyone talking so loud you can't hear the soundtrack."

"Exactly,” Peggy gleefully chimed in, “I can hear them now talking to the screen--'What? What did he say?' ‘Who? Her? What did she say?' And they bring all that food with them.”

“In insulated tote bags,” I said.

“Sandwiches and fruit,” Sharon chirped.

“And cans of Ensure,” James added with a derisive grunt.

Again, we all laughed.

“Speaking of the theater,” Peggy whispered—we all leaned in close so that our heads were almost touching—“Is that Meryl?”

“Who? Where?” Sharon twisted in her chair to get a better look.

“Keep your voice down, will you. Yes her.  Meryl.  Over there in one of the booths.

“You mean across from Yoko?”

“She’s here too?”

“God I just love Balthazar,” Peggy said.  “I wouldn’t want to be caught dead anywhere else in the morning.  And where will you darlings be?” she asked turning back to Alice and me.  “I mean in Florida.  The coffee is just awful.  It must be all the chlorine in the water.”

“As I said,” Alice said, “we’ll only be there for a week or ten days at the most.  Remember, she’s in a coma.”

Annoyed, I corrected her, “That’s not true.  She only had a small stroke.  That’s hardly being in a coma.”

“But Lloyd, doesn’t this mean that you’ll be missing the TriBeCa Film Festival?  Aren’t they showing one of your things about the Beat Generation?  And isn’t Bobby De Niro going to introduce it?  I mean,” Peggy said, “if your mother’s not in a coma can’t you postpone your trip.  I mean, Bobby will be there.

Mother Sterling In the IC

Later that day Alice and I were sitting at my mother’s bedside in the neurology ICU, sipping watered-down coffee from a paper cup.  She was sleeping, snoring loudly enough to blot out the sounds of the beeping telemetry devices and the incessant chatter on the hospital intercom.

“Do you think she knows we’re here?” I asked, speaking softly.

“How could she, she’s in a coma.”

“I don’t know why you keep saying that.  I spoke with her doctor and he didn’t say she was in a coma.  She just had a stroke.  A small one.”

“At her age, 99, there is no such thing as a small stroke.”

“So what are you saying?”

“Well, we’re scheduled to be here for a few days, but one never knows . . .”

“Again, you keep saying that.”

“And again you’re in denial.”

“And?”
“And, I say, if she wakes up, I mean,” Alice quickly corrected herself, “when she wakes up I think we should tell her we’ll stay in Florida for as long as she’s in danger.  And—listen to me calmly—considering her age and condition, I think we should tell her we’ll be staying here indefinitely, not put a time limit on it.  Until she, until the . . .  Do I need to be more explicit?”

“But . . . ?”

“I know you hate it here.  You never seem to tire of reminding me about that.  You hate everything, including the coffee.   But coffee isn’t the meaning of life.” 

She saw me  staring into my cup.  “Well, I admit it, it’s important to me.  Both literally and metaphorically.”

“You and your metaphors.  And I know you can’t stand all the driving.  You’re so addicted to taxis and restaurants.  We’re staying in a nice place on the beach.  And we drove by a few restaurants that look halfway decent.  Look,” I kept peering at my coffee, “how long are we really talking about?  She’s been a wonderful mother to you, to both of us.  Neither one of us would have a problem being away from work for a few more weeks, so why not make her last days happy?”

“Is that you, darling?”

“What?  Who said that?”

“I know you’re hard of hearing. It’s your mother.  I think she’s rousing.”

“Come to me my darling.  Come here.  I am breathing my last breaths.” 

I turned to her bed and, pushing aside the numerous wires and tubes connected to her so I could get closer, took her hand and with a voice expressing deep concern, said, “Yes, it’s me mom.  Lloyd.  We’re here to take care of you.”

“Do you get anything to eat?” she asked in a voice made husky by the tube in her nose.  “They tell me they serve brisket in the cafeteria.”

“This you heard while you were in a coma?  I mean while sleeping.”

“You wouldn’t believe what you hear when they think you’re dead.”

“Please don’t talk that way.”

“I heard that the end for me is near.”

“No, no, Ma.  You must have been dreaming,” Alice assured her.  “You look fine to me.  You have good color.”

“You must need new glasses,” my mother said, brushing aside Alice’s attempt to make her feel better.  “Take a good look at me.  I look like a corpse.”

“I wish you wouldn’t say that,” I said as gently as possible.  I took another sip of tepid coffee, made a face, and handed the empty cup to Alice.  “The doctors say you had a very, very small stroke and should make a full recovery.  You don’t even have slurred speech and you’re not drooling from one side of your mouth.”

“For me a full recovery means they get me ready for the cemetery.  So I’m happy you made it here so I can say a final goodbye.”

“We just got here, mom.  No need to be saying any goodbyes yet.”

“You are not using your eyes.  Look around.  What do you see?  Someone who’s 99, on her last legs, and who looks like a corpse.”

Ignoring that, Alice moved closer to the bed and, taking my mother’s other hand, with as much love as she could express, with tears in her eyes, said, “Ma, Lloyd and I have made plans to stay here for as long as you need us.”

“You mean you’re not racing to the airport like you always do when you come for what you call a visit?”
“No, we do not even have return tickets,” Alice fibbed, “As I said, we’re here for as long as you need us.”  I nodded in agreement.
Gasping for breath, my mother panted, “Considering my condition . . . that shouldn’t be very long.  If I were you . . . I’d call Jet Blue this afternoon to book return tickets.”

We ignored that as well.  “And remember,” she said as we tiptoed toward the door, “promise me you’ll eat something.”  And with that she fell back to sleep or into a . . .

End of Part One . . .

December 28, 2015--Social-Desirability Bias

Over coffee at Balthazar, a friend looked around furtively, leaned close, and whispered, "You promise not to tell anyone?"

"Of course. Always. About what?"

"I can't believe I'm about to say this." She was unusually agitated.

I wondered what might be on her mind. "It's OK," I tried to assure her.

"But I think I'm going to vote for," she lowered her voice still further, "Him."

Now I knew where this was headed. It was not the first time I heard similar things from some of my most liberal friends. Including, most surprisingly, middle-age women.

"Trump."

"This surprises me, but . . ."

"Me too. I'm the most surprised of all. I should hate him. And in many ways I do. I'm a women, a feminist, and Hillary has the best chance to become the first female president during whatever is left of my lifetime. But . . ."

She trailed off, looking blankly across the banquette where we had so often met for breakfast.

"To balance things a bit," I said, "I know lifelong Republicans of the old, now-almost-obsolete moderate kind--the ones who voted for Javits and Eisenhower--who tell me that if he is nominated they're going to vote for Hillary. They can't stand her but hate her less than him."

"That's no comfort to me."

"So why are you thinking about abandoning Clinton?"

"I'm not thinking of it that way. So here's the thing I want to confess and ask you to not pass along to anyone we know."

"Again, I promise."

"I think he'd make a better president." She said that so softly I could barely follow her.

"I've heard this from others who one would think would be enthusiastic about Hillary."

"I don't know anyone who feels enthusiastic about her," she said, "And for the most part they're lifelong Democrats, always vote that way, and though they too don't like her that much or think she'd make a very good president--too much personal and ideological baggage--they're resigned to vote for her. Above all, to tell the truth, because she's a woman. That should be enough for me too, especially the woman part, but it isn't. Like I just confessed, I think he'd . . ."

It was as if she couldn't utter those words again.

Trying to shift the subject somewhat from what was clearly painful for her, I asked, "Did you see the piece the other day on the Internet about social-desirability bias?"

"Not really." She sighed, collapsing in her seat, but seemed pleased that I had changed the subject.

"You remember in the old days when they gathered TV ratings by asking people directly what they watched or asked their sample viewers to record their viewing habits in a diary? They still use diaries to a certain extent, but more-and-more they're doing it directly via electronic boxes attached to people's sets that automatically record what's being watched. No way too lie that way."

"I remember that. I remember being called once or twice and being interviewed."

"Well, the problem with gathering data that way was it was easy not to tell the truth. For example, Public Broadcasting always was over-represented because some people didn't want to fess up that they were really not watching Alistair Cooke but Uncle Miltie They didn't want to appear to be lowbrow."

"This is interesting--sort of--but what does it have to do with what we were talking about?"

"The same thing appears to be happening now in the political campaigns. Especially the Republican one. At the moment, he is leading in the polls with about 34 percent or so saying they support him."

So?"

"So a research organization called Morning Consult just did an interesting triple-blind experiment. They surveyed voters three ways--the traditional way by interviewing people over the phone, another sample group via interactive dialing where potential GOP voters were surveyed via an automated program, and  a statistically-equivalent group on line where those being questioned were not asked to identify or in other ways describe themselves."

"And," my friend said, "they got the Masterpiece Theater response."

"Now I'm not following you."

"The percentage of the people who plan to vote for him was higher when people were surveyed anonymously and lowest when interviewed by a live person."

"Correct. Across the board by as much as 6 percent. But he did much better among college-educated Republicans with whom it is said he is not polling well. From them he got 9 percent more confessing that they, like you, plan to vote for him."

"Wow. But I need to correct one thing--I'm not planning to do so but, in the way pollsters describe people, I'm leaning that way."

"Gotcha.

"How do they explain this disparity--between what people tell interviewers and those who respond on line?"

"They refer to it as social-desirability bias, the tendency of people to hesitate to confess unpopular views to a pollster. If, I may say so, sort of like you."

"Interesting. But it is still making me crazy that after all the stupid and offensive and bigoted things he's said, at the moment I'm even leaning . . ." She trailed off again.

"There are clearly quite a few people like you."

"As I said, I think he'll do a better job. Like with Russia. She, when Secretary of State, hit the reset button and what do we have? Cold War II. I think we need a deal maker. I hate to say this--a larger-than-life figure for our larger-than-life problems. A . . ."

"I think I understand."

"I wish I did," my friend said, shrugging and finally smiling.

"Have you talked to your therapist about this?"

"I plan to. But in the meantime do you think it's too early to move on from coffee to Jack Daniels?"

Uncle Miltie