March 27, 2020--Jack: The Epicenter

On the phone Jack said, "Just checking to see how you're doing down there at the epicenter."

"I appreciate that. All things considered, we're as good as can be expected. Though it's scary and a little boring."

"That's why I called--to perk you up."

"That would be a first," I said, half under my breath.

"No need to get your pants in a bunch. I consider myself one of your best friends."

I wondered if that were true and, if it was, wasn't entirely sure I liked the idea of it. I have to think more about that. But not right now. Too much going on. "So tell me," I said, "what's on your mind?"

"You."

"Me? Meaning?"

"Meaning you're in the high risk category and . . ."

I cut in, "I don't have diabetes or lung disease or a heart condition."

"But you're elderly. That puts you at high risk."

"I don't think about myself that way. Age is just a number. And a state of mind."

"But in your case that number is quite a number. And about state of mind, you've got problems with that too." I could hear him stifling a laugh.

"Get on with it," I said to one of my self-declared best friends.

"But then there's the Trump factor."

I knew we'd get there. 

"He's doing a great job, don't you agree?"

"Of course you're kidding. His delaying for well over a month to even acknowledge there was an impending problem makes him rsponsible for thousands of unnecessary deaths. Not that he ever takes responsibility for anything. And then when he did reluctantly admit it was more than a hoax, fake news, he lied about its being under control and that soon it would just disappear as a 'miracle'--he literally said that--which only made matters worse. His people believed him and carried on with their lives as if everything was normal."

I paused to calm down. Jack had me all agitated.

"To him," I continued, "it's been about two things, just two--neither one in the public interest--the state of the economy (really more how the Dow Jones average is doing) and, related, his own personal politics--how the economy and the pandemic would affect his reelection chances."

"In the meantime he's doing pretty good," Jack said, "Since he began those daily press briefing his approval rating has gone up at least five points. Almost to 50 percent."

"So you too only care about those two things. People are dying and all that's on your mind is his approval rating."

I took a deep breath  "You mentioned our so-called friendship. Your seeing things this way makes it very difficult for me to consider you as anything resembling a friend. I think I'm about to hang up."

In fact I did hang up. I was only sorry, to make it more dramatic, I didn't have one of those old-fashioned phones that you could slam into its cradle.

Before I could get a glass of water the phone was ringing. Jack's name came up on the caller ID. I let it ring and ring until it was picked up by the answering machine.

It rang two more times before I picked it up and, not saying a word, I held the phone a good two inches from my ear, as if I did not want to acknowledge or touch Jack.

Jack said, "I get your point. I replayed the tape in my head and I did sound stupid." Still, I did not respond.

"Of course it's not about his reelection chances or the economy. Not when so many Americans are hurting and worse. Please," I had never heard him this contrite, "Let me try again."

I finally grunted, "OK," but continued to hold the phone well away from my ear.

"At times he can be a jerk. Worse than a jerk. At those times I admit I have my problems with him."

"'Problems?'" I shouted. "He has blood on his hands and so do you if you continue to be an apologist for him. You and your kind are enablers of the worst sort. This is not about day-to-day politics but about life and death. Of Americans." 

I was soaking wet and trembling. Afraid for my health. To quote Jack, I am elderly, and, if I can avoid them, shouldn't allow myself to be put in such stressful situations.

Still with my heart pounding, I said, "Do you remember about three weeks ago there was that cruise liner, the Grand Princess I think it was called? There were people on board who had the virus and American authorities didn't allow it to dock on the west coast until there were facilities on shore to put them in quarantine. 

"When Trump was asked why it wasn't allowed to dock he said, 'I'd rather have the people stay to board. I'd rather that,' and I'm quoting him, 'Because I like the numbers being where they are.'" 

"In other word," I said, "not included in the total number of American's infected. That summed him up and how he was handling this--as PR. Not as a health emergency."

"Again," Jack said, "I'm don't disagree with you."

"So?"

"So I still think he'll be reelected."

For the second time, I slammed the phone down. This time on the table top.

November 1, 2019--Back In NYC

A friend asked me about my favorite back-in-NYC story. Here it is, from 2017--

There was a panicky run on food supplies and bottled water as the Blizzard of 2017 approached Manhattan. After Hurricane Sandy of a few years ago, no one wanted to take anything for granted. So Rona and I joined the hunt for things to stock our larder with in case there was two-feet of blowing snow and widespread power outages.

We had recently "discovered" Trader Joe's on 14th Street and, though we didn't think much of TJ's in other locations, we gave the one in the city a try and liked their selection and prices.

In truth, we especially liked their house brand of Belgian chocolate pudding. Two or three tubs of that could get us through a blizzard. With that who needs bottled water!

Half a block away it looked like chaos at the entrance to Joe's. "I wonder what's going on," I said. "Maybe a sale?"

"Not a sale," Rona said, "Like us people are trying to get prepared for a significant storm. What you're seeing is their checkout line."

"Out onto the street? That doesn't seem possible. The way they line up people in the store itself who are ready to check out amazes me. Sometimes the lines, two of them, snake all the way from the fruit and vegetable area all the way along the refrigerated chests to the front of the store where there are 20, 25 cashiers. It moves pretty quickly, but a line out the door and halfway up the block, even in a pre-storm buying frenzy?"

"There is in fact a line and it looks like it'll take an hour to get to a cashier. So I'm thinking I can get through a week--even if we're snowed in--without chocolate pudding."

"Really?" Rona said skeptically, knowing my guilty habits and obsessions better than anyone.

"And notice, rather than the usual young crowd that shops here most of the people on line are decidedly middle-age."

"That is interesting. The prices in general are pretty good compared to what else is available around here from Agata & Valentina and Whole Foods. So that could be part of the explanation."

"I wonder how many are on line."

"Why don't we count them," Rona said. "It'll give us something to do while we wait to check out."

As so we did. As unobtrusively as possible so as not to make anyone feel under surveillance. Anticipating the storm was producing enough anxiety.

About halfway to the checkout counters we decided to bail out. It was so crowded that threading our way parallel to those pushing their shopping baskets along was arduous and it began to feel as if we were spying on otherwise stressed-out people.

We stopped the count at 217. "Amazing," I said, and simlutaneously noticed they had already sold out of many things, including my nighttime treat.

A women, who looked to be about 60 overheard what we were saying, pushed her walker toward us and, with edginess, said, "What are we specimens or something?"

"No," I stammered, "We were only looking for my chocolate pudding and . . ."

"And staring at us as if we were on display."

"Sorry to give you that impression," I said weakly, "We're just trying to stock up before . . ."

"So where's your basket, your cart with water and bread and other stuff?"

She had us there. I didn't know what to say. Rona was pulling on the sleeve of my coat.

"You live 'round here?" the woman said. "I can tell by your coat that you do." She pointed to Rona's furry white coat.

"Well, we . . ."

"Fancy people just as I suspected, looking down on the poor folks." She inched her shopping basket along, pushing it with her foot.

"I bought it, the coat, in K-Mart," Rona said almost apologetically. "It was on sale."

"Speak up, will yuh," she hollered, tapping her ears, "I'm a little hard of hearing."  Rona didn't repeat what she had begun to say. "But, like I said, I'm from around here too." She hadn't mentioned that. "So it's my Manhattan too. I have rent control. Not everyone lives in fancy condos or coops." She was about to poke me in the chest so I recoiled as far as the overflowing aisles would allow.

"We're not that . . ." Rona said, "It's only that . . ."

"Only that you have money and I live on Social Security and Medicare."

"We . . . "

"I have to shop here while you two can go to Whole Foods or Dean & DeLucas and not have to stand out on the street in line, shivering for an hour just to save a few dollars."

"Is that how long you've been in line?"

"I'm exaggerating to make a point. But yes, at least half an hour on the street. But it's worth it. They take food stamps and don't give you attitude."

"We shop here a lot," I lied.

"There are these two Manhattans--yours and mine. I'm not a socialist mind you, though I plan to vote for Bernie. I'm just pointing out the truth. I love living here. In my parents' old apartment. May they rest in peace. I go to a museum most every week. Just saw the new show at the Whitney."

"The Biannual," I said, "Was it any good?" I was glad to change the subject, "Half the time they're terrible. Too much about political correctness, not enough about the art."

"This time the art is very diverse but it's all pretty much of high quality. You should go. I have a pass so I don't have to pay but it shouldn't be a problem for you." Again she looked at Rona's coat.

"I think it costs 30 dollars. Not the coat, admission."

"That's a problem for you? If it is I don't see why you're living here. To go to the Whitney or the Met is the reason to be in the city." She again pushed her basket to close the gap in the line.

"We're trying to do more of that," I said.

"And while you're at it, look around at all your neighbors. New York is not just about money and museums. We don't bite." With that she chuckled and coughed at the same time.

December 28, 2017--AMAZON

Streets here can be so crowded that there are times of the day when wobbly me is better off not venturing out. 

Forget the roadways. Traffic is at a perpetual crawl. I read in the New York Times a couple of days ago that the average speed for vehicular traffic is now 4.7 miles per hour, not much more than walking speed, down from 6.5 mph just five years ago.

Keep this up and we will soon descend into a perpetual state of gridlock.

What to do?

Some are calling for congestion pricing--charging cars and trucks for the use of the streets--we are charged for parking so why not for driving? 

They are doing this in London and other places and some claim things have gotten marginally better. Those calling for this in NYC say the city and state can use the money collected to fix the deteriorating subway system. If that system gets worse (and it will) think about the consequences for car and truck traffic.

Others of course are disagreeing. They think it would be bad for business just as tax increases cause businesses to leave town, move south, go offshore.

More objective analysts are attempting to understand what is happening, what is causing this accelerating crash of the city's infrastructure. For the subways that's easy--people who have responsibility for maintaining the system have ignored the deterioration, kicking the serious and cascading problem down the road. Or tunnel.

Others blame the exponential proliferation of Uber and other new for-hire car services.

Yellow cab licenses for decades have been limited to 13,600, whereas the new car services have grown to103,000 vehicles prowling the streets--often without passengers and this, some claim, is primarily responsible for the crisis. They note that things were better just four years ago when there were "only" 47,000 affiliated with Uber and other emerging ride-share companies.

There is one more thing not mentioned--Amazon. Amazon, the on-line e-commerce behemoth. 

I should be the last one to blame Amazon for anything. We have an array of financial investments, including in stock funds, but only one individual stock. Amazon. Some time ago I thought that Jeff Bezos, Amazon's founder and CEO might turn out to be the world's best businessman. All time best and now richest man in the world. Other than Vladimir Putin. And so. I said, "Let's get some. Amazon stock." That obviously turned out well.

But self-interest aside, I think Amazon is a major contributor to the traffic mess.

Here's why--

Their package distribution system, which at the last link in the supply chain, requires delivery men to get your order from the truck to the lobby of your building.

And that's a lot of packages that require a lot of trucks in a place as densely populated as New York. Our building, for example, which has about 215 apartments is being buried in packages. We needed to renovate the lobby last year, minimally to quadruple the size of the package room. The doormen say our building is getting about 200 packages a day. Including, I need to confess--for us at least one delivery a day.

Books, clothing, shoes, groceries, beverages, paper goods, cosmetics, vitamins, small appliances.

To expedite this flow of deliveries, about a year ago, along many blocks of lower Broadway, Amazon cordoned off parking spaces with red traffic cones and semi-legally moved a fleet of trucks into those spaces. 

Along with the trucks--many apparently hired from companies such as Enterprise (look for Bezos to take them over)--comes a platoon of delivery men who fill another lane of traffic with their unloading and stacking of packages more than six feet high onto hand trucks which then get pushed along the sidewalks, contributing to foot traffic congestion.

It is true that we do get either same day or overnight delivery for our bath salts and probiotics, but at some expense to other aspects of our daily lives--for example, not being able to drive or walk. 

In the meantime, CEO Bezos, as of yesterday, is worth about $100 billion. 

November 16, 2017--About the Nicest Thanksgiving Story Ever

During breakfast at Cafe Rona (how we refer to our sweet mornings at home), after ten days back in New York City where a single shot of espresso in a paper cup can cost as much as $4.50, where an ordinary egg sandwich in an undistinguished place can arrogantly cast $18, we spoke about feeling ripped off. 

Few people on Broadway are smiling. Most walk through the swarming downtown streets with their heads drooping, buried in so-called smart phones. I have taken to calling them dumb phones since that seems to be the affect they are having on people who look as if they are shuffling along like crack addicts.

Clearly, we are not feeling happy. To quote Wordsworth, too many are involved in "getting and spending" and thus "lay waste their powers." For him, the power to be a part of Nature.

Most everything is commodified--where we live and shop, how we work and play, where we seek fulfillment and, hopefully, love. 

So much is rank ordered. It seems as if everyone, everything is situated within social, economic, and cultural hierarchies so one literally knows where one stands. Most feel unhappy with their sense of how they are doing.

For almost everyone, the answer is that they feel they are not succeeding even if by objective standards we are by comparison to almost everyone else on the planet among the most privileged, particularly in the context of what is most valued--authority, affluence, power, stuff.

Our longing for the life we left behind in Maine (where we cannot extend the season because our cottage is a "primitive" relic of the last century that is more about charm and coziness than infrastructural systems--I mean, we do not have much insulation and very little heat) our longing for a simpler, more authentic life is intensified as we see all the desperate seeking that surrounds us.

And thus we are not much looking forward to the holidays. For the most part here they too are often about desperation. To find ways to feel optimistic, to feel cheered by our place in the world, and sufficiently distracted to get through the days and out the other side to 2018. 

But then on Facebook there was a notice posted by one of our favorite local restaurants in Bristol, Maine--the Harbor Room.

I read it quite early yesterday morning and thus needed to reread it later in the day to make sure I hadn't misunderstood or had been hallucinating. 

Co-owners and friends Taylor Corson and Cerina Leeman posted--

Everyone has been inquiring as to what our plan is for Thanksgiving, so here it is . . .  

We are excited to share that we will be providing a Community Thanksgiving Dinner free of charge to all who come!  

Nothing is more rewarding than bringing our community together and we want to provide an opportunity for everyone to share a delicious meal with neighbors, friends, and family regardless of circumstance. 

Help us spread the word! We will also deliver to those with transportation issues with advanced requests.

Now we know where we want to be, including on Thanksgiving, but . . .

Taylor Corson & Cerina Leeman

November 21, 2016--Transition Tower

Late last week we visited the literal and metaphoric Trump Tower.

It felt touristy and voyeuristic and thus we tried to do it as inconspicuously as possible.

We voted for Hillary, have been disdainful at times of Donald Trump, and are blasé about celebrity sightings--after all, though we do spend more time in a year in rural Maine, we grew up in New York City, first in Brooklyn and now for about 30 years have lived in lower Manhattan where being blasé is as obligatory as black outfits.

You know the joke about New Yorkers--"I'm wearing black because I couldn't find anything darker."

So pretending to ignore Trump's royal presence, sprawled out in his nouveau-riche gilded Las-Vegas-like Trump Tower triplex (one whole floor of which is turned over to his 10-year-old son Barron [Barron!]), though traffic for blocks was snarled, and every 24/7 news report began with reporters camped on Fifth Avenue across from the main entrance to TT, adjacent to Tiffany's (Trump's Marla Maples daughter is named after the store!), try as we might pretend, there is no way to ignore his yuge presence, and, in spite of all of this, we pressed forward to get as palpably close as possible to the Trump Phenomenon.

And so, at about noon on a sun-drenched Thursday, we took the R train up to his lair. Not literally up there, but as near as the police and secret service would allow. Pretty close as it turned out.

Traffic on Fifth Avenue was at a standstill as the NYPD narrowed the southbound lanes from four to two to enlarge the security zone and things were made even worse by the cars and buses that finally made it to 57th Street slowing further so the drivers and passengers could sneak a faux-disinterested closer look. And crowds funneling along the barricaded sidewalks numbered in the thousands, clearly, like us, there not for pre-Thanksgiving shopping at Gucci or a glance at the Tree, not yet adorned and lit.

They and we were there for one clear purpose--to gawk at the spectacle and if possible catch a manic glimpse of Rudy or Ivanka or Jared or . . . him.

Risking claustrophobia, we came to a stop right behind the bank of two dozen TV cameras, reporters, and a cordon of police. A good place to become gridlocked as it turned out, right across from the golden entrance that because of the visual media has achieved icon status.

Most curious was the hush that descended on the streets and gathered crowd. The muted sound of the city reminded me of those rare occasions when New York comes to a halt as the result of a blizzard or  power blackout.

Those few who did speak did so in quiet tones, whispering, as if not wanting to interfere with what was transpiring 60 stories above.

"I wonder what he's up to," someone pressed against me said to her friend.

"Nothing good," he said softly so as not to be overheard.

"Do you think the Japanese prime minister is meeting with him?"

"Could be, though don't you think it's inappropriate to have this kind of meeting before he's inaugurated?"

"Everything he does is different. That's what people voted for. Not to do business the old way."

"Well, good luck to him with that."

Most said nothing, preferring to stare silently into the hazy noontime sun that illuminated the top floors where Trump lives and works.

Though squeezed to my other side, a visitor to the city, said to no one in particular, "I drove all night from Ohio to be here." I looked toward him so he knew I was listening. "Something amazing is going on up there. If you're from the City I assume you will disagree. Probably voted for Clinton." I did not nod though 90 percent in Manhattan did. "Could be like the Wizard of Oz. An amplified voice from behind a screen or facade. But I am thinking . . ." He trailed off.

"But to drive all this way," I said to him, "you must think . . ."

"I do think," he pressed even closer to me and lowered his voice further, "I do think something historic is happening. I believed in 2008 when Obama first ran and then voted for him twice. And I think he did a pretty good job, but this is, may be different. With his election we're hearing from different political voices. I will admit that there is danger in that. But maybe there's more magic than danger. Hope may still be alive. Look around at who's here. Look at the faces. Doesn't it feel reverential?"

I did and said, "It does and that disturbs me. I'm being frank with you. Reverential is not my favorite mode. I prefer skepticism." I felt sorry, after his effort to get there, that I was implying criticism of what he was feeling.

"I'm that way too," he said, returning his full attention to the Tower.

August 29, 2016--English Not Spoken Here

Mid-September we are planning to spend a few days in New York City.

It's a long, seven-hour drive for a brief visit so we are considering alternatives--the train (too many connections required), JetBlue (we'd have to deal with airports and long security lines), and then there is a bus from Portland to Midtown.

This so-called Concord "luxury bus" is reported to be quite comfortable, is only $138 roundtrip, and offers snacks and a movie.

I asked a friend, Ronnie, who recently took it, what kind of snacks they offered, hoping they would include popcorn because watching a movie on I-84 while munching popcorn sounds diverting. When he said they do, I said to Rona, "Let's book it."

Its New York City terminus is East 42nd Street. A short walk to the subway or a fifteen-minute taxi ride to our apartment.

"Book it," I said again. And so we did.

A few days later there was a piece in the New York Times about the ever-changing taxi situation in town.

I hadn't realized that the Taxi and Limousine Commission had already eliminated the geography test for potential drivers. This means that one can't count on his knowing where Lincoln Center is or Rockefeller Center. Forget Kings Highway and Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn or the Grand Concourse in the Bronx. Yankee Stadium could also be a mystery and maybe even Nathan's Famous in Coney Island.

What a contrast with London where aspiring drivers study for literally years to memorize cover-to-cover every street and mews in the city bible, London A-Z. As remarkable as it may seem, neurologists claim that the effort not only assures riders that they will get the shortest route to Trafalgar Square, but that driver's brains are physically enlarged.

What happened to NYC cabbies' brains is another story that I won't touch.

Now, the TLC is eliminating the requirement that drivers know English. From my experience, anecdotally, I already assumed that English was not required since it is not easy to have much of a conversation with most drivers. But this move makes it official.

The lead City Council sponsor of the legislation to eliminate the English requirement, which was signed with enthusiasm by pandering mayor, Bill de Blasio, said that the English requirement was "a barrier for would-be drivers from immigrant communities who were looking for work."

Sponsors also claim, preemptively, that Uber drivers, already putting a lot of yellow cab drivers out of business, are not required to speak English.

Again anecdotally, this does not appear to be a problem because all that I have used spoke perfect English and, with or without GPSes on their smartphones, knew where they are going.

With the street smarts that still thankfully exist in the city, the Times quotes a 26 year-old cook who lives in Queens, David Hernandez, "If you're in New York, you must speak English. This is an English-speaking country."

Even for drivers who come from an amazing 167 countries, with the largest share from Bengali-speaking Bangladesh (24 percent) and Urdu-speaking Pakistan (10 percent), this still is an English-speaking country.

To help you out, if you're in town and  hail a cab and want to get to Lincoln Center and your driver is from Bangladesh, here transliterated in Bengali is "Take me to Lincoln Center"--

Āmākē inlyāṇḍēra liṅkanē tairi ēkadharanēra jhalamalē sabuja raṅēra kāpaṛa kēndra nitē

August 23, 2106--Midcoast: Peggy Pays A Visit (Part 1)

"If we agree to take you to the diner for breakfast you have to promise no political talk."

"So what am I allowed to talk about? The weather? Is the rain hurting the rhubarb?"

"It's past rhubarb season. But you could ask Dan, if he's there, how his peaches are doing."

"Peaches? I prefer rhubarb. At least it has some bite. Like me." She smiled coyly and that had me worried.

"Why don't we have breakfast at the house," I therefore suggested.

"I schlepped all the way up here from New York to munch on an white toast? Actually, I came all this way to witness the two of you in your vegetative state. Rising with the sun, going to bed at 8:00, eating kale. Everyone is asking what's going on with you. Salman, Meg, who by the way says hello. Everyone."

Passing over that, Rona said, "We also have very good bagels from a local baker." She added, to make the prospect of not going out enticing, "He used to be a broker on Wall Street."

Mockingly Peggy said, "And I'm sure you have lox from Russ & Daughters. Or is there a local source? Maybe someone who smokes salmon who used to be a neurosurgeon?"

"That we don't have but we do have cream cheese made by a local dairy farmer."

"I know cream cheese has to come from a cow on a farm, but I'd prefer mine from Dean & DeLuca in Soho."

"What the heck," I said, "Let's go out. But please, can we not talk about Donald Trump?"

Peggy ignored me and headed toward the car where she promptly plopped herself in the passenger seat. Rona, as a result, had to sit in the back.

"Do you think the Hermes scarf is a bit much for your diner?" Peggy asked Rona.

"I wouldn't recognize you without it."

Dan was there when we arrived and signaled for us to join him in his booth. Ever the gentleman, he rose to greet Peggy.

"So this is the famous Danny," Peggy bubbled, turning on half her charm. That, at least, was a good sign. Full charm would have levitated the diner.

"And you must be Peggy. I've heard so much . . ."

"Is he the one voting for Trump?" she whispered to me so sotto voce that everyone in the diner turned to stare at her. Unfazed, Dan smiled in her direction.

"So what's good, Danny?" Peggy asked wiggling her way into the booth next to him, "Whoopie pies? Maine blueberries? Lobster whatever? I hate lobster. Kale?" She stole a look in our direction.

"Actually, everything's good," Dan said. "I never eat it, but Deb makes homemade hash which she serves with poached eggs accompanied by her own biscuits. They came in sixth in Paula Deen's biscuit contest."

"That Paula Deen who used the N-word on TV?"

Here we go, I thought.

"I wouldn't know about that," Dan said. "All I know is that Deb's biscuits are among the best."

"If I were Peg--is that her name?--I would have turned down the award or prize or whatever."

"Her name's Deb," I said, "And her biscuits are the best."

"Back in New York no one would eat anything recommended by Paula Deen who's an out-and-out . .  ."

"That's not the way things work up here," Dan said, remaining calm. Peggy fussed with the knot in her Hermes.

"So just how do things work up here, Danny?" I wasn't sure if Peggy was being condescending.

"Well, how do they work down there in New York?" Dan said firmly but without attitude.

To be continued . . .

January 15, 2016--TRUMP's "New York Values"

Ted Cruz doesn't handle criticism very well.

Donald TRUMP's public ruminating about Cruz's eligibility for the presidency--he was born in Canada to an American mother and held joint citizenship until a few months ago--is clearly getting under the very junior senator's skin.

Interviewed the other day on the Howie Carr Radio Show, he snapped that TRUMP should stop playing "Born in the USA" at his rallies, a clear swipe at Cruz, and suggested he should "shift in his new rallies to playing 'New York, New York' because Donald comes from New York and he embodies New York values."

TRUMP responded immediately, counter-intuitively embracing rather than denying those values. When has it ever been good for a Republican to say anything good about the Big Satan, a favorite conservative slur about the Big Apple?

Passionately, with his New York accent dialed up, TRUMP said that he does in fact embrace those values and feels proud to do so. Also to Carr, in his words, he said--

One thing it means is energy. You know, when the World Trade Center got hit, we rebuilt that World Trade Center and we got through and very few places in this world could have gotten through what we went through. I mean, I was so proud of New York, the World Trade Center, these two massive, 110 story buildings came down. Thousands of people killed. I've never seen anything like it in my life.

He added--"Anyone who attacks New York City will have to go through me."

If TRUMP and others, including some constitutional scholars such as Lawrence Tribe, are discombobulating Cruz by questioning if he is a "natural born citizen," how will he explain away yesterday's reports in the New York Times and Wall Street Journal that he failed to report more than a million dollars in very-low-interest loans to his 2012 senatorial campaign, loans from Citibank and Goldman Sachs where his wife, Heidi, at the latter is a managing director after serving on the National Security Council under Condi Rice?

Failure to report loans of this kind, not incidentally, are not just careless mistakes, as Cruz claims, but violate federal law.

And it will not be so easy for the Princeton and Harvard-educated Supreme Court clerk Ted Cruz to point fingers at the establishment of which he and his wife have been such comfortable members.

It will also not be easy to counter his former Harvard Law School professor, Laurence Tribe, who in an op ed piece in The Boston Globe, "Under Ted Cruz's Own Logic, He's Ineligible for the White House," wrote that maybe, in spite of Cruz's assertion that his eligibility is "settled law," that it may not be after all.

Nor will it be easy for Cruz to explain why he jettisoned his Latino name, Raphael, for the more waspy Ted.

Above all, will it be hypocrisy for Cruz to continue to slip into New York City as frequently as in the past unless he learns the words to "New York, New York"?

July 14, 2015--New York, New York: Garbage

"Mommy, Mommy, why did they put that man in the garbage?"

I had just dropped the car off in the garage to avoid parking tickets and was heading home for breakfast.

At the corner of 10th Street and Broadway a group of parents and young children were gathered to wait for the bus to scoop up the kids and take them to day camp in Riverdale.

Near the corner, as is typical on Monday's, the building staff had stacked a few dozen trash bags for the soon-to-be-arriving sanitation men. 

And across from that pile, in a service-entrance alcove, as always in nice wether, stretched out under a quilt, with a dog at his side, still sleeping, was a homeless man.

"In the garbage," the five-year-old said--as his mother was ignoring him, fiddling with his knapsack to be sure he had his bathing suit and sunscreen.

"Why are they throwing him away?" He was no longer just glancing obliquely the man's way but pointing and looking fully and openly at him.

Everyone else--the other children and their parents and care givers--were conspicuously turned the other way. At the traffic on Broadway though the bus always comes for the children east along 10th Street and would stop just short of the mound of garbage and the sleeping man and his dog.

"He's not garbage," the child said, this time with a tone that suggested he knew he was being ignored.

"Make sure to put sunscreen on after you go swimming," his mother said. 

The boy mumbled something I could not hear.

"And be sure to drink lots of water. There's some in your bag." She pulled out a bottle of Evian to show him. He was now struggling with the huge knapsack as if ensnared by it.

"The man . . ." he muttered, not completing his thought.

June 3, 2015-- X-Ray

On our last day in New York, before heading to Maine, Rona needed a routine medical test. A scan.

The AC at the imaging center was not working and the waiting area was sweltering. While filling out the forms, Rona wondered if without air conditioning they would be able to run the equipment. "I think they generate a lot of heat so to use them they have to be in a cool environment. Since there's no emergency we can always get the scans done up in Maine."

"Let me ask," I said. "We're here and if possible let's get it over with. Let me find out what's going on."

I checked with a staff member and she indicated they were working on the problem and at most Rona would have to wait no more than 45 minutes.

"Drink lots of water," I said. "You need to keep hydrated."

"What's that ruckus," Rona said. "It sounds as if someone's having a fight."

From the reception area I heard a woman, clearly agitated, say loud enough for all to hear, "I don't know where he is. The traffic was abysmal. Three hours it took to get here from Atlantic City. An hour through the tunnel alone. I don't know why his doctor made us make the trip. We could have gotten his X-rays done in New Jersey. At the worst, in New Brunswick. Maybe an hour's drive. At Robert Wood Johnson. What's so unusual that they have to do? X-ray his thyroid, that's all. No big deal. And now I don't know where he is." She sounded desperate.

"OK, so he probably has cancer. It's still early they say. He's not dying. At least not yet. Though when I get my hands on him . . . " She trailed off.

"Should I see if I can help?" I asked.

"I'd stay out of it," Rona said, "Try to stay cool and see if anything more happens. They just sound stressed. That drive alone . . ."

"But didn't she say she doesn't know what happened to him? That she doesn't know where he is? I could maybe go look for him. My guess is he doesn't want to get the tests done and ran off. I know from not wanting to deal with medical issues. I almost died 15 years ago when I ignored all sorts of symptoms."

"Tell me about it," Rona said under her breath.

"I mean maybe I could talk with him about what I did and didn't do and how when I finally dealt with the problems I eventually got better."

"My advice. Sit here and drink your water. We have  a lot to do today and the next two days to get ready to head north."

"I'm losing my mind," the woman up front resumed, "I'm at the end of my rope. For all I know he's heading back to Jersey. He's that crazy. And," she added, "scared."

"I need to talk with her," I said, "I know it's not my business but it's reminding me of what I did and how I made you crazy. Maybe I can help."

"Whatever," Rona said.

The Jersey woman was soaking wet from the heat and anxiety. As I moved toward her she backed away, as if knowing my intentions and not wanting to have to handle another crazy person.

Softly I said, "Is there anything I can do to help?" She backed further away, almost to the entrance door. "I mean, I couldn't help but hear what you were saying. About your husband."

"Him," she spat.

"I don't know . . . but I . . . 15 years ago did . . . so I thought I might . . ."

"What are you talking about?" she exploded as if to transfer her frustration and anger to me.

"I just thought . . ."

"Thanks for your thoughts but, frankly, it's none of your business."

I backed up a step and was about to turn around when a man, it couldn't have been anyone but her husband, burst through the door. He was wearing shorts, flip flops, and a sleeveless tank top and was so soaking wet that sweat dripped on the carpet from all parts of his body. Almost immediately a puddle formed at his feet.

"So there you are, big shot," his wife said. "Did you have a nice walk? Did you get a cup of coffee? Maybe a hot dog? You haven't eaten in half an hour and I know you must be starving."

"Let's get out of here," he growled. "I've had it up to here." He lifted a hand six inches above his head. I could see his swollen thyroid. "Let's get the car out of the garage. I mean let's pay them the ransom they charge to park here in Manhattan. I don't know how anyone can afford to live in this place much less park their car. Sheet."

"You're either getting that X-ray or you're going home to Jersey yourself. I'm the one who's had it up to here." She too gestured to indicate how high up-to-here was for her.

"Do we need to talk about this in public?" He shot me a glance. "What I do, what you do, it's between us. Right? Private."

"Private," she sputtered. "The way you walk around, on the Upper Eastside looking like a clown. You call that private? You make such a spectacle of yourself that half the city's looking at you."

"Let's get the car, Marcy. By now they'll charge me 50 bucks to get it out of hock."

"I told you if you don't get the test you're on your own."

"I told you while we were lined up for an hour trying to get in the tunnel that I am not going to do that. I know I have a problem, but I want to handle it my way."

"Which is to ignore it and get into real trouble. Like dying trouble."

"If that's to be, that's to be. I want to live and, yes, die if it comes to that, my way."

"You've been listening to too much Frank Sinatra you guinea, you."

"Leave my heritage out of this," he said, straightening himself. I sensed a change in tenor.

"It's my heritage too so I can call you whatever the eff I want. But what I really want is for you to stop acting like a baby and let them do the friggen test."

"I know about that test and how the next thing they'll be doin' to me is cuttin' me open and then there'll be chemo and radiation and other shit and then before you know it I'll be bald as that guy over there," he nodded in my direction, "And after that it will be time to take me on a one-way ride to the cemetery."

"You know . . ." I tried to interject myself, "Like you . . . 15 years ago I . . ."

"Who is this creep?" he asked his wife, again meaning me. "You invited him to talk? Look old man, stay out of my business. Get my drift?"

"I only . . ."

"Whatever you're here for," he cut me off before I could say another word, "be a good boy and take your medicine or have your MRI. Or whatever. But in the meantime, as they say where I come from, take a powder."

I shuffled back to where Rona was waiting. She continued to sip her water. I shrugged. She had heard the entire encounter. "What did I tell you? That's none of your business and if anything you made matters worse."

"Actually, I thought I was being helpful."

"Really? Helpful? You almost got yourself killed."

"I think I got them to deflect some of their frustration and anger for each other onto me."

"Another crazy person."

Thankfully, the AC by then was working sufficiently to allow testing to begin. Rona was first and kissed me, breaking the tension, and said, "Wish me luck." I smiled, knowing she didn't need it for this.

Later that day, at dinner, after a couple of glasses of wine, I ventured, "You know that guy from this morning?"

"The one who threatened to kill you?"

"He was just scared. Which I can relate to. But I have a question that he brought to mind."

"It is?"

"Maybe he is onto something with his my-way approach to the business of getting older and developing serious medical conditions. Maybe backing off is not such a bad idea."

"Backing off? I'm not following you."

"Maybe just let things happen? I mean, for the simple stuff do what you can to deal with it; but for more serious things that sweep you into the medical world, which take over your life--I mean for those things that do that, that take you over and turn you into a perpetual patient--we know people like that who do nothing but go to doctors and have tests and then procedures and operations--to squeeze out a few more months or even a year or two, but a year or two in medical purgatory. Again, for the most serious conditions. Does that make sense?"

"You've had too much wine," Rona said, "and like you Atlantic City friend have been listening to too much Frank Sinatra."

May 27, 2015--Safe Rooms

The latest thing in New York City real estate chic are safe rooms where owners can hide from intruders; those seeking to do them harm; and, for the seriously anxious, protect them from chemical or nuclear attack.

This is post 9/11 behavior for those in fact feeling that kind of serious threat or just another form of conspicuous consumption.

According to a report in yesterday's New York Times some with safe rooms that set apartment dwellers back six figures to construct are pretty comfortably set up and stocked with enough provisions and entertainments to accommodate them for some time--until burglars leave or when after a terrorist attack it is considered safe to venture out.

Some, who do not have an extra bedroom that can be converted into a safe room, are fortifying closets and bathrooms. Though in Manhattan closet space is at a premium. When Gwyneth Paltrow had a town house in the city, her safe room doubled as a closet. A typical New York solution to never feeling you have enough square footage.

But according to safe-room contractor Tom Gaffney, president of Gaffco Ballistics . . .

The world is a very scary place right now, especially for people of means; they feel cornered and threatened. When you have so much to lose, and you can afford it, you put a premium on your safety.

My first thought--why then have a place at Ground Zero, New York City? Why not hole up in the country where you can build an electronic moat around your place and have the perimeter patrolled by security forces armed with attack dogs and the latest weapons?

But the Big Apple is irresistible even for the hyper-nervous. And for the Middle Eastern and Russian billionaire condo owners, looking for safe havens for their ill-gotten wealth, in spite of the perceived threats, NYC is still a good and safe-enough deal. Worrying about intruders or even chemical attacks is something they are used to back in their home countries.

It all, as they say, comes literally with the territory.

May 15, 2015--New York, New York: Cat On the Run

"Is that a cat racing around the book stalls at the Strand? I mean, not a street cat. It has a collar."

"I can't see it," I said, straining to look through traffic to the other side of Broadway.

"There, under that bookcase," Rona stretched to point. "Darting back and forth as if possessed."

Finally spotting it, I said, "I've never seen anything like that. Only feral cats here. And even that's unusual. No one in the city lets a cat out on her own or takes one for a walk or anything."

Now the cat was heading toward us, zigzagging in a attempt to avoid the cars and trucks that were slamming on their breaks to avoid hitting her.

About ten yards behind the cat a man raced after it in hot pursuit. The cat was running hard and it took all he had to keep up with it. He too was almost run down by a careening motor cyclist.

Reaching our side of the street, the cat raced halfway across a plank that spanned a construction site, over a deep cut in the sidewalk, and then came to a halt, panting visibly, but feeling protected as if she knew it would not be safe for the man to walk out on the plank. It was not secured and would likely, with him, tumble into the excavation.

He too was panting. We had stopped to watch right at that corner, quite close to where he stood, half bent over, gasping for breath. The cat, though quivering, still glared at him.

"That yours?" I asked.

With two head pumps he nodded, still bent over and panting. Sweat and saliva dripped from him.

"I wouldn't go out on that board," I advised. "Looks dangerous."

That seems to mobilize him again and he defiantly, as if to show her and me, tapped one toe tentatively on his end of the plank. It wobbled, almost coming loose from where it had been placed by the workers who were nowhere in sight.

"Fuckin cat," he muttered, spitting toward it. The cat, clearly familiar with him and his behavior, rose on its haunches and looked as if it was planning also to hiss and spit.

"So it must be yours," I said, not knowing what to say to be compassionate or helpful. It was hot and we wanted to get to the Union Square Market before some of the vendors were sold out.

"All she does is eat, drink, and piss. Shits too."

"That's what they all do," I said, Rona was tugging on my sleeve. "That's all any of us do when you get right down to it." I thought to try something that, if not sincere, felt philosophical.

"See that over there?" He pointed halfway up the block toward 13th Street.

"Can't say that I do."

"Well, that's where I live."

I looked up the street and didn't see anything but commercials buildings and street-level stores.

"Not up there but down there." He pointed at the sidewalk about 30 feet north of where we were standing. He launched a glob of phlegm toward Broadway.

I still wasn't following him. By then Rona was pulling hard on my shirt and whispered, "I want to get to the market before some of the vendors leave."

The cat stayed put. As if to taunt him, she began licking herself.

"Without her I have nothing going for myself."

"I'm not following you." I was sincerely confused. No longer feigning interest.

"That's where I live and, if you want to call it that, work." He continued to point toward the sidewalk.

"I'm not . . ." But in truth I was, and so stopped stammering.

"No one would even stop to piss on me if it weren't for her." He snapped his fingers at the cat but she didn't move. She kept licking herself.

It dawned on me finally that he "lived" on the sheets of cardboard spread on the sidewalk. Next to them was a plastic garbage bag full of his few things. And a bowl for water for the cat and what looked like an upturned cap in which I imagined there would be a handful of spare change.

As the weather had warmed up recently, a number of streets near us had filled up with homeless people, some with rather elaborate setups. We must have walked by him numerous times on the way back and forth to the market, always, as usual, with eyes averted.

"It's a life," he said, shrugging his shoulders as if to explain or apologize. "And the only reason any folks toss me a quarter is because of her. They care more about the fuckin cat than me. But I get it," he wanted to say more, "I'm nothing to look at and she can be pretty cute. Especially when she's hungry. Which is all the time."

"I think I understand," I said feeling contrite.

"Think about it--people care more about cats and dogs than humans. Not that there's that much human about me." It felt as if he wanted me to join him in feeling sorry for himself.

"They leave their savings to the ASPCA when they die but won't even send a check to programs for the homeless. Not that I think about myself that way. Homeless I mean. Though to tell you the truth I don't know what else to call the way I live. For Christ sake I sleep on a fuckin refrigerator carton and beg for nickels. Not much of a home."

He was doing it again and so I was happy to see the cat raise herself up, stretch, and then dart toward him.  Once more back across the plank.

He lunged at her, trying to scoop her up in his arms. Again, he almost tumbled into the excavation. Leaping off the plank, the cat cut sharply north up Broadway with him again in literally hot pursuit. I was beginning to think he would give himself a stroke or heart attack.

But just as he was seemingly about to collapse, the door to a 7-Eleven opened and the cat darted into the shop. He ran after her and though the sun was glinting on the windows, making it hard to see what was going on inside, the fact that agitated customers were pouring out suggested that the cat and the man were creating havoc.

"Can we go now?" Rona again asked. "Why did you have to get involved with that? I mean I'm sympathetic and all that but you know I'm not feeling well today and want to get our shopping done and then back into bed. I mean, on any other day, I'd be the one who would need to be dragged away."

 Which was true.

By then things seemed to have calmed down in the store and in the next moment the door swung open and he stepped out onto the sidewalk, into the sun. In his arms he was cradling the cat, who was audibly purring, and as he got closer to us I could see he was sobbing.

January 2, 2015--In the Line of Duty

There is movement to repair the tattered relationship between New York City mayor Bill de Blasio and the Patrolmen's Benevolent Association, the police union.

The union chief savaged de Blasio even before he took office for his pledge to limit the controversial stop-and-frisk program that de Blasio and many others claimed unduly targeted minorities. And more recently, after the chocking death of Eric Garner on Staten Island, there was more invective hurled at the mayor because he took a balanced position about the incident, including, after praising the police in general, acknowledging that he counsels his bi-racial son Dante to be extra careful when encountering law enforcement officials. What parent wouldn't.

The union president went so far as to claim that there was "blood on the mayor's hands" after two officers were brutally assassinated two weeks ago. He made the invidious connection between what de Blasio said about the strangling on Staten Island and the murder of the officers.

As a result, as well as to loom large in the public eye, the PBA president has been urging members to fill out forms demanding that the mayor not attend their funerals if they are killed in the line of duty and approved of cops booing and turning their backs on the mayor when he spoke from the heart last weekend at the funeral of the first of the slain officers.

So, with the intervention of the widely-respected police commissioner, Bill Bratton, de Blasio met for two hours on Tuesday with Pat Lynch, head of the PBA in an attempt to begin to patch things up.

Little was expected to come of this and the parties to the discussion did not disappoint--they reported no progress, no meeting of the minds.

I hope (but doubt) that there was an attempt to put things in context, very much including how dangerous a job it actually is to be a member of New York's Finest.

For example, did anyone point out that "only" 324 police officers have been shot and killed in the line of duty--324 since 1806, in more than 200 years.

This is obviously too many but no one said police work was like office work nor did anyone likely point out that in New York City more people are killed in office accidents than in police work. Or that many more firefighters than police officers die on the job each year, as do many, many more construction workers, taxi drivers or, for that sad matter, school teachers.

Again, this is not to be insensitive to the sacrifices than many policemen are asked to and volunteer to make, but let's not pretend that being a patrolman on the streets of New York is as dangerous as being a Navy SEAL on a mission in Yemen.

December 24, 2014--Fem-Phobia

It's not as if we don't have enough on our plates in New York City.

You know the list--the racial divide seems to be widening (or at the minimum is more starkly visible); the mayor and the police are barely talking to each other and when they do talk it's angry; the middle class is being squeezed out of the real estate market where every day there's a story about one billionaire or another buying, sight unseen, yet another $50 million condo; there are demonstrations in the streets nearly every night organized by the Occupy Wall Street folks or various coalitions of city dwellers who feel justice is not being dispensed equally.

I could go on.

But in the midst of this, there is another campaign underway that is also generating a lot of heat--the movement to get men seated on subways to be more discreet. Discreet and subways may be an oxymoron but nonetheless there does appear to be a growing awareness and disdain for guys who sit spread-eagled in a V-shaped slouch, in effect letting it all hang out, especially when there is an attractive women seated nearby or, better, across the aisle.

Things have gotten so out of hand, some claim, that there are organized groups mobilizing various forms of persuasion and humiliation in an attempt to raise men's consciousness (another oxymoron) so that they will sit more discreetly, even making room for weary straphangers.

As the newspaper of record, covering all the news that's fit to print, the New York Times on Sunday reported about this on the front page in an article with a wordplay tittle, "Dude, Close your Legs: M.T.A. Fights a Spreading Scourge."

The Times quotes one V-shaped sloucher who insists on sitting this way as saying, "I'm not going to cross my legs like ladies do. I'm going to sit the way I want to sit."

So there you have it--it's not so much sexual aggression but fem-phobia. Real guys don't want to be mistaken for women.

Making this a personal crusade, Brooklyn-based actress Kelley Rae O'Donnell confronts men sitting this way, also taking their pictures and Tweeting them in an effort to embarrass offenders. This far to not much effect, though she did get the Metropolitan Transit Authority and the New York Times to join her in paying attention to this growing phenomenon, including persuading the M.T.A. to plaster subway cars with posters calling on spreaders to man up. (See below.)

Some men have counter-argued that they need to sit that way for procreative reasons--if they cross their legs, they insist, this will so warm up their sperm as to render them infertile. I am not making this up.

But since this has become a public issue, let me assure these metro-sexual men who long to be fathers that there is no corroborating scientistic evidence that this is true. Dr. Marc Goldstien, director of reproductive medicine at NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital, says that though testicular temperate may in fact be raised a degree or two if legs are kept crossed during a half-hour train ride, it would not be high enough to render sperm less frisky.

So there you have it--what we're fighting about these days in the Big Apple.

Be merry.

December 4, 2014--Chokehold On Staten Island

I need to learn more, but Staten Island, where I worked for 10 years, is more like Ferguson, MO than Manhattan. Though a brief ferry ride away it is as mired as Ferguson in anger and racism.

And now with a Staten Island grand jury concluding not to indite the police officer who in July killed unarmed, African-American Eric Garner with a chokehold, I expect this forsaken borough of New York City to erupt in protest. Hopefully, not violently, but there is a limit to what people of color can tolerate in 2014.

This was all caught on vivid videotape and should have been an easy one. Indict officer Daniel Pantaleo and then let a public jury decide to convict or not.

But, more white police officers live on SI than in any other part of New York City and so this was not unexpected.

Again, as in Ferguson, rather than a traditional grand jury review, which usually lasts for a few hours or perhaps a day or two, this one went on for months and one knows all to well what that means--a version of a trial occurred out of sight. And of course there was no indictment.

*   *   *

After I wrote this, we met friends for dinner at the Yale Club, across from Grand Central Station. We had not seen them for awhile and had a wonderful time. They are always up on the news but there was so much to catch up about that we didn't talk much about Staten Island or Ferguson.

But at about 10:30, after dinner, when we were saying goodbye at the station, we were swept into a flash-demonstartion--a few hundred young black, brown, and white people who were darting about, herded by an equal number of police, all already organized by Twitter and Facebook postings to protest the lack of an indictment on Staten Island.

We joined them as they dashed into Grand Central. For me it was evocative of others times and other causes. 

"Hands up. Don't shot. Hands up don't shoot," they, we, chanted in reference to what allegedly happened to Michael Brown in Ferguson. "No justice, no peace. No justice, no peace" from earlier days.

And, "Fuck the police. Fuck the police" from today.

One struggling middle-aged commuter, who remembered similar epithets shouted decades ago in anger at the police, the "Pigs," during the Vietnam War said, "That didn't work then and it's is not fair now. At worst, it was only one policeman in Missouri and a few here. So . . ."

Someone who heard that responded civilly, "Don't you understand the frustration, the anger? You expect everyone to be courteous?"

"Maybe you're right," the commuter said as he ran for his train to Stanford. Maybe you're right. Back then I thought we were." 

He disappeared in the crowd.

December 2, 2014--Dumb Phone

I can finally come in from the cold thanks to Anna Wintour and Rihanna.

We sometimes go to places frequented by young people in part to get away from all the serious and tragic things that accrue to people our age. OK, my age. To soak up an alternate view of the world and my place in it. The existentials are working against me and I crave to know what the young people at The Smile are thinking and how they see the trajectory of their lives.

We are viable there, I think, in part because we're eager to listen and learn and because we represent an alternative view for them. They too are searching. So we have something to share.

Like so many of my generation I am fascinated and a little horrified by all the iPhoning. Feeling left out and even excluded, this is one of the things I've been eager to learn about. Why all the young people we know and see on the streets and in cafes are so relentlessly and ubiquitously tethered to their smart phone. What are they up to, sending back and forth, texting even as they step onto the elevator in our building early mornings, while walking up and down Broadway, while having coffee or meals with friends?

I admit to leaning in close on the elevator, looking over shoulders in an attempt to read what's going on on those luminescent screens. Glimpses suggest mindlessness, not anything personally or professional important or urgent.

Part of my alienation is self-imposed. I know my place, my generation.

And I know about the cell phone phone in my pocket.

It's a flip, dumb-phone with no Internet capacity and doesn't even allow me to send simple texts--assuming I ever wanted to. And so I keep it hidden in my pocket as out-of-sight as my young friends seem eager to have their smart-phones on display.

But then I learned from Michael Musto, self-described "night-life chronicler" for the New York Times that very with-it, very cool people such as Anna Wintour, Rihanna, and Scarlett Johansson have been spotted with old clamshell style phones like mine.

So the other day, after assurances by chronicler Musto, at The Smile, having breakfast with a couple of Millennium friends, without feeling dated and old, I put my flip-phone out on the table, side-by-side with their iPhones and, since they are more than with-it, they smiled in recognition of my new-found coolness. Or, more likely, maybe to humor me. They are that nice and compassionate.

I've been wondering about Scarlett and Anna and Rhianna. What's the story with them?

Maybe they don't want to be thought of as smart-phone zombies, the sort I see in my elevator or those in a hypnotic state as they navigate the cyber-Monday crowds on Broadway. Maybe they want to signal that they are too important to be all that accessible--or feel the need to be such--even to each other. To be tethered to a mobile device. Or, for that matter, to anything.

November 11, 2014--Liberals

Shortly before leaving Maine we had breakfast with two very liberal friends. This was about a week before the recent midterm election and part of what we discussed was how they thought the results would turn out.

"Don't believe the polls," Arnie said, "He may be behind, but I feel certain LePage will be reelected governor. And easily. In fact, I predict we'll see a Republican sweep across the country."

"Why's that?" I asked. My read of things was that the GOP had a good change to take control of the Senate but thought Dems would do well in governors races.

"That's because we liberals don't get off our fat asses for midterm elections. We save our political energy for those years when presidents are elected. But we're good at complaining--in fact we make an art form of it--but when it comes to taking action we're not so good."

"Wouldn't you think," Jim said, "that women, young people, and minorities would be racing to vote this time around? Because if they don't, say goodbye to reproductive health care and, for that matter, health care more generally. And what do you think will happen to voting rights and education funding, especially money to help low-income youngsters pay for college?"

"When all the votes are in," Arnie said, "we'll hear all the whining and moaning and groaning on MSNBC."

"And excuse making," Jim added. "How the system is broken. Blah, blah, blah."

Sure enough, things turned out even worse than Arnie and Jim predicted and, yes, there is now all that liberal finger pointing.

Back in New York, after the election, I took up the conversation with other friends. They too complained that the system is broken. When I asked them what they had done beside sending out some checks to favored candidates and causes they avoided eye contact. I'm not even sure they voted. But they were full of jizzum about, again, the broken system.

When I said that I felt the system was broken only for us liberals, that conservatives are feeling pretty good these days about the system, that they are looking forward to that system getting government out of their lives (that should only be) and out of the business of spending their tax money on people who don't want to get off their duffs and work to feed their kids.

"Well," Sarah said, "that's because they have all these beliefs, unverified ones by the way, about the natural order of things. A version of survival of the fittest where competition and the market will take care of our problems. That is, if we leave things alone. As you know from history, this just doesn't work. But, if they believe," she said sarcastically, "to them it must be true."

"I agree with some of that," I said, "But let me ask you something--in fact, let me also ask myself something."

"What's that?" an equally frustrated Doug asked.

"Are there any beliefs that we have? Liberals I mean. Beliefs that are equally not verifiable from evidence?"

"You mean all the research and talk about the fundamental, even neurological differences between belief-oriented versus evidence-oriented people and how that affects political behavior?"

"Maybe. But not to get into that discussion, which in my view is based on still insufficient evidence, I'm simply asking if we who consider ourselves open-minded and minimally fact- or scientifically-oriented, if there are things we just believe."

Both Sarah and Doug stroked their chins, trying hard too come up with something they believe that was based on something like faith. I too sat sipping my coffee, asking myself the same thing, admitting it's not something I had thought too much about, satisfied as I am with how objective and rational I considered myself to be.

"Wait, I have something," I said all excited.

"I can't wait to hear this one," Doug muttered.

"Here's something I think that goes to our political and ideological core--don't we believe, without supporting objective evidence, that government should play a significant role to help our most vulnerable citizens?" Sarah and Doug stared at me blankly.

"You know, in health care, education, housing, things of that kind?"

"I'm not following you," Doug finally said.

"Look, I support all of these programs. At least the ones that work, which is a whole other conversation. But what hard evidence can we cite to support these beliefs?"

"The evidence that student loans help millions go to college who otherwise couldn't afford to."

"Again, I favor that. But that's about outcomes, not the truth from nature that tells us what must to be done. To support programs of this kind is not written on tablets but is based on following a set of beliefs about how we should behave toward each other. It's the right thing to do, I feel certain about that, but it's justified by how I feel about our various roles as citizens. I believe that's how we should behave as individuals and governments. With 'feel' and 'believe' underlined. Again, these core values are not evidence-driven. Maybe the outcomes are objectively measurable but not the underlying principles about the appropriateness or requirement that we act this way.

"Maybe," I continued, "we don't even having 'inalienable rights,' that these too are not from nature but socially constructed."

"In other words," Sarah offered, "you're saying we're no different than those who believe in a very limited role for government? Let the chips fall where they may in a survival-of-the-fittest mode?" I nodded. "I'm not interested in living in that kind of world."

"Neither am I," I said, "But I think it's a good idea to recognize, to acknowledge that we're not so different than conservatives in that much of our political core is as belief-driven as theirs. We obviously believe very different things and come to very different conclusions, but like them believe we do."

"If this is true," Doug sighed with a sense of resignation, "we are to some extent jerking ourselves around. Thinking about ourselves as superior--intellectually and, worse, morally superior to the Tea Party folks and their GOP enablers."

"Which is why," I said, "we too often sit around analyzing and complaining and excuse making. We're good at all of that and maybe even get it right--at least I believe that," I winked, "But I don't think it's helping us push back or do well at the polls--nationally, at the state level, and locally. We're losing on all those fronts. The other side is now even out-organizing us. They have the energy and momentum. OK, because they are more fervent in their beliefs; but since we share strong beliefs too we had better get up off our couches and turn off our iPhones and get to work.  Especially locally because that 's where the future leaders are coming from."

"I did notice a bit of a generational shift in last week's election results," Sarah said, "The Democrats felt old to me and the Republicans more youthful and energetic."

"Hillary beware," Rona said.

"One more thing," I said. "I know you have to run, but here's another problem that's under-discussed--Evidence is that minorities aside, Democrats, true liberals like us, are better educated and much more affluent than your average middle-class and rural conservatives--excluding billionaires like the Koch brothers of course--and we thus have been big beneficiaries of the Bush-era economic and tax polices, all of which were made permanent during the early Obama years."

Sarah was looking at me skeptically. "You, too have benefitted, " I said to her. "And me as well. Without getting into specifics, I have paid much, much less in taxes the past 14, 15 years than previously. And, I confess, I like that and thus do not feel that motivated to agitate to pay more. Even if it went to programs I believe in and at least theoretically support. I say 'theoretically' because I'm not that much good when it comes to political action and mobilization. I'll confess--I like my lifestyle and don't want to see too much of it change."

Doug said softly, "I think you're right," he glanced at me, "We have been too full of ourselves, believing that if we get the policies right the politics will follow."

"Obama said the same thing Sunday on one of the talk shows," Rona said.

"That view feels a little arrogant to me," Sarah admitted.

"I agree," I said, "I think so-called 'average people' perceive us and our policies this way. To them we come across as knowing better than they do what's best for them."

"I need to think about this some more," Doug said, staring into his empty coffee cup.

November 3, 2104--Transitioning

We are resettling in NYC (never easy) and thus I did not have the energy to write something. But I will return tomorrow, Election Day, with a new Ladies of Forest Trace.

Remember to vote early and vote often.