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

October 12, 2017--Not-So-Smart Phone

I know that more and more things are only accessible with a smart phone. Like calling for an Uber car. 

Even though I realize I'm being left behind, here's why I still do not want one. It all became clear to me over breakfast the other morning with John Allan. 

As usual we were having a wide-ranging discussion. Somehow, the film Clockwork Orange came up. John, Rona, and I remembered it vividly. But for quite some time none of us could remember who directed it. I thought it was Richard Lester, who I recalled was thought of at the time as a filmmaker who was influenced by Mod style. 

Neither John nor Rona remembered him and I wasn't sure I even knew his name. And of course, I couldn't remember the titles of any of his movies. 

John reached for his iPhone and began entering Clockwork Orange. Before he could get too far with that, I asked him not to do so, saying I wanted to challenge my memory and didn't want to get right to the answer. 

He put the phone down, smiling at my desire to test my memory. At my age, I like to do that as much as possible, though often I get frustrated and think I have Alzheimer's. John understood that as he struggles with some of the same issues.

I continued to play around with Richard Lester's name, spelling it various ways--Lester, Lister, Lesnor--in an attempt to spur my memory, thinking that if I could do so I'd also be able to confirm that he was in fact the director none of us could remember.

We struggled with this for some time before Rona blurted out, "Stanley Kubrick. He's the director. I'm sure of that." She leaned back, feeling proud of herself. 

"I'm not so sure," I said, "I still think it was Richard or John Lester."

Quickly aggravated, Rona said to John, "I think it's now OK to look it up on your phone. No reason to struggle anymore with that since I'm sure . . ."

Before she could complete her thought John confirmed the director was Kubrick. 

In the meantime, though I reluctantly agreed, I felt certain that the director I was thinking about was Lester, Richard Lester. "I think he made the film Bedazzled and something with Julie Christie."

John had proceeded to look him up, "Yes he did make a film with Julie Christie, you were at least right about that; but, how could we have forgotten, the Beatles' Hard Days Night."

"I loved that movie," I said. "When it came out I was with my ex-wife in Dublin and it was playing across from a pub we had turned into our 'local.' We got on line with hundreds of kids and saw it. It was a terrific film and Lester was the director. But what about Bedazzled? Who made that?"

Looking at his phone, John said, "It was Stanley Donen, who also made a lot of musicals including Singin' in the Rain."

"Amazing," Rona said, "How a simple reference to Clockwork Orange has us thinking about the Beatles and Singin' in the Rain.

"And Julie Christie," I said. "Don't forget her. Did I ever tell you my Julie Christie story?" Rona rolled her eyes. She has heard it at least 100 times. John indicted he was interested.

"This goes back to 1967. My ex-wife, again, and I had driven cross country to San Francisco where Lisa was enrolling in the Art Institute. We rented a houseboat on the other side of the Golden Gate Bridge in the houseboat community in Sausalito. It was quite a time to be there. The Summer of Love, the year Sargent Pepper was released, Haight-Ashbury. All that. And if you can believe it, also on a houseboat, just across the dock from us, living there were Jerry Garcia, Phil Lesh, and the rest of the Grateful Dead."

No," John said.

"Really. We'd hang out with them when they practiced and smoked together. They had the best stuff in the marina."

"You're making this up," John said.

"Not at all," I said, "You can check it out. In your phone, type in Grateful Dead, 1967, and Sausalito. It'll come up."

He did and it did. "Amazing," he said, "And Julie Christie?"

"You can look that up too. Just enter her name and also Sausalito. Then click on 'Images' and a picture of her houseboat will appear. It was a big yellow ferry. It was also near our dock, on the San Fransisco side. She was there having just made Petulia with George C. Scott. Richard Lester was the director. I'm sure of all to this. I remember it." I was happy to report that. That I remembered it."

"Sounds like it was fun," John said.

"It was. And if you can believe it, Julie Christie and I became friendly. She was living with a French guy, a so-called artist, I think in fact more a boy-toy. But we became friendly and then over the years when she was in New York she'd occasionally call and we would get together. Once, she took me on a 'date' to see Hamlet on Broadway. An actor friend of hers, whose name I can't remember, played Hamlet. He wasn't that good, but we had fun."

"I get your point," John said. "Not looking things up prematurely can jar the memory. And is a good antidote to feeling you have dementia. That is, until you have it."

"Now you're sounding just like him," Rona sighed.

"I could look that up," John said, getting his smart phone ready. "The actor who played Hamlet." He looked at me to see if I was inclined to want him to do so.

"Let's leave that for another time." Rona was itching to leave.

Sausalito--The Yellow Ferry

March 9, 2017--Health Care Lottery

In an attempt to be responsible, I tried to read through the 123-page American Health Care Act, Trump- or Ryan-Care, promulgated by the Republican House leadership on Tuesday. I needed to do so, I thought, to enter the debate credibly with facts at hand.

I failed at that but did stumble on something morbidly fascinating and all too revealing--after ten pages of gobbledegook (see below) there were six pages of reasonably readable text about what to do with people covered by Medicaid who win state lotteries.

When I mentioned this to Rona, she said my new meds were making me hallucinatory. So I showed her the text and now she believes me, but has been walking around the apartment mumbling to herself.

First, a taste of the gobbledegook, taking it from the top of the text--

TITLE I—ENERGY AND COMMERCE Subtitle A—Patient Access to Public Health Programs
SEC. 101. THE PREVENTION AND PUBLIC HEALTH FUND.
(a) IN GENERAL.—Subsection (b) of section 4002 of the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act (42 U.S.C. 300u–11), as amended by section 5009 of the 21st Century Cures Act, is amended—
(1) in paragraph (2), by adding ‘‘and’’ at the end;
(2) in paragraph (3)— (A) by striking ‘‘each of fiscal years 2018
and 2019’’ and inserting ‘‘fiscal year 2018’’; and
(B) by striking the semicolon at the end and inserting a period; and (3) by striking paragraphs (4) through (8).

Pop quiz to follow. 

Then, after ten pages of this, clearly by placement to highlight its importance, for a full six pages they turn to what to do about state lottery winners who are currently covered by Medicaid.

Here is a bit of the text--

SEC. 114. REDUCING STATE MEDICAID COSTS.
(a) LETTING STATES DISENROLL HIGH DOLLAR LOTTERY WINNERS.—IN GENERAL.—In the case of an individual who is the recipient of qualified lottery winnings (pursuant to lotteries occurring on or after January 1, 2020) or qualified lump sum income (received on or after such date) and whose eligibility for medical assistance is determined based on the application of modified adjusted gross income under subparagraph (A), a State shall, in determining such eligibility, in- clude such winnings or income (as applicable) as income received—
‘‘(I) in the month in which such winnings or income (as applicable) is received if the amount of such winnings or income is less than $80,000;
‘‘(II) over a period of 2 months if the amount of such winnings or in- come (as applicable) is greater than or equal to $80,000 but less than $90,000;
‘‘(III) over a period of 3 months if the amount of such winnings or in- come (as applicable) is greater than or equal to $90,000 but less than $100,000; and‘‘(IV) over a period of 3 months plus1additional month for each increment of $10,000 of such winnings or income (as applicable) received, not to exceed a period of 120 months (for winnings or income of $1,260,000 or more), if the amount of such winnings or income is greater than or equal to $100,000. 

Of course if someone wins more than $80,000 that should be taken into consideration when determining Medicaid eligibility; but to give it this prominence, to devote so much textual energy to this literally one-in-a-million reality is to reveal the mean-spirited nature of conservatives when it comes to compassion for those who struggle. They reveal here how much they resent any poor person allegedly "getting away with" anything these politicians, themselves imbibing at the public trough, feel they do not deserve.

Take congressman Jason Chaffetz (R-UT) as another example when he spoke about health care for those with little or low incomes. There is an easy way to pay for heath care, he said--the poor should give up their smart phones and by doing so would have enough money to pay for health insurance.

To quote his version of the Golden Rule:

Americans have choices, and they've gotta (sic) make a choice. So maybe rather than getting that new iPhone that they just love and they wanna (sic) go spend hundreds of dollars on that, maybe they should invest in their own health care. They gotta (sic) make those decisions themselves.

Maybe if he knew how much he paid for his health insurance (nothing as a senator) or his smartphone (again, nothing as a $174,000-a year member of Congress) he would realize that if they gave up their beloved iPhones they still gotta get a lot more money from other sources to pay for it. 

Maybe they could give up eating. From the looks of Chaffetz his doing so wouldn't be a bad idea. But as everyone can see he doesn't wanna do that.

Senator Jason Chaffetz

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.

December 23, 2013--Social Theory

For some time I have been attempting to find ways to feel good about social networking. Up to recently, struggle as I have, everything I come up with is negative.

I'm face-to-face oriented and all this staring at smart phones, thumbs in constant motion as texts are exchanged, continues to turn me off and has me wondering what kind of people, especially young people we are becoming.

I am somewhat consoled by the fact that tweeting, texting, posting, and old-fashioned e-mailing are forms of writing. At a time when little writing is required in school and that that is is little commented upon by overburdened teachers, I'll take any shred of any kind of writing as good news.

But then I remind myself that fuddy-duddies such as I have always complained about paradigm-shifitng new technologies, ruing that they represent the end-of-civilization-as-we-know-it.

Plato, recall, wanted to ban poets and musicians from his Republic, claiming that their emotive power interferes with reasoned, philosophical discourse--it "feeds and waters the passions." And of course he is right. Though this hardly justifies banning them since in fact we need both.

And the literate priestly and royal elites of the time did not welcome Gutenberg's invention of movable type and the resulting proliferation of print material to the otherwise disenchanted. They feared that through the ideas contained in books the powerless would come to feel empowered and at some point would demand that Church and State be reformed and overthrown. Both of which, in turn, occurred.

Then there were those who opposed industrialization and the machine age--Luddites, among others--who rightly saw their widespread use presaging the end of self-sufficiency, craft, and rural yeoman life. And they were right.

So what of me now as I watch the self-hypnotized wandering up and down Broadway, eyes glued too their blue screens, thumbs tapping away?

Am I the cranky heir to Plato, the Renaissance princes, and hopeless machine-smashing Luddites? In many ways I feel I am but, knowing the history of how Plato's Republic turned out--no matter how noble it never came into existence--how after Gutenberg nothing could stem the avalanche of books and ultimately newspapers, and how the machine-driven Industrial Revolution changed everything forever worldwide, aware of these tectonic waves of culture-altering change, I am determined to try to remain relevant (at least in my own mind) and keep searching for the good that will come from the latest Internet-inspired brave new world.

Perhaps I had a glimpse on Saturday of a way to begin to feel better about the shape-shifting power of social networking.

It was a beautiful day and Rona said, "Let's finally go to Williamsburg. We're both originally from Brooklyn and haven't been to Williamsburg since all the young people moved in, displacing the Polish people and the Hassidim."

I readily agreed, feeling a little behind the times in not getting myself there to where so much is happening. "The Girls TV show is set there," I said, "and that's about as close as we've gotten to taking a look at the New Brooklyn."

"Half the best New York restaurants of the last few years are in Brooklyn and we keep going to our familiar nearby places."

If I needed additional reasons to venture across the East River, making me feel I am out of the latest hot restaurant loop was all the incentive I needed to get me headed toward the L train.

Incredibly, less than 10 minutes from Union Square, the fourth stop, Bedford Avenue plopped us down right in the middle of this remarkable urban transformation.

"Can you believe this," I said, with I am sure my jaw hanging open in wonder, "All these shops and terrific-looking young people."

The average age of those filling the streets could not have been more than twenty-five. "Can you believe it, my father's parents used to live on Bedford Avenue, not to mention all the Yeshivas that were here. Now every store is a cafe, restaurant, or clothing boutique."

"Let's wander up and down," Rona suggested. "To get a feel for what's going on."

So we did, for two hours wandering south on Bedford, across Grand Street, and then north on Union. "While we're at it, let's look for a place to have a cup of coffee."

"That's not going to be difficult to find. We've already passed at least 20," Rona said, an exaggeration but more true than not.

On Wythe Avenue we found Bakeri, an "artisanal bakery," which in fact it turned out to be. The display chest was full of wonderful-looking confections, from basic scones to fanciful tarts. It was packed with customers and it took us some time to be helped, which offered the opportunity to take in who was there.

As expected, everyone was very young and fresh from biking or jogging; and if I would have been pressed to guess, looked like they worked for IT start-ups, were living on family money, or both.

We both ordered coffee, Rona with two coconut macaroons, me an "apple cider flower," which looked like a version of Danish I used to get in my old East Flatbush bakery.

"You can sit in the garden, if you like," suggested a friendly young woman, dressed, as all the staff were, in faded-blue Bakeri coveralls. "It's such a beautiful day." She smiled to welcome us. "Find a table and I'll bring your coffee and pastries."

We squeezed by the crowd and made our way through a small passageway in which, tucked in nooks, were two tables and then down a fews steps into the garden.

"This will be beautiful in the spring," Rona said, looking up at the now bare trees, making plans to return even before tasting the coffee and macaroons. "Let's sit there," she said, pointing to a small marble-topped table nestled under the largest of the trees right by an unexpected stone pond full of golden koi.

Before we could look around and see who else was there, our coffee arrived. It was hot and delicious as were our baked goods, which we eagerly shared.

All the tables but the one next to us were occupied with yet more young people, chattering away about the weather and the trips from which they had recently returned.

"I loved Sri Lanka," said an Allison Williams lookalike. "And I can't wait to get back to the Seychelles," said a Zosia Mamet clone. "But best of all, have you been to Madagascar? The natural life there is amazing," said Lena Dunham's double.

Rona and I smiled at each other. This was even more fun than we had expected.

As I drained my final sips of coffee, scanning the garden, I asked, "Was it Thomas Wolfe who said about Brooklyn that, 'You can't go home again'"?

"I think he was referring to another place. Somewhere in the Midwest. But," Rona winked at me, "he did write that terrific short story, 'Only the Dead Know Brooklyn.'"

As by far the oldest person in the garden, I tried to get comfortable with her reference.

While we were finishing our drinks, eavesdropping on the nearby table talk, and trying to remember our Thomas Wolfe, a twenty-something woman slipped into the last unoccupied table right next to us. She was dressed in what we after a few hours in the area began to discern as Williamsburg chic--well-tailored grunge.

As has come to be usual, she did not look around but pulled her smart phone from her peacoat pocket and placed it on the table. Her tea arrived in what seemed like an instant. She didn't look up to acknowledge or thank the waitress; and before taking her first sip, was already tapping away at the screen.

Rona and I, curmudgeons together, smiled at each other.

Here she was, I thought, in this happy place, clearly among peers, in a lovely setting on an even more lovely day, and she can't even wait for a second to pick up her texts to look around, take it all in, feel good about life on such an afternoon.

As she bent closer to the screen, as if to cuddle with it, she began to chuckle. Her thumbs were now in even more rapid motion. Chuckles turned to laughter and head nodding. She took a quick sip of her tea, not taking her eyes off the glowing screen.

We had been making moves to pay the bill and leave, but without exchanging a word or glance of agreement stayed on to witness this as she eventually finished her tea, all the while smiling and talking under her breath as if to herself.

With her tea cup now drained, she took some money from her wallet. Still with her eyes on the flashing screen.

"It was Libya Hills," she said as if to no one in particular. She then half-turned toward us. "Libya Hills that Wolfe was referring to." Puzzled, we looked in her direction. "That you were wondering about. Not Brooklyn." With her free hand she gestured at the garden. And with that she was gone.

Back on the L train, Rona said, "Maybe that's where we're heading."

"I think we're heading toward Union Square. Two more stops."

"I mean culturally, silly. That girl in the garden." Getting her reference, I nodded.

"She was not there alone. Having tea by herself."

"Maybe this is our new sense of community."

"While bowling alone," Rona said, referring to a conversation we had a couple of weeks ago with a young friend from the IT world.

"But what about solitude?" I asked.

"Solitude?"

"Since we're sort of having a literary day, remember Alexander Pope's poem about solitude?"

"Vaguely."

"It goes something like--

Blest the man, who can unconcernedly find
   Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
             Quiet by day.'"

Rona slid closer to me on the subway. "You old Luddite, you."