DEAR SAL

I came across your name on Facebook, a website that can bring people together or drive them apart, depending on who we are talking about. Apparently, we are the same age, 71 years old give or take, and seem to have grown up in the same neighborhood on Long Island. Maybe we knew each other, by name, by face, back in the day.

At the time of the 25th anniversary of 9/11 just past, you chose to comment on a posted photo of 3rd grade students from my old neighborhood elementary school back in 1973, fifty-three years ago. These school photos do tend to look alike, an earnest teacher standing by twenty or so smiling, enthusiastic youngsters with open eyes to hopeful days ahead. In this particular photo, the one that drew your attention, one of the youngsters was fondly remembered for his kindness, his intelligence---and his tragic demise 28 years later in one of the World Trade Center towers. The comments to the post were all one would hope for in a mournful time of tragic remembrance.

Except yours.

You wrote simply how nice all white kids with a smiling emoji of a kid that quite frankly, Sal, appears to be yellow.

People called you moron, stupid, idiot, insensitive.

You called them low life and extolled the virtues of living now in your all-white Florida neighborhood.

I’m not going to go there with you, Sal. There is no point. Perhaps you’ve worked hard, been good to the people in your life, enjoyed grandchildren who revel in the spring training Mets games you take them to. Just maybe they’re in 3rd grade now like those 1973 youngsters in the photo taken 53 short years ago. Perhaps they call you Papa and think you are the greatest. I don’t know. I don’t know you. Don’t know anything about you beyond what I’ve said.

And those five words.

That is enough to know that anything I say will be rejected by you out of hand as I am a Jewish man whose mother survived the Holocaust to work with and enjoy friendships with as many people as possible of all religions and colors, from Black to white and everything in between.

As we both know, Sal, virtually everyone who hates Blacks and wants them as far away as possible feels the same way about Jews.

So, Sal, I am really writing to those grandchildren, all the grandchildren really.

Kids, Sal is Italian and I am Jewish. We both grew up in a suburban neighborhood that was a pretty good place to grow up. Jews, Italians, Irish, Blacks, all going to the same schools, playing on the same ballfields, going to the same hamburger joints, pizzerias and movie theatres. It wasn’t perfect. Some people had more money. Some people did better in school. Some were better athletes, more popular, more confident. People were teased, sometimes worse, for their voices, their eyeglasses, their acne, their religion, their color, their clothing, their choice of friends. We were, after all, just kids.

I was accosted on occasion in the middle school boy’s room by an Italian American classmate who regularly forgot his lunch money and wanted some of mine. I was once mugged, they called it jumped, by a group of Italian American peers who walked around 9th grade with fancy leather gang jackets that seemed to give them superpowers. It didn’t make me dislike Italian Americans. In fact, I married one and we’re still at this love thing 43 years later. Her Italian American father had been confronted with the same decisions a generation earlier---follow the leader and do wrong or make good individual choices based purely on character---and you know what he did. Her Italian American mother was possibly the smartest person I have ever met. I miss them both terribly.

I live for Italian food. I consider Italy my favorite place in the world to escape to. I think Leonardo da Vinci may have been the most talented human being ever. I fantasized on more than one youthful occasion about Sophia Loren and Claudia Cardinale. You get the picture.

And I’m well aware, and you should be too, that Italy was not Italy for thousands of years, divided among Papal States, Byzantines, Lombards, and more kingdoms and trade groups than I could ever keep track of. That Italy lies smack in the middle of a European continent that has been at the country border shift and ruler-encouraged hate game for so long amidst thousands of years of war.

So that was, and remains, America’s promise. Oceans away. Younger, unburdened by generations of passed-down prejudice and pure greed. One nation. But too often, we have been at war all over the globe for what we’re told is national self-interest that has done little for the nation or the self. And perhaps more damaging in the long run, we have been at war with ourselves, with those beautiful ideals we set down long ago in writing.

Black/White. Republican/Democrat. Southern/Northern. City/Rural. Rich Beyond Reason/Everyone Else.

We will always have differences. Differences make for better food, better music, better conversation, greater learning opportunities. We just cannot have one nation when the differences rule.

So kids, love your Papa for who he is. Your grandfather. The guy who helped put that roof over your heads, put that food on your table, put that pen and paper in your knapsack, got you that iPhone. And then run, don’t walk, to the nearest library and open your eyes and minds to all of the unbelievably heroic and brilliant things Black men and Black women have done, against all odds of oppression sent their way for hundreds of years. Get out there and dance with anyone and everyone, to music sent your way by anyone and everyone. Learn a second language, any one of hundreds out there. Then learn a third, the language of love that requires you to stop putting generations of frustration and the ignorance and hatred of your own grandfather on anyone else. It’s surprisingly easy to learn.

Part of the aftermath in the still vivid horrors of 9/11 is that we absolutely must find a way to minimize the hatred, especially organized hate, and quickly. It has beset every inch of this world of ours for thousands of years and it will be up to you to realize that it is the hatred itself that never produces a happy ending. Be kind. Be the leader of your own life. Resist the easy temptation of blaming someone else. It doesn’t work. Ultimately somewhere inside you will know you’re not fooling anyone, especially yourself, and it will eat away at your soul like acid. Take a real good look at and real good listen to Papa Sal. You’ll know what I mean. Kindness is so much more enjoyable and sustainable and shockingly contagious.

We’re counting on you.

QUIET TRAIN

I am so incredibly moved by the 9/11 ceremonies and recollections, coinciding as they do this year with the Jewish New Year and prayers for peace. Looked back at this short poem I wrote trying to go "back to business as usual" two days after, 25 years ago that seems like yesterday.

QUIET TRAIN

Two days after,
Quiet train to the city,
Like the train that just passed us
And the train we just passed,
Quiet, very quiet

 Almost-smiles as I move slowly
Atop aisle’s brown linoleum,
Window seat with skyline view?
Always, on the right,
Not today,
I know not my strength,
The corner looks safer,
For my heart

 Announcements minimal,
They know we know
Where we’re going,
Back to business as usual, they told us,
Cell phones in pockets,
If out, voices soft, barely audible,
No business, no usual,
Just quiet,
Quiet is good,
And no one wants to roust the devil

 New York Times are open,
Turning pages and pages of detail,
Painstakingly, dangerously researched pages,
Pages of survivors, bodies, miracles, heroes, plots, and retribution,
Quiet, screaming pages,
For this quiet, screaming train

RUN IT BACK

Is it possible that the New York Knickerbockers, our Knicks, an ever-changing collection of orange and blue clad athletes down through the years, sometimes superb, sometimes not so superb, won the NBA Championship in early June? Can it be that we who wandered in the desert of lost basketball seasons for 53 years had watched the Larry O’Brien Trophy hoisted atop the shoulders of actual miracle workers in front of millions of regular folks lined up for miles along Broadway and on their screens?

There they go, the roommates with the stellar podcast, Hart and Brunson, with even more laughter and swagger than they had before, joking at the upcoming September 29 training camp opening press conference. There’s OG, fresh from The Shot best described as Biblical, no disrespect intended, running, stretching, getting ready. Mikal Bridges seems eager to keep showing he was worth all that draft capital. Kat, all 84 inches, newly married, lining up his 3-pointers as the first exhibition game begins in Philadelphia on October 5. New Yorker Alvarado. Fan favorites Shamet, McBride, Kolek, Clarkson. No longer rook Diawara. And leader, calm, deserving Mike Brown, with master packagers and planners Leon Rose and Worldwide Wes. All back for another round.

Did the greatest city in the world really put aside everything last spring to root, to pull, to push a group of men to the pinnacle that only after the dream was in the books seemed pre-ordained? Did we stop worrying that the greatest team in the world, like almost every team in every league, had become the play toys of billionaires and powerful interests, just like seemingly everything else? Did we put aside the frustration that renting one seat for three exhilarating hours had reached into the monthly salary range for most Americans?

Yes we did, New York, thankful that there were work-arounds with public and private viewing parties all over the city where people jumped out of their seats to cheer on a really good bunch of guys trying to make a little history.

Good history.

So here’s to you, New York Knickerbockers. We know no one has repeated since the 2018 Golden State Warriors because it’s a really hard thing to do. We know the competition’s been upgraded. Lebron’s come east. Giannis moved south. That really tall guy in Texas is a few months older, and presumably wiser. We know you’ll give it your best shots. That will be good enough for us. Hopefully enough of them will fall.

New York, New York

New York's most iconic AND heart-stopping teams, in no particular order, with the theme being upsets:

1. 1969 Mets upset Orioles in World Series one season after losing 89 games

2. 1969-70 AFL Jets upset NFL Colts in Super Bowl III on the back of Joe Namath's guarantee

3. 1970 Knicks upset Lakers in 7 games with Clyde Frazier scoring 36 in final game and injured Willis Reed providing emotional lift

4. 2008 Giants upset Patriots in Super Bowl XVII on the strength of Eli Manning to David Tyree miracle helmet catch

5. 2026.......[check back in for updates]

Editor's Notes: (1) It was cool to be alive in 1969/70 and (2) 1994 Rangers of Mark Messier guarantee fame and a 54-year drought would be on this list were it not for their being heavily favored against the Canucks to win the Stanley Cup.

SACRE BLEU (AND ORANGE)

Just got off the phone with a dear friend as we were breaking down tonight's Knicks final in the NBA Cup and somehow we segued to the Knicks unfortunate history of obtaining the wrong French ballplayers. Allow me to explain. I love France. Without France and Lafayette, we might still be part of Great Britain. I love French food, French films, French art, French architecture. Going to France. If I’d had more confidence back in 1968 middle school, I might have opted to learn how to speak French very poorly in lieu of the unintelligible Spanish I come out with on occasion sixty years later.

Never once did the term Freedom Fries leave my mouth in the 2003 George W. Bush era hysteria over Iraq and France's reluctance to follow the US in its epic search for WMDs.

That being said, while French basketball players have been succeeding in ever increasing numbers in the Olympics (2nd place in a close loss to the US summer of 2024) and in the NBA (see Tony Parker, Victor Wembayama, Boris Diaw, Rudy Gobert, Nicholas Batum), the Knicks seem to get their French draft and trade advice from the ghost of Julia Child (see Frederic Weis, Ousmaine Dieng, Frank Ntilikina, Ronny Turiaf, Guerschon Yabusele). I'm still holding out hope for Mohamed Diawara and Yabusele (if he drops 40 pounds).

This is all so true that sometimes I imagine that Andrea Bargnani, Travis Knight, Renaldo Balkman, Cleanthony Early, and Maciej Lampe were all French.

MY MOTHER'S MIRACLE ON 34TH STREET

A friend of mine from the West Coast just posted a photo of the ancient wooden escalator at Macy’s Herald Square in Manhattan. I’d like to tell you how I hope there will always be a Macy’s store at 34th Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenues. A place to do more than just sell. A place for children and folks who used to be children. A place to inspire. At Thanksgiving when thousands line the streets in awe of giant cartoon floats. At Christmas when window displays and holiday lights cheer. That first week of July when a fireworks show like no other celebrates the greatest declaration of democracy in history.

I can’t tell you that. I don’t know what a future of Amazon and AI and hedge funds and real estate developers and Macy’s Board and shareholders has in mind for this cultural icon that just so happens to carry men’s sweaters. Standing proudly since 1902 a few blocks south of the proverbial Great White Way, I cannot assure you that this place will not become a Great White Elephant.

But what I can do is tell you how this most wonderful of all stores embraced my late mother Adele at 18 years old, just seven months after her arrival from wartorn Europe and Siberian forced labor camps in February of 1946. Or rather, I can let her tell you, as she did more than 75 years ago in the Macy Star, its employee newsletter:

“Four years ago, on a ship coming to America, was the first time I heard about Macy’s. In my imagination, Macy’s became a place in a fairy tale. After that horrible war I could not believe a place like this could be possible…Next Saturday will be four years that I am in America. And it’s right here in Macy’s, more than any other place, that I learned about America and Democracy at work. The people I met here taught me how to speak English. It’s here that I learned that just because you speak with an accent people don’t laugh at you, but try to correct and help you. I learned how to walk and dress properly just by watching different people. In short, Macy’s made my dreams of freedom and Democracy come true. I decided to let you know how happy I am to work here. And I take this opportunity to thank my supervisors and fellow workers for everything they have done for me. Thanks a lot!”

Kindness and gratitude. Imagine that.

REUNITING

The bigger these Reunion numbers get, the more mixed the feelings. For me, most recently there was my college 45th in 2022, followed by my high school 50th in 2023 and just this past weekend my law school 45th. Nothing is more fertile ground for the WouldaCouldaShoulda, the Road Not Taken, the Impostor, and the I Can’t Believe I Lived For A Full Year In That House And With Those People Syndromes than a reunion. I am always anxious as the date(s) approach and more than pleasantly surprised by the good feelings engendered.

Never more than this past weekend.

I am part of the Harvard Law School Class of 1980. We think we are the best class to ever leave that place—because we are—and only a true cynic would snipe that the bar for this is notably low. I will leave the myriad reasons why that is for another time. It does have something to do with the fact that we came to law school at a time when both The Paper Chase (featuring Timothy Bottoms as the unforgettably intimidated first year law student James Hart and John Houseman as the unforgettably intimidating Professor Kingsfield) and One L (Scott Turow’s “insider view” of the horror that was supposed to the first year of law school) were much too front and center for anyone’s comfort.

The cranky old man in me notices the differences in today’s HLS without much effort and without sitting in on a single class. A wall in the world-class student union is lined with a hundred large black and white photo portraits of faculty members, all smiling, none intimidating, Kingsfield be damned and buried. There is recognizable food. A lounge with comfortable chairs and floor to ceiling windows and a bar that someone just might think could encourage relaxation. In case that isn’t enough, posted over the urinals is notice of the “November Event—Embracing New Changes with Mindfulness” coming from “The Well: Health and Wellness at HLS”.

The cranky old man in me takes note but remembers that our class found its way without any of it. It studied hard and partied hard and laughed hard and we’re apparently still doing it almost five decades from our first class in Cambridge. (In the interest of full disclosure, I only scored 2 of 3 on those categories because, and this should be familiar to those who know me, I wanted to be writing and not fighting.)

Forty-five years after graduation, from everything I’ve witnessed, my class is full of attorneys with great values who’ve made a real difference all over the country, as attorneys yes, but also as teachers, judges, university presidents, politicians, ambassadors, volunteers, novelists, poets, historians.

I am proud to know them.

So I agreed to serve this weekend on a Looking Forward panel in one of those law school classrooms generally reserved for the Socratic Method. I was asked to discuss creative writing, otherwise known as words not generally arranged on the page by lawyers in their briefs, and to answer a few questions. My twenty minutes came right after those of a brilliant classmate who didn’t rest on his laurels as a Constitutional scholar and top-tier lawyer but instead is working fervently on a Harvard initiative training leaders to take on the nation’s many challenges. And right before several judges who care only about reaching the proper decision in the face of our increasingly political and polarized environment.

I had a wonderful time.

I closed with something I wrote on the way to the symposium which seemed to resonate so I will share it now. I think most writers, and perhaps lawyers too, know where this is coming from.

“You know you should be writing. That voice again. You know you should be losing weight, getting in shape, making more money, being a better parent, and trying that miracle cream that everyone swears will reverse this godforsaken aging process. But those voices are easily silenced. And you have nothing but layers of fat, retirement insecurity, same old kids, and all these wrinkles and jowls.

But this writing thing. As if you had something new to say in a refreshing way not covered by Shakespeare or AI. No matter. You’re all set up with computer and that little Nespresso thing that costs so much money you can almost hear your late father asking you if you’re crazy, reminding you that he could get a perfectly delicious cream cheese on date nut bread and bottomless cup at Chock full o’Nuts on Third Avenue for a dime.

This blank screen is daunting and thirty minutes in it’s dawning on you that maybe you don’t have anything to say after all. Out the window that lawn is growing untamed and closer at hand some Facebook friend’s report on her 2-egg breakfast with her Schnauzer is only a click away. And you know the world outside is dying in fake news and fake friends and fake forays to easy answers and you remember that the opportunity to be real, to be authentic, your voice, well that was why you started putting all this fiction down on paper so long ago. And if your father were still alive, you’d tell him things are getting better, not worse, that they just have to, and that your Nespresso Vertuo Pumpkin Spice Cake is just so much tastier than his lunch counter Chock full o’Nuts.

Well, that’s it. A blank screen and a lawn that needs to be mowed. Coffee’s gone and that new age music you had playing to keep the truly bad guys out of your story has ended. 

Let’s revisit this tomorrow.”

This Is The Greatest Poem Ever Written

This is the greatest poem ever written,
You heard it from me,
People are saying, how’d you write it so fast?
Years, months, days, hours,
Other people take, like, forever
To write this stuff,
Me, two minutes,
Two minutes,
Came to me, just like that,
Two minutes,
And everyone was saying that can’t be done, you can’t do that,
Nobody can do that,
But I did it, and here it is,
Two minutes,
And maybe I’ll do it again someday,
But right now I’m pretty busy
Making this the greatest country again
And keeping it that way.

How’d you do it?
Everyone keeps asking me,
How’d you do it?
Words,
I have the best words,
So I put them together,
And here it is,
The greatest poem ever written,

Think they should give me a Pomy,
Or whatever they call that thing they give out,
Like an Oscar, for words,
My advisors told me, you don’t need to rhyme,
They’re idiots, I know that,
Obviously, I can rhyme any time
On a dime,
And don’t get me started on all the slime
Coming into our country,
Everyone knows it’s a crime.

I know more than all the great ones
Who weren’t all that great,
I know a lot more than they do,
Morons, believe me,
But no one will tell you that,
Dickinson, what kind of name is that?
And hey, hand me that list,
Frost, Eliot, Whitman, Blake, Hardy,
Who the hell are these people?
Nobody ever heard of them,
Angelou and Hughes,
Would never happen today, we’re getting rid of all this DEI stuff,
Never happen, never happen,
It’s a shame, not on my watch,
And Yeats
And Keats,
Hey, that rhymes too,
Rhymin’ without tryin’,
You just can’t make this stuff up
Unless you’re me.

Poetry is back, like nobody thought possible,
I thought it would take two weeks, three weeks, maybe even four,
But it’s back, and stronger than ever,
I did it in two minutes,
Less than two minutes,
The greatest poetry, the greatest poet,
The greatest poem ever written.

BOSTON

We are an hour away from Game 1 of the Knicks versus Celtics Eastern Conference Semifinal. I’ve been a Knicks fan for sixty years as made abundantly clear by prior posts. I like this team, a gritty group that seems one more star away from true contention. But no matter for I believe that we will steal Game 1 in Boston and see where it goes from there.

It is difficult to dislike this Boston Celtics team. Class and talent, starting with future Hall of Famers Jason Tatum and Jaylen Brown. So I have to go into the memory bank and call up 1969 when the Celtics took down the favored Knicks in the Eastern Division Final in six games. Clyde and Willis were great, just not great enough to stop Bill Russell and John Havlicek en route to the 11th and last title of the never matched Russell Era. I did what any true-blooded Knicks fan would do that April—tacked the Sports Illustrated cover with Havlicek on it to my brown corkboard wall and threw mini darts at it. And maybe it worked—-the Knicks won their first NBA title the very next season.

Turns out I would have loved those Celtic teams if I could have transcended the 200-mile distance in my mind. Back then, I didn’t think about anything not on the court; that’s how sports were covered. No exposé shows back then, no insider historical reflections like the great Celtics City documentary on HBO to show just how smart and savvy and pioneering and courageous these Celtics were. Russell, one of the greatest of all time on the court and so much smarter and courageous off it. Havlicek, never stopping, best Sixth Man ever, perennially underrated and another class act. KC Jones, Sam Jones, Don Nelson, and so on, and before that Satch Sanders, Bob Cousy, Tommy Heinsohn, and so on, and so on.

And don’t even get me started on how Red Auerbach outfoxed everyone to steal Larry Bird in the 1978 Draft after his junior year. It’s the reason why the Celtics went from 29 wins in 1979 to 61 wins in 1980 and went on another run of titles that decade.

I once had a friend who went with the winners wherever they were. Yankees, Celtics, Packers, Canadiens. To me, that was inexplicable. We were New Yorkers and the only decision was Yankees or Mets, Giants or Jets, Knicks, and Rangers. I’m not going to say the friend was happier than me but he did have fewer disappointments I suppose. And the Celtics were a source of a number of those disappointments.

So I’m going to take my seat in front of a television screen signficantly upgraded from the barely color Motorola of my youth and hope things come together for the road team tonight. Not because I don’t admire and respect Boston Celtics history but because I’ve got sixty years in on these Knickerbockers and I have a strong feeling the payoff is coming soon.

WAITING

My dear friend’s 11-year-old son, let’s call him Sonny, is becoming quite the New York Knickerbockers fan. He stays up as late as he can for the West Coast games clandestinely on his phone, wears his Number 3 Josh Hart jersey proudly whenever and wherever he can and has successfully cajoled his father into a couple of decent seats at the Garden the past few years.

Been there, done that.

Sure, I caught those Lakers games on a transistor radio, had no wearable merch I can recall and had two years to go before I’d make my first trip to 32nd and Seventh.

But I get the feeling.

There is nothing like being a Knicks fan. Just ask one. So many highs, so many more lows. We are often described as long suffering.

I like the term waiting better than suffering. It’s more accurate. Yes, there have been seasons to forget. Really decades, the 1980s and the 2000s for the most part, where the teams lost many more than they won, and add in a couple of hard to forget 17-win seasons in 2015 and 2019. Seasons that proved that you cannot just throw money at a problem. But for the most part, in their long and storied history---yes, storied, for the Knicks have had larger than life characters and drama enough to light up the Post’s back pages these past 80 years---the Knicks have been competitive and entertaining.

I was 18 years old when the Knicks won their second and last NBA Championship in May of 1973 and my hero Walt Frazier was 28 years old. I’m now 70 and Clyde’s 80 and we’re both waiting.

It was a different time. Very different. Knicks coach Red Holzman used to come with his wife into a Long Island restaurant I worked at for a quiet dinner on a regular basis. He was indistinguishable from the local attorneys, accountants and garment salesmen seated at adjacent tables.

Tomorrow evening the Knicks will try to close out a spectacular, hard-fought series against the up-and-coming Detroit Pistons in the fourth time these two original NBA teams have met in the playoffs. There has been an edge to this series that harks back to 1984’s Bernard King versus Isaiah Thomas (Knicks 3 games to 2 in the Eastern Conference First Round), 1990’s Bad Boys Championship Redux (Pistons 4 games to 1 in the Eastern Conference Semifinals) and 1992’s Badder Boys Beat Bad Boys (Knicks 3 games to 2 in the Eastern Conference First Round).

More importantly than any of that, we owe a lifelong debt of gratitude to these very same Detroit Pistons. They were the team who sent us Dave DeBusschere in exchange for the more than capable players Walt Bellamy and Howard Komives on December 19, 1968. Not only was the new Knick a terrific defender and fine shooter with all of the intangibles, his arrival allowed Willis Reed to move from power forward to center where he thrived. Those Knicks, often considered to this day a prime example of teamwork and camaraderie, would win their first championship a year and a half after the trade.

Coming back to Sonny, he is very excited. Sonny, this is only the First Round. Three more rounds to go. How much of the past do you know? How much do you need to know?

They say those who don’t know their history are doomed to repeat it. Can’t we just ignore that maxim for the purpose of a new fan’s budding life passions?

Can’t we revel in our star Jalen Brunson’s coming back from what seemed like another rolling leg disaster to pour in 15 points in the 4th quarter of yesterday afternoon’s one-point victory in Detroit? Can’t we just wink at each other when the NBA review folks acknowledge that former Knick Tim Hardaway, Jr. was fouled at game’s end and should have been awarded three foul shots?

How much does Sonny need to know?

Do we tell him that despite management’s moves for KAT, OG, Brunson, and Mikal, the Celtics, Cavs and Thunder seem mountains too high to climb? No need, he’s seen the season series in which the Knicks went 0 and 10 against those teams.

Do we tell him about the ghosts? MJ, Pippen, Shaq, Kobe, Duncan, Olajuwon, Lebron, Miller? Bernard King’s untimely ACL tear in ’85? Charles Smith’s four consecutive layup flubs against the Bulls in ’93? John Starks’s 2 for 18 in Game 7 of the ’94 NBA Finals against the Rockets? Reggie Miller’s 8 points in the closing seconds of Game 1 and Patrick Ewing’s finger-roll miss at the end of Game 7 in against the Pacers in ‘95?

No, we do not. We cheer and let our hearts race as they close out the feisty and talented Pistons tomorrow night on Seventh Avenue, or later in the week if need be. We dream, big dreams, of knocking off the uber-talented defending champs from Boston, reprising our two-seasons ago bottling up of the prohibitive favorite Cavaliers, and pulling some Game 7 magic from a hat in Oklahoma City. And if not, October exhibition games will be here before you know it.

If we are going to invoke ghosts, let’s leave it at Red Holzman and Willis Reed, sprinkle in some Tommie Agee and Tom Seaver from ’69, a little Broadway Joe Namath from ’70, import Mark Messier from ’94.

It’s been a long time. A long time waiting. No suffering here. Vince Lombardi was wrong. Winning isn’t everything and it’s not the only thing. It does beat losing, I’ll grant you that. But what winning is, really, is just a waiting game.

Sonny has plenty of time.

KILLING THEM WITH KINDNESS

Thanks social media for dividing us more than I'd have thought possible. There’s always been an asshole's playbook---layer on the stress, get folks to judge and dislike each other based on color, religion, nationality, even sports team fandom---and maybe no one will notice how rigged all of this has been. Social media has been all of that on steroids.

So I’ve retreated outside and picked up a basketball for the first time in years, every Sunday morning, and I am in love with the game again. That and music are keeping me going. As always, the players, diverse, unpaid, of varying skills, are pure wonderful. The 59 year-old and 48 year-old African Americans, the 55 year-old Italian, the 39 year-old Hispanic, the 20-something Serbians, the 29 year-old Irishman, and 70 year-old me. We pass, we shoot, we bang and then we do it all over again next Sunday. Only two months in on my comeback, I kind of love every one of them, that kind of love that's probably little "l" love but means so much.

They laughed today when I tried to settle a minor dispute by calling for a vote, reminding them all that we still had a democracy, at least for the coming week. The retort “that shit's gone," brought even more laughter and it wasn't until I got home that I felt like crying. They want to exchange numbers and emails and social media handles and we'll have to see about that. Don't want to chance ruining a good thing by learning what one thinks about the Middle East or the Ukraine or DEI or immigration or LGBTQ rights, or do I?

Social media was supposed to be a basketball court you could walk on and play, share some passions, give a hug as good as you get. But it’s not and until it is, all I can think about is getting outside, going to concerts and street fairs, being more kind than I feel up to. Fingers…..and arms……crossed.

JUST BRUTAL

Despite watching part of the exciting Michigan upset over Ohio State Saturday and most Super Bowls---for the party and trays of food, of course---I haven't been able to stomach this brutal sport for years. Just saw a clip of Jaguars QB Trevor Lawrence knocked unconscious by an unnecessary hit from Houston Texans linebacker Azeez Al-Shaair. The irony is not lost on me that he was escorted away from the brawl by his teammate Derek Stingley. If that name resonates with my peers, it's because his grandfather was the late New England Patriots wide receiver Darryl Stingley who was paralyzed in August 1978 after a vicious preseason hit by Oakland Raiders Jack Tatum. Remembering Darryl Stingley Tatum later wrote in his memoir that he intended “an intimidating hit” and “I like to believe that my best hits border on felonious assault.”

Just two years ago Damar Hamlin of the Buffalo Bills went into cardiac interest upon making what some described as a routine tackle at midfield. The right shoulder of the Bengals wide receiver careened into Hamlin’s left side and he collapsed immediately.

There are no routine tackles in football.

Hamlin has made an inspirational recovery and two years after the incident is once again starring for the Buffalo Bills. Stingley was a quadriplegic from that fateful summer day until his death at 55 years old in 2007. Both men credited God, for recovery and survival respectively.

The debates over the violence in American football (and boxing and mixed martial arts) have been going on for years. No need to review both sides now. You’re better off revisiting Will Smith’s fine 2015 film Concussion for starters.

I know NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell and so many others making billions off the sport will talk statistics and perhaps posit that getting in your car to go to the market is more dangerous. Query whether those proponents have ever been hit by a 275-pound lineman who runs a 4.9 40-yard dash. That’s Godspeed, right there.

I’ve got many other beautiful individual and team sports to engage with. So should you.

This coming February 9, wherever I am, hopefully I’ll pay more attention to Puppy Bowl XXI than Super Bowl LIX.

THAT'S MY LINE

You can find something beautiful every day and, if you stop looking so often, the beautiful may actually find you. It found me Saturday afternoon. At discounter Marshall’s in West Palm Beach. On a line. A really long line that stretched around the store and lasted for one hour and forty-five minutes. No pot of gold at the end of that marathon, no Bruce Springsteen tickets, no extra discount. Nothing but the hundred dollars of fungible household goods we had come for and could presumably have obtained with less difficulty a few days later.

Of course, I surveyed the line at the outset and looked over at my wife. We’re out of here, right?

I have never liked a long line. Who would? Known as queue in England or file on the way in or out of the middle school assembly, it is the quintessential time waster. The longtime symbol of government inefficiency ala every town’s motor vehicle department. The endless wait for 1930s soup and the bank run reminders of what happens when an economy crashes to earth. The virtual wait on hold to get something done via the telephone almost as old as the device itself.

I have passed by many lines in my time, be they lines of sadness at the unemployment office or lines of anticipation and joy outside Madison Square Garden or lines of false pride at Studio 54. I have always passed them by, with sympathy, with derision, with gratitude for not being on them.

That all changed Saturday. At Marshalls, the off-price family apparel and home fashion retailer that’s been around since 1956 and is now (along with sister companies Home Goods and T.J. Maxx) a part of the The TJX Companies, Inc. public company empire valued at 140 billion dollars. Millions of shares of TJX trade every day of the week as traders wonder just how many pairs of Calvin Klein underwear and Christmas tree ornaments its thousands of stores will be able to push out the door in the months to come. Like its competitors, it will seek to reward its chief executive officer with 15 million dollars a year, give or take, for leading that charge and will keep its shareholders interested with 1 or 2 percent annual dividend payments and returns on investment of 20 percent more annually. It will pay its employees so little with ever disappearing medical benefits, job security and retirement contributions that will make it forever difficult to retain good people. And maybe, just maybe, that is why only 3 cash registers of the 13 at the store I visited Saturday had employees on duty the entire time I was there. When we finally arrived at the promised land, I turned around and took note that the line was as long as it had been when we embarked on our checkout mission so long ago. I believe they call that a business model.

The model’s no longer working, is it? No matter how much George W. Bush and our leaders who followed hope that people will keep spending more than they can possibly afford to. Marshalls and its fellow entities depend on the government to keep the roads to the store maintained. They depend on the government to train soldiers and police to keep the free enterprise machine greased and oiled, to make the world, especially the mall parking lots, safe and secure. They depend on the government to educate their workers and customers, to keep them reasonably healthy and secure in youth and retirement. And they depend on the government to backstop the banks and other lenders so the money keeps flowing. Just don’t ask them where this government money should come from because I believe the next four years may provide some regrettable answers.

This was to be an essay about finding beauty, wasn’t it? Time I got around to that part of the story. The beauty was that line, a few hundred individuals of every race, religion and presumably political bent sharing a random Saturday afternoon. No politics, no religion, no cutting in line, no screaming, no ranting, no vocal complaints whatsoever. Laughing, smiling folks from seven to seventy, shuffling in place, looking at their phones, talking to their family members and to the total strangers around them. It just might be a Florida thing, being bored with the 75 degrees, no humidity and cloudless sky just outside the store doors, and willing to wait so patiently. It might be resignation, it might be a lot of things. What it was for me was beautiful, so much so that when my wife reasonably suggested 20 minutes in that we might put our goods on hold and come back later that night, I was adamant about staying.

Where else would I meet a wonderful young Canadian mother, working so hard to make it in Florida, so many years into the green card process of lawyers and necessary business purchases, wondering if she might have to go home or to Europe after all this effort to make America her home? Did I know that Canada has 1/9 the population of the US but has only slightly less lawful permanent residents, approximately 8 million versus 13 million? No, I did not. And that the system, if you try to do it legally like my newfound friend, can sometimes take 20 years or more? I had heard that part. We should have secure borders, definitely. But maybe be a little more generous in the numbers and far more expedited in the legal immigration part of the equation and I’m sure we’ll achieve another way to cut down on the illegal part. I do know that my new friend would be a credit to this country and has been struggling for years to try to make that happen.

Then there was my new Brooklyn transplant friend and her brilliant and vivacious preteen daughter who never once whined or complained about being there. We talked about restaurants and how they couldn’t take their elderly Italian patriarch out to an American Italian restaurant because it never measured up and he wasn’t shy about saying so aloud. I told her an introduction to my wife’s Italian mother who was always the same way might be a great idea. And somehow, when the subject of college came up, my new friend expressed near tears of joy upon recognizing my wife as the best and most inspirational professor of her life, no surprise to me.

Something about that line and that feeling of afternoon haplessness opened everyone up, to conversation, to camaraderie, to connections, to genuine affection. Don’t ask me how it happened, it just did, so much so that our little group discussed a reunion every year at Marshalls and I’m thinking that might just happen.

We are all in a hurry in this country because that’s what we do best and are always encouraged to do. Hustle, earn, stress, and repeat. Some of my fondest memories came during an epic 1978 snowstorm when everything shut down in Boston for a week. Other nations have siestas, sabbaticals, shorter work weeks. And now, in my mind, we have the possibility of the line. I’ll keep my eyes out and my mind open for the next one.

COME ON AMERICA

Come on America,
We’re better than this, so much better,
Our foundation was, is and always will be
Hope,
So often, in the darkest days of our world,
We have helped others believe,
We have been a beacon.

Come on America,
Learn from our mistakes, listen,
We ignored women, we ignored our people of color,
We ignored history, we ignored our ideals,
Life is short, hate is long,
We are better than this.

Come on America,
We don’t need to be perfect, not great again,
We just need to be good,
Righteous need not be God-fearing, or God-smearing, or loud,
Just good, really good.

Come on America,
Debate is good, deflate is not,
We don’t need to tell the world we’re the best,
We just need to be better tomorrow than yesterday.

Come on America,
Divided we have fallen, together we’ll rise,
Come on America,
We got this.

GOOD SPORTS

There are countless areas where sports and politics intersect. As I watched my hometown Mets 4 to 2 comeback victory in a do or die Game 3 against the Milwaukee Brewers last night, and its aftermath, I was reminded that it is perfectly okay to have partisanship so long as it always accompanied by a healthy dose of sportsmanship.

The very talented and favored team from Milwaukee had taken a seemingly insurmountable 2 to 0 lead in the 7th inning on home runs by Jake Bauers and Sal Frelick. The Mets offense had been missing for most of the series and they had not scored a run since the 2nd inning of Game 2, 15 consecutive scoreless innings. At game’s end, they found themselves facing one of the best closers in the game, Devin Williams, who had so easily dispatched them in the prior Game 2 loss.

The Mets rode a 9th inning one-out walk to Francisco Lindor, a single to right by Brandon Nimmo and an opposite field homer by slumping Pete Alonso to victory.

Moments after Alonso squeezed Lindor’s double play peg for the final out, absolute joy erupted on the field and for Mets fans everywhere. The OMG crew had lived to play another day, a best 3 of 5 series beginning tomorrow against the Phillies to be specific. There were photo ops and champagne and wonderful interviews with victorious stars and a rather eloquent Mets manager in Carlos Mendoza.

The capacity crowd exited with heads shaking what so suddenly had taken on a funereal atmosphere.

I was overjoyed that this Mets team, written off in May after a dismal start, would be moving on.

But what I’m thinking about the day after is what Devin Williams said in his postgame interview.

“We worked all year to get to this point. They got me a two-run lead there in the ninth. That’s how we draw it up. And I couldn’t come through for the boys. No one feels worse than I do. It could have been better, but it wasn’t the worst pitch I’ve ever thrown. I wanted to go away with it, and I got it there, but it was a good piece of hitting. I’m not going to make any excuses. I didn’t get the job done when I needed to. They executed well, and I didn’t.”

Suffice it to say, I’m now a fan. Of Devin Williams.

And then there’s Pat Murphy, the 65-year-old Brewers manager who I had never heard of until this week but is a heavy favorite to win National League Manager of the Year. Here’s part of his post-game interview.

“It’s baseball, you got three players that are upper echelon players, Lindor, Nimmo and Alonso, and they did what they do…I want to credit the Mets, that’s what that inning was about, that inning was about the Mets, they were great, those three players are All-Stars, they have long-term contracts for a reason, they’re great players and they’ve been through a hell of a ride here having to play the extra games, all the credit goes to them, goes to the Mets…It was a great script for us. You know Devin’s been as good a closer as there is in baseball for two and a half years that he’s played, you know he was injured most of this year, he’s been unbelievable and I’d give him the ball again tomorrow in the same situation and any other game I’m involved with if we have a lead, I’d give Devin the ball. So again, that’s three really good players. Lindor’s one of the best in the game. Nimmo’s there for a reason, he’s their best hitter right now. And Alonso while maybe quiet this series, that’s a huge swing. Yeah, that’s the way it is.”’

Suffice it to say, I’m now a fan. Of Pat Murphy.

So, in the interest of a future of slightly less partisanship and a whole lot more sportsmanship, I’ve reimagined that postgame manager’s press conference with a certain former manager in mind.

“I’m not about to concede anything. We’ve just filed a formal protest and that won’t be the end of it. My people are investigating while we speak. If I have to, I’ll take this all the way to the Supreme Court. The fix is in, the whole thing is rigged. They had 2 hits, by the same guy, they were stealing signs, anyone could see it, and then they started up, bing, bang, boom. You tell me how that’s possible. You can’t. Because it’s not. Everyone knows that. And I’m not going to stand for it. That Lindor, they gave him a walk, they said it was a check swing. That was fixed, the home plate umpire asked the third base umpire but he sent him the signal for ball at the same time he was asking. Anyone could see it. The pitch was right down the middle anyway, maybe the greatest pitch I’ve ever seen. I played first base you know or else I would have been the best pitcher. You know that I could have been a major league ballplayer for sure but there was no money in it back in the day. I would have had to take a pay cut to play, like I did many years later, because I love this country. Anyway, this guy Lindor, Manaea, Iglesias, even the manager Mendoza, where are these people from? They’re coming in, they’re bringing who knows what?! And Alonso, they say his father fled Spain as a refugee and settled in Queens. I’m from Queens, bet you didn’t know that. So, tell me why the father then left for Ohio, tell me that. Everyone knows. And I’m not so sure about this Nimmo either. They say he’s from Wyoming, show me the proof, everyone knows that. And how about the way that ball jumped off Alonso’s bat. Not natural, and I saw the cork fly out from the lumber with my own two eyes like it was popping out of a bottle of cheap Spanish wine, like a bottle of Sangria. Hey, if you can’t trust baseball, what can you trust? We’re gonna straighten this out, restore confidence, end this chaos and carnage once and for all. My lawyers tell me we can’t lose and no way does this next series get started in Philly tomorrow, that’s for sure. And by the way, you saw that crowd, people couldn’t get in, they were reselling tickets for millions of dollars just to get in, selling their dogs, selling their cats, just to get the money to see me. So I’ll see all of you at the Division Series whenever we allow that to get going.”

PLAYING BALL

Kudos to the fellas in Oakland who have played Monday night pickup together for 50 years and managed to put together EVERY MONDAY NIGHT, a pretty good short film about their hooping and friendship. I was a mere 40 years old when I wrote PLAYING BALL, a short poem about feeling too old to play the way I used to. I kept playing sporadically, with a mix of people my own age and a whole lot younger. To keep going into their 70s and 80s, these West Coast boys had to keep out young men for self-preservation.

PLAYING BALL

Playing ball with 18 year-olds
And I’m feeling slow,
Slower than global warming
Or paycheck days at Chase
Slower than my mother,
Just plain slow.

Hit a few shots,
Now I’m thinking
I can still do this
Yes I can,
Use my guile, use my gut
Use my man
Like a past history slut.

But there he goes,
Who goes?
Where?
My man?
Was that him?
Blowing by me again
On his way to the rim.

TOWARDS OCCASIONAL PRAISE OF THE AWAY TEAM

There is a scene in my novel SNEAKING IN that is pulled from my life. You'll have to read it to get the whole story. I was 6 years old at my first ever baseball game and learned a valuable lesson that day. Sometimes someone on the team you were just booing might become your heroic inspiration. And sign your scorecard, upper right, in pencil. Thank you to the late White Sox pitcher, Juan Pizarro.

CANINES FOR DEMOCRACY

by Elizabeth Sobieski & Peter Brav

Our fellow citizens who are pinning their hopes for democracy on Taylor and her Swifties might do well to spend more time energizing American dog lovers, the one group that just might be the difference maker. 

The U.S. Census Bureau reports that as of 2021, there are 83.9 million households in the country, and Forbes Magazine reports that as of 2024, 65.1 million of them have at least one dog in the house. Rough mathematics suggests that of the 161.42 million people registered to vote in 2022, approximately 125 million of them have a dog in their lives to love and laugh with. 

Almost all of our nation’s 46 presidents in office from George Washington on have been joined by a beloved pup in the White House. There is no better or more faithful companion for an understandably stressed president and household than the family canine. 

Ronald Reagan had Rex; George H.W. Bush had Millie; Bill Clinton had Buddy; George W. Bush had Spotty, Barney and Miss Beazley; Barack Obama had Bo and Sunny; and Joe Biden his adoptees Champ, Major and Commander, even as the latter two proved hard on his security personnel. 

Not so the guy who lost in 2020 but still thinks he won. 

It’s not like he’s a bad dog owner, walking away cavalierly from excrement masses or enrolled in a dog-fighting club. The guy who lost in 2020 but still thinks he won has simply never had anything to do with dogs---other than disparaging them in so many interviews, tweets and pointed comments that we could not possibly list them all here. 

He’s no dog’s best friend and he just might be dog’s worst enemy. 

This should come as no surprise. This is a man who doesn’t read, who sees the world in black and white, who doesn’t want to learn or listen, who makes fun of physically handicapped reporters. A man who never seems to laugh because that would require approving and being entertained by someone or something other than himself. A man who never served in the military but claimed to know more than his heavily decorated generals and went out of his way to belittle captured war heroes. 

A man who has spent no time around dogs opining constantly on the nature of dogs. Makes perfect sense. Or not. 

Since even the smartest of the canines have not yet been trained how to vote and save the nation, it may be helpful to remind those 125 million dog-loving owners how that guy really feels about them. So here goes. 

On Imminent Unemployment 

“Good work by General Kelly for quickly firing that dog!” - 2018 on The Apprentice’s Omarosa Manigault after her tell-all Unhinged hit bookshelves 

“Fired like a dog!" – 2013 on Bill Maher, 2015 on Glenn Beck, 2016 on Chuck Todd, 2016 on David Gregory, 2016 on Conservative pundit Erick Erickson 

“Thrown off ABC like a dog." – 2015 on Conservative Republican columnist and pundit George Will 

“Now Sloppy Steve has been dumped like a dog by almost everyone.” – 2018 on his sometime advisor Steve Bannon  

According to Indeed’s Career Guide, the ten common traits of a good worker are dedication, confidence, reliability, teamwork, independence, leadership, communication, self-awareness, critical thinking, and integrity. Anyone who has spent any time with dogs knows how high the typical canine scores here. 

And we’re not just talking about the police K-9 German Shepherd, seeing-eye Golden Retriever, anxiety-reducing King Charles Cavalier Spaniel, drug and bomb sniffing Labrador Retriever, military Belgian Malinois or sheep herding Border Collie.

Dogs get the job done, well and on time, with little reward other than love and cookies. 

If that guy who lost had any understanding of how well dogs tick off the employer wish list, he would know hired like a dog is an infinitely more apt description. 

Why so many of the 130 million full-time workers in this country support the guy who lost in 2020 and still thinks he won continues to mystify. Real wages adjusted for inflation have been largely stagnant for most folks since 1980 and inequality has soared. Millions live below the poverty line and millions more work multiple jobs, struggle with student loans and housing costs, save little for retirement, see less economic mobility, and endure lifetimes of job insecurity. They still get up and give it their best shot every morning. 

If that guy who lost had any empathy for what most humans are going through, he’d know tired like a dog is an infinitely more apt description. 

That guy who lost in 2020 arbitrarily condescends in the face of his own decidedly mixed results. Never has he admitted to losing money like a dog or going bankrupt like a dog. Not a single statement that students got no education out of his university like dogs or that bondholders got nothing but scraps out of a Chapter 11 reorganization like dogs or that he busted his casino, burned his steaks and grounded his shuttle airline like a dog. 

On Less Than Clutch Performance 

“Choked like a dog.” – 2016 on Mitt Romney losing to Barack Obama and 2017 on former Attorney General Sally Yates and Director of National Intelligence James Clapper during Senate testimony 

Any of the millions of Americans who have participated in the popular growing sport of Dog Agility or watched American Kennel Club events on ESPN knows that dogs don’t choke. They brilliantly take instruction, ignore distractions and, much more often than not, live in the moment and make the moment theirs. Simply put, dogs perform under pressure. Their human handlers are another story. They panic, miss turns, forget routes, give wrong cues. Any dog lover knows he or she can only hope to measure up to his canine companion in the agility ring or anywhere else. 

On Women’s Appearances 

"A dog who wrongfully comments on me." - 2015 on Arianna Huffington 

"I'm watching television and I see her barking like a dog." - 2016 on Hillary Clinton 

“Only Rosie O’Donnell.” - 2016 response to Megyn Kelly’s query as to why he called women he didn’t like “dogs” and “disgusting animals” 

So much has been said and written about middle school insults and names hurled over the years by the guy who lost that we need not get into it here. Myriad unkind utterances against the opposition and anyone who hasn’t shown the requisite fealty. A special hostile place towards intelligent women who don’t work for him or sleep with him. As for a desirable woman, there is cat nomenclature to grab, although he shows no more knowledge of and affinity for felines than he has for canines. In that infamous 2005 Access Hollywood tape, he said of entertainment journalist Nancy O’Dell, “I moved on her like a bitch, but I couldn’t get there.” 

Our concern of course is for the dogs. When we think of canine beauty, we are not just thinking of those pampered pedigrees who make it to Best in Show competitions over the years. We are thinking of all canines. Such beautiful animals, soulful and smiling, whose owners know they are fortunate to look into their best friend eyes and find nothing but a lifetime of love and devotion. 

On Truth Telling and Moral Virtue

"Lies like a dog." – 2016 on Ted Cruz 

“Cheated on him like a dog & will do it again.” – 2012 on Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart 

The guy who lost popularized the term fake news and then proceeded to disseminate it daily. During his four years in office, the Washington Post compiled a list of 30,573 false or misleading claims he made, not including the Big Lie that he won in 2020. 

He has no insight into the universal openness and integrity of the family dog. Dogs don’t lie and dogs don’t cheat (unless you include getting hold of a sibling’s unattended food). Dogs have no secret agendas. No need for world domination, just a quick and easy to ascertain role in the family, usually based on size, sometimes on seniority. They are honest and open about their needs. Food, love and playtime. 

For the right audience, that guy will even pretend to like dogs. But don’t believe him. Your dog won’t.

On Death

“He died like a dog.  He died like a coward.” - 2019 on the death of ISIS leader Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi 

“Even if you’re sick as a dog and you say ‘darling I can’t make it…even if you vote and then pass away it’s worth it.” – 2024 on encouraging Iowans to make it to the polls 

All dog owners know that the day they welcome their new pups into the house is a wonderful one. The day they say goodbye is a true tragedy, the downside of falling so hard for our canine companions. Dogs die more gracefully than most human beings, unburdened by regrets and anger. Dogs die the way they live. Loyal and loving to the last. 

The guy who lost in 2020 cannot comprehend the grace of a dog’s life and the tragedy of a dog’s death. 

Ivana, the first wife of the guy who lost, had a poodle named Chappy who would consistently bark at her husband, perhaps sensing his lack of kindness towards all creatures great and small. Ivana wrote in her 2017 memoir of her former husband's hostility towards dogs and couldn’t understand how he could not love a dog that acts like he's won the lottery for life just because he sees you walk through the door? 

Ivana suffered a tragic and accidental fall down the grand, curving staircase of her Manhattan townhouse in 2022. Her former husband arranged to have her buried not far from the first tee at his namesake Bedminster, New Jersey golf course. 

Kind of like a …… 

You get the picture. 

****** 

So just what will become of your beloved canines if the guy who lost in 2020 but thinks he won is elected in 2024? If you dog lovers, and you fans of Taylor and her two Miniature Pinschers Bug and Baby, don’t make your way to the polls in packs? 

If you love this country, and you love your dog, please feel free to like and share with as many photos of your own precious little guy or gal as you wish. And most of all, vote in November with your nose and your bark, the way your favorite companion would if given the chance to do so. 

PETER BRAV is the author of the quintessential dog memoir
ZAPPY I’M NOT. ZAPPY I'M NOT

THE H WORDS

I slept last night in a good hotel, I went shopping today for jewels, the wind rushed around in the dirty town, and the children let out from the schools, I was standing on a noisy corner, waiting for the walking green, across the street he stood, and he played real good, on his clarinet for free.

FOR FREE - Joni Mitchell 1970

Humility is lasting, hubris not so much. We should remember that. Humility is kindness, hubris not so much. We should remember that too. When we listen to our music, watch our sports heroes and, most of all, when we make decisions on who best can lead us forward.

In 1970’s FOR FREE, one of the great singer-songwriters of all time on a city stroll recognizes her own good fortune while admiring just one of the millions of good people, talented people, hard-working people, out there struggling. That’s what humility does, makes one grateful for all the good things that have come along and less inclined to pat oneself on the back for all one’s hard work and unmatched brilliance. Hubris not so much.

We often seem to be going the opposite way, usually via our phones and big screens. We reward and applaud loud and bold, so much so that it feeds upon itself.

Nobody stopped to hear him, though he played so sweet and high, they knew he had never been on their TV, so they passed his music by.

But it doesn’t have to be that way. We can turn down the volume on anyone and everyone telling us how great they are, decide for ourselves where the talent and goodness lie. To paraphrase Joni, it will most likely be found for free, where big money is nowhere around, now more than ever in the 53 years since her album Ladies of the Canyon was released.

MY PERFECT BAÑO

Welcome one and all,
To my truly perfect baño,
Americans, Russians, North Koreans,
The occasional Mexicano,

Cheap crystal, cheap marble,
Lots of cheap brass,
And boxes and boxes of secrets
When you need to wipe your ass,

Cheap shower curtain,
Cheap vanity, cheap plastic can,
My cheap secret lair
Where the end of Trump began,

Forty Bankers Boxes,
A few more on sale at Staples,
So now you know the real reason
For the flight of Marla Maples,

Fifty years since Watergate,
Fifty more and history will thank me,
For Water Closet Gate it is,
And Water Closet Gate it shall always be.