Tomser's Blog

Counterfactual history is the ultimate “What if?”. In the anything but counterfactual “Born Equal: Remaking America’s Constitution, 1840 -1920”, legal historian Akhil Reed Amar summarized the nature of the contrafactual thought experiment as follows:

“We can never know the answer [to a contrafactual proposition] with anything approaching certainty because history happened (and is continuing to happen) in one big jumble. The historian cannot enter a scientific laboratory and remove the [historic event] and then observe what happens in this alternative universe. But it is possible for the historian to probe actual historical evidence and offer defensible conjectures.”  

I am no historian but appreciate the way that counterfactual arguments shed light on future events that did happen. As such, I am going to play the game.

As we all know, on December 7, 1941, Japan attacked Pearl Harbor starting American involvement in WWII. On December 8, Franklin Roosevelt appeared before Congress delivering his immortal “day of infamy” speech. Roosevelt asked that Congress declare a state of war between the United States and the Japanese Empire (what a concept). War was declared against Japan 33 minutes later.

Roosevelt did not ask for a declaration of war against Germany on December 8, and, in fact, never mentioned Germany in his speech. Authorization was sought solely in respect of Japan, not its allies. Four days later Germany declared war on the United States for “a series of provocations”. Later that same day the United States Congress (not the President) returned the favor.

My contrafactual question is what would have happened if Germany had not issued its declaration but remained ostensibly neutral in the U.S. war against Japan, similarly to how the U.S. remained ostensibly neutral in Germany’s war against Great Britain. Would there have been the support for a declaration against Germany if they hadn’t acted first? What would the impact have been if the U.S. delayed entry in the European war?

There is no doubt that Roosevelt thought the U.S. should be involved in the war against Germany. However, Roosevelt was hamstrung. The Neutrality Act of 1939 and other existing laws forbade direct aid to the combatants, though it did allow the sale of arms and other materiel on a “cash and carry” basis. Roosevelt thereafter initiated the “lend/lease” program to support the British. It was extended to the Soviet Union in November of 1941. This was likely a large part of the “provocations” that induced the German declaration.

If Roosevelt was dead set on entering the European war, why didn’t he ask Congress for such support when war fever was at a pitch after the Japanese attack? After all, Germany was Japan’s ally and while there was no evidence of direct German involvement in Pearl Harbor they backed the Japanese actions. To answer that we need to look at the state of American society in the years leading to the war.

The “Greatest Generation” cheerleaders like to paint a picture where U.S. citizens recognized and recoiled from the brutality of the Nazi regime as it grew throughout the 1930’s and, as such, were poised to take up arms in a democratic crusade in December of 1941. The truth is much more complex.

The 1930’s depression was as politically disruptive as it was economically devastating. Many thought that republican government had to be replaced. In the 1950’s America became familiar with those who had looked to the communist experiment of the Soviet Union as a template for the U.S., but just as many looked to the fascist societies of Germany and Italy for guidance.

For these proto fascists, Hitler stood as a bulwark against communist incursion. He also promoted a top-down economic plan that seemed attractive to many struggling with the depression. Organizations like the German-American Bund, the Silver Legion of America and the Black Legion praised Hitler and his policies.

Numerically these groups were relatively small, yet their followers far outstripped those that joined. For example, the Christian Front of Father Coughlin was not large, yet his radio program espousing their views attracted an estimated 30 million listeners per week. We can only assume that many, if not most, agreed with his never-ending antisemitic, pro-fascist screeds.

The America First Committee of Charles Lindbergh, formed in 1940, boasted over 800,000 members. While its main theme was that the U.S. should stay out of the European conflict, many of those that led the organization were clearly sympathetic to the Nazis. Lindbergh himself famously opined that Germany can “dam the Asiatic hordes” and praised Hitler as a “great man”.

Hitler’s eugenics-based policies were not the impediment to support we suppose. They were largely based on an American “scientific” consensus. The Eugenics Record Office run by Harry Hamilton Laughlin was a powerful force in American politics, instrumental, along with sister organizations, in the restrictive immigration policies of the 1920’s. Laughlin bragged that the 1935 Nazi “racial hygiene laws” were based on model legislation he had drafted.

Sympathy with Hitler’s policies reflected the depth of antisemitism in 1930’s America, bolstered by these eugenic theories. While many Americans were shocked by events like Kristallnacht, distrust of Jews was widespread. The popularity of antisemites like Coughlin and Henry Ford echoed public opinion. Many that rejected their virulent rhetoric, or the Nazi behavior, believed that Jews were a major problem. Numerous historians have opined that antisemitism in the U.S. was at its peak in the 1930’s.

This was reflected in popular culture. Even though all the predominant studios in Hollywood were led by Jews, only one, Warner Brothers, regularly put out anti-Nazi films prior to December 1941. The other studios were dissuaded from doing so partly because they did not want to alienate the lucrative German market, but also because they were afraid of a domestic backlash.

All of this leads me to believe that Roosevelt would have had a hard time getting Congress to issue a declaration of war against Germany just because of Pearl Harbor. It is likely that was why he did not even try, despite his predilections. Without a declaration from Germany the America Firsters may well have argued that the Japanese attack was even more reason to stay out of the European conflict. Instead of sending materiel to Britan and the USSR, all U.S. resources should be devoted to exacting revenge on the Japanese. Such arguments would likely have gotten a sympathetic hearing.

It would probably have taken a direct provocation from Germany, like the attacks on American shipping that had much to do with the U.S. entry into WWI, for Roosevelt to act. Those provocations would likely have been forthcoming. Hitler was rash (an understatement) and could not have held back for long. His peremptory declaration of December 11, 1941, is ample evidence of that. It is hard to imagine the U.S. staying out of the European war for any significant period of time.

Such a delay in the declaration was unlikely to have a significant impact on the outcome of the war. Commencement of hostilities against Germany did allow for an acceleration of badly needed U.S. aid to the U.S.S.R., but it is inconceivable that Roosevelt would have abandoned Germany’s foes even without a formal declaration, irrespective of public opinion. Regardless, it is improbable that Hitler could have prevailed on his eastern front, and to lose the eastern front was to lose the war.

So, if my conclusion is that the impact of Germany refraining from declaring war on the U.S. in December 1941 was minimal, what was the point of this? First, once this question imposed itself on me, I wanted to see it through. To be honest, I was not sure where I was going to come out when I started writing. I had to lay it out and see what emerged.

Second, I want to destroy the myth that the “Greatest Generation” was a far-sighted anti-Nazi monolith. The WWII generation did step up and do its duty when called upon, but it was not ideological. The mood was nationalistic, and the hatred for the Nazis was typical of that for any enemy, and probably less than that for the Japanese. There was no great out poring of sympathy for persecuted Jews until the full extent of the Nazi genocidal programs became known. And there certainly wasn’t any sense among white troops that the war should impact U.S. race relations.

Third, and most importantly, I think that the period shortly before WWII sheds light on the current divisions in this country. The Nazis made the overt antisemitism of people like Coughlin and Ford untenable. People saw where such rhetoric could lead. Similarly, the eugenics consensus evaporated. It was no longer a theory that could be blithely put forward as gospel.

While the reaction to Nazi atrocities may have altered public discourse, it would be ridiculous to think that millions just changed their corresponding views. People would not have put aside their prejudices just because airing them was no longer fashionable. Yes, the Eugenics Record Office and its ilk disappeared, but the race-based doctrines it espoused were firmly implanted.

It was also verboten after WWII to cite Nazi Germany or Mussolini’s Italy as exemplars for U.S. governmental policy. Proponents of a more top-down and less democratic structure had to find other ways to argue their cause. Those energies were largely channeled into the anti-communist scares of the 1950’s.

The Civil Rights movement and the unpopular Vietnam war drove those tendencies further underground. For a while it seemed that the better angels of our nature had won out. The echoes of the right-wing movements of the 1930’s now seemed fringe and out of touch.

We now must face the fact that these views never went away. Many in this country believe that an executive driven government is the answer to perceived chaos. The prejudices that drove the support for Coughlin, Ford and Lindbergh may have morphed somewhat, but they are still strong.

It is human nature to believe that our own times are the most riven with discord. We see the past through rose-colored glasses inventing a world that was united, upstanding and pure. If we could only return to that golden age, we would be fine.  

The truth is that the battles endemic in the founding of this country, leading to the Civil War and then continuing through the 20^th Century must be fought again and again. When the current divisions simmer down one way or the other, and they will, we must never allow ourselves to believe that the ingrained beliefs driving these divisions have been forever set aside. History – factual history – says otherwise.

[For further reading see: Looking for the Good War: American Amnesia and the Violent Pursuit of Happiness by Elizabeth Samet; The Abandonment of the Jews: America and the Holocaust 1941-1945 by David Wyman; War Against the Weak: Eugenics and America’s Campaign to Create a Master Race by Edwin Black].

I recently went to hear Quiara Alegria Hudes speak about her new novel, “The White Hot”. Ms. Hudes is best known for her play “In the Heights”, and the subsequent film screenplay, as well as for her memoir “My Broken Language”. She was also the screenwriter for Lin-Manuel Miranda’s animated movie musical “Vivo”.

Ms. Hudes explained that she wanted the chief protagonist in her novel to be an anti-hero, someone you rooted for despite a series of questionable life decisions. In crafting this character, she looked to other anti-heroes in literature. She cited the works of Toni Morrison as especially influential, then added that she also drew inspiration from Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein”.

I was a bit taken aback by the reference to “Frankenstein”, as I never considered the good doctor or his progeny as anti-heroes. It was what Ms. Hudes said next, however, that really blew me away. Very matter-of-factly she opined that “Frankenstein” was about motherhood, but that Mary Shelley had to make the two main characters men because the times would not accept the story if they had been women.

Ms. Hudes moved on, but I was stopped dead in my tracks. The Frankenstein story has been ubiquitous throughout my life. I was first introduced to it through the James Whale 1931 movie when I was about 10 and my sister insisted that we watch the Saturday evening creature feature. I was entranced then and have remained so.

I have read Shelley’s book at least 4 or 5 times, always finding additional nuance and depth. It took me a few readings to appreciate how the story structure, with a lost man being chased across an arctic landscape narrating his plight, infuses the plot with tension. I also grew to grasp the subtlety in the character of the “creature”.

In addition to reading the book, I consumed every Frankenstein movie version I could find. From the Whale sequel to his original, “The Bride of Frankenstein”, through all the lesser Universal progeny, such as “Son of Frankenstein” and “The Ghost of Frankenstein”. Then there were the more modern takes, such as Kenneth Branagh’s 1994 film “Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein”, which stuck to the structure of the novel, and the stage version with Benedict Cumberbatch and Johnny Miller alternating roles.

There are also lighter takes, such as “Young Frankenstein”, which I consider the ultimate movie parody and one of my all-time favorite films. Silly offshoots, such as “The Munsters” and “Abbot and Costello Meet Frankenstein”, while not as clever, were also devoured. In all, Wikipedia lists 469 known feature films, 236 short films, 93 TV series and 394 TV episodes that feature some version or interpretation of Frankenstein, and while I have not seen most of them, I have seen many.

In just this last year, I reveled in Guillermo de Toro’s magnificent Frankenstein, which followed the novel’s lead, but added its own refinement to both the maker and his creation. I also saw Hammer productions 1957 “The Curse of Frankenstein”, in which the monster is nothing but. In addition, I read Christopher Moore’s “Anima Rising”, which uses the “Bride” as the main protagonist, somehow plopped down in 1890’s Vienna and hooking up with Gustav Klimt.

It seems with every distillation of the story a new interpretation emerges. Is it a warning that there are, or should be, limits to scientific exploration? Is it an admonishment against playing God? Is Shelley telling us that monsters are not born, but made? Is it a plea to celebrate difference rather than fear it? Is it a Christian allegory, with the creature as a stand-in for Satan?

As far as I know Shelley never provided a guide to her intent. There is, however, a clue in the subordinate clause in the title. The full title of the novel is “Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus”. While that should be helpful, it creates more questions than it answers.

Quick reminder. Prometheus was a Titan who defied Zeus by stealing fire from Olympus and giving it to humans. That gift was a mixed bag. It can be viewed as the dawn of independence from the Gods for us mortals and the birth of civilization. But Prometheus fate was a warning against the dangers of unbridled human striving. After all, Prometheus punishment for his theft was to be bound to a rock for eternity, having his liver eaten by an eagle, only to grow back so that it could be eaten again the next day.

Assuming that Baron Frankenstein was the stand in for Prometheus, the punishment for his arrogance is clear. After all, he is doomed to being pursued by his creation through the most inhospitable landscape on earth. Just like for the Titan, there is no respite. But what was the Doctor’s gift to mankind? Are we to see his experiments in fabricating life as a boon to humanity akin to fire? That seems farfetched in light of the outcome. Somehow, I just can’t make the analogy work.

Considering these questions and the comments made by Quiara Alegria Hudes I realized that I should look into who exactly Mary Shelley was, something I am ashamed to say I have never done. When I have thought of her at all, I have pictured Elsa Lanchester in Whale’s “Bride”, coyly telling the manic duo of Percy Bysshe Shelley and Lord Byron that there was more to the initial story. In my mind she might as well have been an anonymous scribe. She was anything but.

Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley (nee Godwin) was the daughter of political philosopher William Godwin and Mary Wollstonecraft, whose 1792 book “A Vindication of the Rights of Women” was and remains of seminal importance in the struggle for gender equality. Unfortunately, Wollstonecraft died when Mary was 11 days old. She was raised by her father, and her stepmother, who, in classic fairy tale fashion, purportedly favored her own children to Mary. What is non-refutable is that Mary hated her stepmother.

Mary and Percy Bysshe began seeing each other when she was 16 and he 21 and already married. The couple ran away, fleeing Mary’s family. She soon became pregnant, having a girl who did not survive. Over the next few years, she had a son who lived but also experienced the premature death (aren’t they all) of three other children.

Even this criminally brief and incomplete synopsis of what was an extraordinary life, reinforces Hudes’ argument that “Frankenstein” was more of a personal statement than I ever considered. Perhaps the Doctor did not want to play God, but mother. At any rate, his journey clearly reflects the psychological complexities of parenthood. It is highly improbable that Shelley, with her complicated history, wasn’t aware of this.

Like all great art, Frankenstein stands up to multiple interpretations. It is why the story has remained a cultural touchstone for over 200 years and withstood variations, both good and bad. Considering it in light of Shelley’s personal circumstances just adds another very intriguing wrinkle. It may be time to pick the book up once again.

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I was recently introduced to the Japanese philosophy of Wabi-sabi. A derivative of Buddhism, Wabi-sabi values the beauty of imperfection, impermanence and incompleteness. It rejects concepts of purity, urging followers to appreciate the inexact essence of the world. Adherents of Wabi-sabi accept flaws in nature and personal flaws. Simplicity is prized in both art and life. Peace is found in the ordinary, not the exceptional.

Classic Wabi-sabi totems are the cracked teacup or wilted flower. While a complete cup is useful, and may be exquisite, a crack reveals other aspects of the vessel that are just as important. Wilted flowers highlight the temporary quality of time and can express a beauty all their own. The trick is to look beyond the obvious to see what is hidden in plain view.

In life, Wabi-sabi basks in uncomplicated things, like a fresh snow fall, or the elegance of the traditional Japanese tea ceremony. It is akin to the mindfulness emphasized by Buddhists such as Thich Nhat Hanh, who reveled in seemingly mundane acts, like washing dishes.      

Wabi-sabi is undoubtedly a useful life philosophy. Our tunnel vision often causes us to miss the beauty that surrounds us. We walk along with our heads down, absorbed in random thoughts, or have brain-numbing music blaring through our ear buds. We do this knowing an openness to everyday transcendence is both energizing and enriching.

Yet it is hard to maintain the Wabi-sabi attitude. It contrasts sharply with Western concepts entrenched from a young age. Western values urge the recognition and pursuit of the ideal as the highest calling of humanity (thank you Plato). To ignore those ideals is almost blasphemous, even if you don’t hold deep religious beliefs.

An integral part of the pursuit of Western perfection is the making of goals. Instead of letting life flow to us, we wrap ourselves in unending plans. Once the course is set, we are reluctant to deviate from those plans, instead carrying on as if we can control all the variables and will undoubtedly achieve the result we envision.

Few of us are deluded enough to believe that the goals we have laid are inevitable. After all, Western thought also tells us that we are flawed and that while ideals are meant to be pursued, they can never actually be attained. We know that our reach is not long enough. Still, we plod forward.

And yet those goals serve an important function. We are in that season where New Year’s resolutions fill gyms, impact liquor sales and subscriptions to Master Class proliferate. Odds are that these resolutions won’t make it into February. However, they remain as reminders to aim for a better, healthier lifestyle, and that’s not a bad thing.

The pursuit of perfection has also driven innovation and achievement. Obviously, that can get out of control, but history is replete with those who have been singularly devoted to a goal, willing to risk all on their objective. We admire those who can channel their tunnel vision to worthwhile goals.

Conversely, a Wabi-sabi mindset can lead to complacency. It is not surprising that this life philosophy arose in a society that was highly stratified. Individuals in pre-WWII Japan were expected to accept their place in the pecking order. There was little chance for advancement if you did not have the right pedigree.

We are a striving society and there is little way around that. We exalt those that are always pushing the limits. Yet sometimes we admire our “heroes” too much. We endow them with the mantle of perfection we esteem. We embrace characters that always solve the crime, defeat the bad guys and walk off into the proverbial sunset. Our streaming services are crammed with these white knights, and we watch assured that, despite their quirks and flaws, they will prevail because of their single-minded tenacity and perseverance.

Unfortunately, we also like to assume perfection in our leaders. We hold them to standards beyond human ability. When they fail to meet the lofty ideals we set, we either overlook and explain away their foibles or wholly reject them as if they have no redeeming characteristics at all. Either way, our unrealistic expectations cloud judgement.  

Of course, those same leaders play into this tendency. They exalt themselves as if perfection is not only attainable but has been embodied in their person. In doing so they set expectations beyond their capability, and when those expectations falter the cycle of repudiation and/or rationalization begins.

As always, I go back to J. Krishnamurti. “Truth is a pathless land.” Life philosophies are useful as guidelines, but once you embrace them as the be all and end all they are limiting. Wabi-sabi imparts insights that are a useful counterpoint to our Western idealism. Yet our pursuit of perfection can lead to great success. As always balance is the key. If it were only that easy.

The Talking Heads “Psycho Killer” has been on my internal playlist ever since I first heard it almost 50 years ago. It was the first Talking Heads song that caught my attention and it never let go. I was lucky enough to hear it performed live by David Byrne this past year. It has lost none of its impact.

The second verse is especially haunting. It’s as if Byrne is talking directly to me.

                        You start a conversation, you can’t even finish it

                        You’re talking a lot, but you’re not saying anything

                        When I have nothing to say, my lips are sealed

                        Say something once, why say it again?

I don’t want to blame the Heads for my silence over the last few months, but the more I tried to produce a post the more this refrain rang out.

My guess is that everyone who writes faces this same dilemma, though few cite David Byrne as the source of their angst. It is exceedingly difficult to express anything worth putting into print, let alone reading, when you have been doing so on a regular basis. The same themes and verbal tricks crowd the mind, shutting out anything original.

I have great respect for columnists who write on a regular schedule. These word warriors have no choice but to meet deadlines that do not permit slacking. Even for them, if you consume them regularly, you see the same motifs repeatedly dressed up in different costumes. I do not begrudge them that necessity, but it is wearing. Those that can keep your attention over a long period of time are few and far between.

This is especially true now. We are bombarded by content, even if we try and limit it. With the targeting algorithms, the 24 hour “news” stations, and the ever-spouting pundits, it seems like anything worth regurgitating has already been spewed forth. It is one of the reasons I rarely write on political matters. Someone somewhere has likely said anything I could conceive of, and probably much better than I ever could.

The real danger is that content stops being spontaneous and you become a mere caricature of yourself, putting out what has worked before and eschewing any active creativity. This is especially noticeable in sports announcers who have found a catch phrase. Whether it’s Dick Vitale’s “Awesome, Baby”, Chris Berman’s “Back, back, back, back…gone”, or Keith Jackson’s “Whoa Nelly”, there’s a sense that these phrases are just being used because it’s expected. What was once stirring becomes as stale as week old bread.

Writers may not use catch phrases, but the same problem persists. I look askance at prolific authors like Stephen King, Joyce Carol Oates and James Patterson. To produce a book every six months or so they must rely on tried-and-true patterns, and it’s noticeable. Try reading two of their books back-to-back and you will feel as if you’re just reading one book with the names changed to protect the not so innocent.

Unfortunately, this is a phenomenon common to most endeavors. Musicians find a comfortable groove and repeat it again and again. It’s why we keep going back to early recordings to find the energy and invention that attracted us in the first place (like Elvis’ Sun label records). Similarly, painters find a style and never let it go, just churning out variations on a theme.

I often think that genius is the ability to jettison what went before and risk pursuing new paths. Whether it’s Picasso moving from “period” to “period”, or the Beatles progressing in a few short years from “I Want to Hold Your Hand” to the Abbey Road medley, the ability to change and yet maintain that spark of inventiveness is both inspiring and rare.  

This is a convoluted way of saying (hmm, sidetracks – one of my signature motifs?) that I had to stop and catch my breath. My writing felt more and more robot-like. It lacked the inventiveness I long for. The song in my head kept shouting, “Say something once, why say it again”. I needed to ask myself whether I wanted to keep going.

After taking some time off, I realized that the answer to that question was “Yes”. I missed putting my thoughts down, as chaotic as they often are. In fact, it’s often the need to formulate those thoughts for the page that allow them to rise above the randomness that are their most striking characteristic.

There is one major problem. I am no very stable genius (No, No. No need to protest). I am inevitably going to fall into ruts and repeat myself. So, as we head into the new year, look forward to new content, for better or worse.

Even with this resolve, I know that I will feel David Byrne cringing with every click of the keyboard. I will endeavor to ignore his admonitions and press forward. Maybe I’ll just put some more upbeat Byrne on Spotify, like “Everybody laughs”, or “I Dance Like this.”. Qu’est-ce que c’est.  

Though I am a sports fanatic, I rarely write about my fandom obsessions. There is so much blather surrounding every nuance of coaching maneuvers, player fails, nonsensical trades, tearful retirements, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera, that the last thing anyone needs is another pretend pundit. I have no intention of adding to the avalanche of inanity.

I cannot, however, resist revisiting the worst sports weekend of my life. It started Thursday night when my beloved Phillies once again bowed out early in the baseball playoffs, this time in horrendously bizarre fashion. I have to face that their window of opportunity to win it all with these players has probably closed.

While that debacle was unfolding, the Eagles were cooking up their own catastrophe, getting blown out by a hated Divisional rival. Not only was this embarrassing, it was incomprehensible for a team that seemed destined to make a strong bid to repeat last year’s triumphs. The Super Bowl hangover is in full bloom. 

I was mercifully given a day of rest on Friday, only to face an apocalyptic Saturday of college football. The day started with the team I have rooted for the longest, Penn State, going down to its third straight ignominious defeat to a second rate Big 10 opponent, one it was picked to beat by more than 20 points. Happy Valley it is not.

The evening ended with watching my alma mater, South Carolina, throw away its once promising season and devolve into mediocrity once again. Not only was the loss to LSU dispiriting, but it highlighted how deluded we all were in thinking that the Gamecocks could compete in the SEC. It’s just another year where the possibility of beating Clemson is all we have to look forward to.

On lesser notes, the Flyers started their NHL season with two losses. The Sixers got blown out in a pre-season game, prefiguring the many blowouts to come. And to top it all off, I lost my fantasy football matchup when my players accumulated 50 points less than the week before. Frankly, it felt like piling on.

As I sat in stunned silence Monday morning, looking back at the devastation, the true nature of sports fandom dawned on me. Sports apologists tell us that sport can provide life lessons in teamwork, discipline, resilience and leadership. But the truth of the matter is that what it provides more than anything else is harsh instruction in the art of losing.

Let’s discard the notion that losing is somehow ennobling or loveable. It’s not. It is just depressing. It hangs on you like a shroud, blotting out all goodness in the world. (OK, that’s hyperbolic, but it’s been a tough week).

Sports fans are like the pledges in Omega Theta Pi in “Animal House”. We bend over, get whacked in the butt and then scream at the top of our lungs, “Thank you sir. May I have another?” And the sports world is never reticent in providing that whack with all the glee that a Douglas Niedermeyer could muster. 

Let’s do the math. Over my 43 years in Philadelphia I have endured 166 professional seasons. Overall, these teams have won 3 championships; the Phillies in 2008, the Eagles in 2018 and 2025. Ten other Philadelphia teams have at least competed in the finals during that same time period. Penn State and South Carolina combined have played 86 seasons since 1983, with 2 PSU championships and another year where they were robbed. South Carolina has never been close. That means that my teams got a whiff of glory in only .063% of those seasons, and won it .016% of the time. Bleak indeed.

You could say that the continuing dedication to my teams despite this abysmal record is a sign of the resiliency that sport is supposed to engender. Then again, ramming your head into a brick wall again, and again, and again, and again could also be a sign of resilience. Let’s face it, there is a thin line between resiliency and stupidity. 

For all of that, hope is eternal. The NFL season is still young. The Eagles could rebound and find the magic once again. Maybe the young Flyers will mature quickly and shock the hockey world. If Embiid’s knees can regrow cartilage and allow him to play at least ⅔ of the regular season games and be healthy for the playoffs, who knows. In other words, it’s time to assume the position. “Thank you Sir. May I have another?” 

I confess that up until his assassination Charlie Kirk had barely penetrated my consciousness. There are enough elected officials with, to my mind, extremist right-wing views to keep me up at night without focusing on a campus agitator. I was not aware that he was a darling of Republican establishment figures and Christian evangelicals.

Perhaps that was a gap in my understanding of modern trends that should not have been there. The way he has been feted since his death I get the sense that many saw him as the future of the MAGA movement. Whether that’s true, or not, I cannot say.

What I do know is that the response to his assassination is problematic, to say the least. His supporters have used his death to urge repression of unidentified left-wing groups, even though there is no inkling that any prompted his shooting, and, in fact, the evidence says otherwise. In doing so they act as if all political violence comes from the left.  

For example, JD Vance stated “[W]e have to make sure that the killer is brought to justice… And importantly, we have to talk about this incredibly destructive movement of left-wing extremism that has grown up over the last few years and, I believe, is part of the reason why Charlie was killed by an assassin’s bullet.”

Stephen Miller said that the administration is going to “channel all of the anger that we have over the organized campaign that led to this assassination to uproot and dismantle these [left-wing] terrorist networks… It is a vast domestic terror movement, and with God as my witness, we are going to use every resource we have at the Department of Justice, Homeland Security and throughout this government to identify, disrupt, dismantle and destroy these networks and make America safe again for the American people.” 

The President’s recent speech to the military top brass stating that they will have a role to defend the United States from the “enemy within”, citing several cities with Democratic led governments, confirms that this is not just idle rhetoric. Exactly how the military would discern between the left-leaning “terrorist networks” and those who peacefully oppose administration policies was left unsaid. I doubt if that was accidental.

Contrast these comments with the right-wing silence that followed the political assassination of Minnesota Democratic Representative Melssia Hortman and her husband. I could not find any remarks by either Vance or Miller in reaction to those murders. Vance may have sent out “thoughts and prayers”, but if so, they were not worthy of note. More importantly, there was no outpouring of outrage or a pledge to take action to stop such killings in the future. Had there been, we might have averted the Kirk tragedy.

Looking at the Kirk response, the Hortman silence appears to be because the killer was of the right, and the victims of the left. There was no recognition that the hyperbole coming from that side of the aisle helped inflame the atmosphere which led to those murders, let alone a commitment to tone down that rhetoric, or root our right-wing violence. Instead, on September 11, the Department of Justice removed from its website a report concluding that right-wing domestic terrorism was much more prevalent than left-wing or Muslim inspired terrorism, as if the Hortman killing was not a concern.  

If you do not condemn all assassinations, you are in favor of assassination as a political tool, so long as those being killed don’t share your political views. If you pledge to wipe out only one perceived violent faction while leaving another in place, you are condoning violent attacks against any who may share some of that faction’s views. It’s that simple.

Yet, it’s not simple at all. Violence breeds violence. It cannot be contained. It cannot be pointed in only one direction. It cannot be employed to pick and choose its victims. Once violence is unleashed it grows exponentially. Aunty thought she could contain aggression within the Thunderdome, but that was unwarranted hubris.

Political violence, whether sanctioned or not, is unlikely to target those preaching or practicing violence. When no line is drawn between those who legally oppose administration policies and those who use force to overturn those policies, it is more likely the former that will be in the line of fire. There was nothing radical about Melissa Hortman. Yet, it is the Hortman’s of the world that will be killed.

I do not believe that Miller and Vance care, let alone the President. They know that some of the violence will be directed to their allies, such as with the recent ICE shooting in Texas. To some extent they even welcome it. In their cynicism, such violence will only give them more of a reason to broadly target their “enemies”.

If we as a country opt to ignore the truism that violence breeds violence, we will have its truth shoved down our throats. No one can say how this will play out, who will suffer or what the collateral damage will be. However, it will not be pretty. Violence never is. The ballet of John Wick is an entertaining fantasy that defies reality.

Those who condone violence think that it will enhance their power. They are wrong. As Hannah Arndt recognized, power arises when people act in concert. It is grounded in consent. Violence becomes a tool only when real power has broken down. It is a sign of weakness, not strength. 

Either we take steps to reduce partisan violence across the board, or we will wallow in it. If we see violence as an acceptable political weapon, it will consume us. If anyone thinks that the violence can be surgical, they are living in Lala Land.

I wish I could see a way out. I don’t. The train is hurtling down the tracks, and no one is even considering application of the brakes. Those who think they are driving that train are fooling themselves. It will leave the rails, and no one can control the devastation it will leave in its wake. I know that’s grim, but it’s how I see it. I hope that I’m wrong.  

I have done something I did not think I would. My 50^th High School reunion is coming up. When this first arose, I got out my Yearbook, shook off the dust and paged through the class pictures (the mid-70’s was not pretty). Few of the pictures rung a bell, so I decided to skip it. But then the names of those attending started to trickle in and I realized that there were more folks that I wanted to see than I originally thought. So, I committed to go.

I am of mixed minds about this. I have not seen most of these people since graduation day. I do not have a clue where life has taken them. While there is some interest in finding out, to date I have been content to forego that pleasure. At this juncture is it anything more than random curiosity? Is that worth asking and answering the same questions repeatedly for four hours?

The are contradictory fears floating around as well. Will anyone recall who I am? Will I approach someone I want to catch up with only to have them stare at me blankly, glance surreptitiously at my nametag and then feign recollection until they can slink away? Will this confirm how invisible I was in high school?

Conversely, will they remember too much? I know I did and said stupid things back then. Who didn’t? Sadly, those are the memories that stick best in my mind. Are people going to look and me and ask, are you as big a clueless nerd as you were in 12^th grade?

Both fears are unfounded. People will remember me as I remember them. We all will be confronted with ghost-like wraiths that somehow have aged. There will be mutual sticker shock when we are faced with the reality of time passing. Yet reality will not eviscerate the younger spectre that we recall.

Nor will people remember the personal inanities that stick with me. We were all so self-absorbed in our teens that what each of us has retained will focus largely on ourselves, not others. Yes, we will recall general personality traits, but few specifics. My embarrassments will be mine to keep.

But what will we talk about? Once we get past where we live, and a brief synopsis of the last 50 years, what is left? It is unlikely that we indulge in deep explorations of life, love and the pursuit of happiness. I am not even sure that I would want to head down that route with someone that is barely beyond a stranger, even if the conversation heads in that direction.

Consequently, we are unlikely to get any sense as to how we have changed. The question itself presupposes that I discerned who anyone was back then. I cannot pretend that I was prescient. To the contrary, I have no doubt that I was oblivious. I took people as they came and really didn’t dig beneath how my classmates presented themselves. Heck, I am not even sure that I realized you could do that.   

It gets more complex because I am not sure if I can answer that question for myself. It is hard to reenter into that kid with a ready smile masking insecurity. At times I see him peeking through, and at others he seems left far behind. I know my horizons have expanded significantly since High School, but has the basic rugged concept of my personality (to paraphrase George Harrison in “A Hard Day’s Night”)? If my own development is vague, how can I possibly expect to recognize change in others, especially during a four-hour sprint where most of the time will be spent just trying to dredge up long lost, and probably best buried, memories.

The attendees are bound to leave the festivities with the same shallow impressions that we have retained for 50 years. We are likely to think, “That was nice”, and move quickly on, as we would with a mediocre movie. Little will be said that is memorable or sheds any light on who were then or are now.

My guess is that anyone reading this is thinking, “Lighten up Tom. It’s only a reunion.” No one in their right mind expects anything more than some chuckles at spotty recollections, and an occasional shock, both positive and negative, at what people did with their lives. And, of course, the mixed blessing of seeing how people have aged.

That is, undoubtedly, the right attitude. This is a lark. A brief window into the past that will blessedly be opaque. If all goes well there will be a few laughs, a few hugs, and a few shallow connections. Expecting anything else is both silly and simplistic.

I will try and walk in with that attitude. However, it will be a struggle. As the Indigo Girls intoned, “You know me, I take everything so seriously.” Part of me will want something more or at least will think that I do. In the end the best I can honestly hope for is that some memories, both good and bad, will be dredged up, and a long past element of my existence will be subjected to a tad more light. Frankly, that would be fine.   

I recently reread The Hobbit. I first read it when I was in the 6^th grade and have been a Middle-Earth fan ever since. It was over 20 years ago when I last dropped in on Bilbo’s Shire and enjoyed the invasion of 13 dwarves and a wizard. Happily, the ensuing adventure was as engaging as ever.

Revisiting Bilbo and the boys (more on that later) prompted me to go back and watch Peter Jackson’s adaptation of the novel. I saw the first of this trilogy in the theaters when it was released. I think I saw the second in the theaters but couldn’t swear to it. I am not sure that I have ever, before now, sat through the finale. That should tell you something about my reaction to these films.

I have a lot of sympathy for Jackson’s quest to retell this story. It is hard to adapt a well-known literary work for the screen. Books and films are very different media. What works well on the page does not necessarily translate to the screen. The pacing is different. Sharp book dialogue becomes stilted. People have a vision of the characters and settings which differ from the filmmaker.

Some say to heck with the book and retain little more than the general structure. Sometimes that works, sometimes not. One of the most famous reimagining was by Stanley Kubrick of Stephen King’s The Shining. The basic plot is the same, but that is about all. King hated it, and so did much of the public when it first came out. Now it is hailed as a masterpiece, though I doubt if King has changed his mind.

Jackson did not have that option. The Hobbit is too iconic and too beloved. He would have been drawn and quartered for significantly altering the story. Jackson had to honor the vision of the legions of fans so anticipating his movie. His wiggle room was limited.

Jackson was also the victim of his own success. The Lord of the Rings trilogy had been hailed critically and commercially. He was undoubtedly under considerable pressure to repeat that, which likely prompted the decision to stretch The Hobbit into three films. A stretch it was. The Ring trilogy numbers over 1200 pages. The Hobbit, with larger type, barely 300. Clearly, much would have to be added.

There was another decision to be made. The Hobbit is a prequel to the Rings, but its tone is totally different. The Hobbit is, in many ways, innocent. Yes, there is darkness and evil, but that evil can be overcome with a bit of courage and perseverance. In the Ring trilogy evil is pervasive, and each victory a small step to something worse. Middle-Earth hangs by a thread in the trilogy, not in The Hobbit.

It would have been exceedingly difficult to capture the tone of The Hobbit after making the Rings trilogy. It became impossible when Jackson committed to three movies. The only way to fill that time was with plotlines separate from Bilbo, which would naturally foreshadow the films we had already seen. In the book most of the predicaments are resolved through cunning. In the movie, the additions are all resolved in fight scenes.

Two of the most effective scenes in the movies – Bilbo’s riddle game with Gollum and the initial encounter between Bilbo and Smaug the dragon – do not involve great derring-do. Instead, they are battles of wits. These are the scenes that best recall the book. They are a welcome respite from axe-swinging dwarves, Warg riding orcs and acrobatic, sword-wielding elves.

The other problem Jackson faced is that there are no female characters in The Hobbit. None. Nada. Zilch. It was no doubt unthinkable to have 8 hours of screen time without a feminine presence. In fact, even if he had condensed the story to one or two films, it would not be tenable. (Again, what works in a book doesn’t necessarily work in a film).

Jackson didn’t have that problem in the Rings trilogy. Yes, those books and movies are as male as could be, but at least he had three strong female characters in Galadriel, Arwen and Eowen to leaven the testosterone. He expanded their roles, but they fit naturally into the plot. Conversely, there was no easy way to insert a woman into The Hobbit and give her a meaningful role.

For example, in the Fellowship of the Ring Frodo is rescued from the Ringwraiths at Bruinen Ford. In the book the rescue is made by an Elven Prince. In the movie it is Arwen who rescues Frodo and washes away the Ringwraiths, introducing us to a strong, capable female elf. The scene loses none of its power for the change. In the second Hobbit movie the Elven warrior Tariel comes forward, but other than some clownish fight scenes, the best Jackson can muster for her is an unlikely love triangle with Fili the dwarf and a resuscitated Legolas.

Every change made in the trilogy seemed to pay off, whereas in The Hobbit they fell flat. What is left is a shadow of the book. The basic story survives, but none of the nuance which makes it so delightful. The joy in watching Bilbo find courage and wits he never knew he had is overshadowed by meaningless grand battles. It was a big swing and miss by Jackson.

Luckily the book remains to be savored. Like all great literature, it retains its immediacy, even as language and literary tastes change. It can also be read in less time than it would take to watch the three Jackson movies, at least in their unnecessary expanded editions. Time well spent indeed.

I know it is silly for a grown man to care so much about a novel he first read over 50 years ago, especially a fantasy. Yet, there are few books that have had a bigger impact on my life. Worlds of imagination and creativity were opened and have never closed. Notions of the power of the underdog to use resourcefulness rather than brute force were implanted. No matter what he did, Peter Jackson could never match that.    

The Russian poet Anna Akhmatova said that there is nothing more tedious than someone else’s dreams or someone else’s fornication. I would add someone else’s meals to the list. Yet here I go.

I am in many ways the wrong person to write about a dining experience. For one, I have mixed feelings about restaurants. Often, I walk away thinking how mediocre the meal was. Rarely is it bad, but just as rarely is it memorable. My dissatisfaction expands when I look at the bill. What I ate was fine, but the bill suggests that it was superb. It wasn’t.

Plus, I do not have very discriminating taste buds. Don’t ask me to identify a flavor in something I’ve eaten. I won’t be able to do it. I know what I like, but beyond that I am generally lost.

Finally, writing about food is an art I cannot master. Great food writers – and they are few and far between – can make you salivate with their gastronomic descriptions. Somehow, they recreate a complex taste in a way I cannot fathom. If you’re hoping to get that here, stop reading now.    

All that being said, once in a blue moon I am surprised by a restaurant that provides a dining experience exhibiting creativity and originality. Most importantly, the food tastes so damn good that the flavors linger in your mind long after they’ve left your palate. That is an undeniable pleasure and begs to be shared.

Recently I had such an experience. It was at a restaurant in the Getsemani neighborhood of Cartagena, Columbia called Celele. The restaurant was touted as the Latin America’s 6^th best restaurante. I am generally skeptical of such rankings, but in this case, it lived up to its billing.

Celele presents contemporary Caribbean cuisine based on the culinary and cultural diversity of Columbia. Every item is locally sourced, and the menu changes seasonally. The owner of the restaurant spent two years “surveying the territory, inventorying products, recipes and techniques”. It shows.  

Our sojourn to Celele started on an odd note. The reservation, which was made for us, was at 9:30, which seemed unusually late. We decided to go at 9:00 and see if we could get in early. We were met at the locked door and politely told that the staff was on break and that 9:30 was a general seating time. Luckily, there was a nice little bar across the street, so it was a minimal imposition.

We returned at 9:30 and were ushered to our table. At first, I was disappointed since we were seated near the small open kitchen, not my general preference. That disappointment quickly dissipated when I realized that we had front row seats to a gastronomic ballet.

There were about 20-25 tables and 75-100 patrons. Seating them all at once meant orders came in a flood. We were in prime position to watch as these complex dishes were cooked and assembled, with the expediting chef only a few feet away. It was clear why a break in the evening was essential.

Cartagena must be the specialty cocktail capital of the world, with each restaurant listing an array of unique libations. Celele was no exception, but it took it a step further. Julie ordered a Guayarita, which was composed of Olmeca White Tequila, mezcal Ozo de Tigre, sour guava chutney, mandarin lemon and a basket pepper. It came in a small martini glass filled with 1/3 of the drink, the remainder resting in a small cruet sitting in a bowl of ice to keep it cool until needed. It was advertised as smoky and refreshing and it was.

I had a Vereda Tropical. It was concocted with Columbian Le Hechicera rum, Enate Rose wine, coastal plum leaf syrup and lactofermented plums. The plums sat on a bridge straddling the rim of the glass. I was instructed to take a bite of plum before ingesting the drink. The plums were very salty, but when combined with the fruity cocktail the result was incredibly stimulating – a surprisingly fresh and soothing treat.

For an appetizer Julie ordered a Caribbean Flower salad, a layered extravaganza. The bottom of the bowl was lined with cashew paste, smooth, but with some nut fragments intact. Atop the cashew sat fresh local greens. The greens were topped with edible flowers in an array of colors. A light dressing was added by the server. It was almost a shame to dig in, but it was so tasty it was worth spoiling the effect.

I had Smoked Seasonal Fish with Arab Spices. (sorry, no picture. I started eating too quickly). Nut hummus adorned the side of the bowl, with fermented greens and bits of fish. The waiter poured a light fish broth into the bottom of the bowl all and I mixed it all together. The result was both unexpected and exquisite.

For my main entrée I was feeling adventurous and ordered the Braised Rabbit. The waiter just shook his head and redirected me to Lamb marmaon with Arabian spices. I would not have chosen this without the waiter’s suggestion since my appetizer included Arab spices, and I had no idea what marmaon was. Turns out it is similar to couscous.

The waiter was, of course, correct. The dish was adorned with edible flowers.. Underneath, the lamb was melded with smoked eggplant, gooseberries, and a very light sour cream all within a crispy filo dough. The lamb was incredibly tender. The smoked eggplant and gooseberries gave it a pleasant tang which was perfectly moderated by the sour cream and filo. My taste buds could do nothing, but scream, yes!!!

Julie had the Confit Local Hen, which was adorned with sour guava BBQ, roasted bananas with coconut oil, long green beans, fired banana peels and smoked hen broth. It came in a bowl that highlighted the green beans. The guava BBQ was added by the waiter through a dropper, who then encircled the dish with the hen broth. Again, disturbing the presentation seemed disrespectful, but that hesitancy was well worth overcoming. The complex flavors blended perfectly.

Having had appetizers we would normally skip desert, but that was not an option. We split a “Creamy Chocolate from La Sierra Nevada de Santa Maria”. The dish was white chocolate ganache, tropical dry forest crumble borojo gel and sorbet. It was an elegant combination of chocolatey sweetness and fruity tang. To say it was delectable is an understatement.

I was shocked when I saw that we had been at the restaurant for over 2 hours. Usually, I get antsy after an hour or so, but not that night. As we stood up to leave – one of the last – I caught the eye of the chef. I gave him a big smile, and, like an idiot, two thumbs up. In response he flashed an even bigger smile, giving the impression that for all the awards and rankings the restaurant has garnered, it is still the experience of the individual diner that mattered. You can’t ask for anything more than that.         

There he was smiling up at me from the Sunday New York Times sitting outside my neighbor’s door, flashing his ubiquitous peace sign. Was it possible that the Times was revisiting, for the umpteenth time, Richard Starkey? He was not celebrating a notable birthday, though at his age they’re all somewhat noteworthy. Nor was it a significant Beatles anniversary. Yet, it was definitely the one, the only, Ringo Starr.     

Ringo holds a unique place in modern culture. As a member of the biggest act of the 20^th Century he is one of the most photographed, written about, dissected, parodied people in the history of the world. For many years that scrutiny has been done with a cheekiness that not too subtly asks whether he deserves all the adulation. No one questions the prominence of John, Paul and George. But Ringo? Wasn’t he just along for the ride and to provide comic relief?

In many ways, Ringo has never lived down the discredited quote attributed to John Lennon that he wasn’t even the best drummer in the Beatles. Actual or not, many jumped on the bandwagon to suggest that he was just a lucky guy who got to sit behind the big three and keep time. He was fine doing that but musically provided little else.

In recent years, the tide has shifted. Drummer after drummer has stepped forward to testify to his influence. Dave Grohl, Stewart Copeland, Max Weinberg and Questlove, among others, have heaped praise on his ability to “play for the song” and thereby take them to new levels. Increasingly it is acknowledged that Ringo was an integral part of the Beatles sound.

I cannot solve the debate, and my guess is that many who weigh in are in no better position to do so either. However, I do take in the testimony of my friend Phil Moore. He is a lifelong drummer who still plays for fun. He told me, somewhat abashedly, that he found the Beatles the most satisfying to practice with because Ringo’s drumming was inventive and challenging. If Uncle Phil says so, that’s good enough for me.

Drumming aside, Ringo has a special place in our family. Like many, my kids were raised on Beatles music. I considered it part of their necessary education. Not surprisingly, they took to the music, but even more so they took to Ringo. He was their favorite, hands down.

I remember once we were on a driving vacation and stopped into a convenience store where they discovered fake IDs of celebrities, including Ringo. A battle ensued as to who would get that prized souvenir. If we were playing any kind of game where they could name a character after Ringo or use him as a punch line, it was done.

One Christmas our eldest, Aster, proudly entered while we were decorating the tree with a cutout of Ringo’s face. He proclaimed that it was time to put the Starr on top of the tree. It has been a family tradition ever since.

It’s not hard to define Ringo’s attraction. He has always come across as somewhat naïve and innocent. John and George were engaged in a never-ending analysis of the Beatles’ place in the universe. Paul has carefully guarded his and the group’s musical legacy. Ringo seems to just take it all in and enjoy the ride. His approach reminds me of the life philosophy of Spinal Tap keyboardist, Viv Savage, “Have a good time all the time.”

Ringo’s public persona was established in the 1964 movie “A Hard Day’s Night”. It is a unique film. I cannot think of another that cemented the perception of its stars the way that did, especially for Ringo. Since then, he has unalterably been the somewhat befuddled, easy-going bloke with the goofy grin. It has served him well.

John Lennon anointed him as the Yogi Berra of Rock and Roll. He’s been credited him with inadvertently crafting the title of “Hard Day’s Night”, as well as the song “Eight Days a Week”. Whether that’s true is beside the point. It fits too well with his image to be denied.

Not that Ringo hasn’t had his share of troubles over the years. He was, after all, the first to leave the band, though he famously came back to a drum kit adorned with roses. The breakup of his first marriage was not pretty. He had a well-documented substance abuse problem, which lasted many years longer than John’s lost weekend. Yet, he never misplaced his charm.

I think that the most surprising thing about Ringo is how much the music really matters to him. For someone who was supposedly just along for the ride, he has been devoted to asserting his own musical voice post-Beatles. Immediately after the breakup it seemed that the other ex-Beatles were looking to prop him up, with George co-writing some of his biggest hits, and the others guest starring on his albums.

After the early supportive spurt largely petered out, Ringo continued to put out albums. Between 1976’s “Ringo Rotogravure”, which peaked at number 28 on the US charts and “Look Up”, his most recent country-tinged effort Ringo put out 15 albums, many of which hardly cracked the charts at all. He hasn’t had a single in the top 50 since “Oh My My” in 1974. Clearly, making music is more important to him than many of us imagined.

In fact, it was “Look Up” that sparked the Times article. Ringo’s interest in country music is nothing new or invented. As usual he was able to surround himself with top notch talent, including T-Bone Burnett, who wrote most of the songs and co-produced the album, Alison Krauss and Joe Walsh, his brother-in-law.

I wish I could unequivocally urge you to listen to the album, but I can’t take it that far. Like almost all his efforts, it is pleasant enough, has some catchy hooks and is instantly forgettable. I do enjoy Ringo’s voice. It is solely his own and can add sincerity to mediocre lyrics. However, it’s nothing that is going to make you sit up and take notice. Neither is the album.

That being said, I hope Ringo keeps rocking as long as he can. As Rob Sheffield of Rolling Stone observed in reviewing “Look Up”, Ringo is “the least jaded rock star in the universe”. In a world of braggarts, blowhards and bombastic baboons, that is something to cheer. Keep on shining Ringo Starr!!!!