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Anyone who navigated airports in the 1970’s knows the drill. Walk along with your head down trying to get to the gate without being assaulted by seedy looking representatives of various organizations wanting your money, and, if you could believe the rumors, your soul. Among the more notable supplicants you had to dodge were Hari Krishna zealots with their shaved heads and saffron robes and the followers of Sun Myung Moon. The Moonies were the most annoying because they were less conspicuous, making them harder to avoid.

The approach was not subtle. Some token was shoved into your face, whether it was a book or flower. If you were silly enough to stop and engage you were hooked. I once got a copy of the Bhagavad Gita that way. The acolyte who approached me started talking about George Harrison and before I knew it, I was $20 poorer. I must admit, however, it was a nice-looking book. It sat on my shelf for many years, though I don’t remember ever cracking it open.    

Even before our airports became mini war zones with restricted areas abounding, the powers that be banned these annoying petitioners. While I never regretted the loss, it makes the airports more sterile. Luckily, before that happened “Airplane” captured perfectly the annoyance of most patrons by having Robert Stack take out solicitor after solicitor seeking contributions for everything from scientology to Jerry’s Kids and “more nuclear power”. (Everybody remembers Leslie Neilson for that movie – and rightly so – but Robert Stack was every bit as funny).

While the Moonies appear to be long gone, and saffron robes are a rarity, I have recently encountered a new wave of devoted panhandlers ready to accost you on street corners throughout Philadelphia. These are clearly a different sort of animal. They are young people who are presumably getting paid to collect on behalf of recognized charities. The basis of their remuneration is unclear.

Some of the charities represented are ones we know well, like the SPCA or the ACLU. Others have names that sound legitimate, like Children International, but seem to be counting on their generic names to assure you that you’re giving to a good cause. Kind of like George Castanza telling his co-workers that for the holidays he had contributed on their behalf to “The Human Fund”. It sounded good, so why should they care that he was the only human benefiting from the “contribution”.  

Since these kids are not true believers like the airport denizens the ardency of their solicitations varies. Most seem content to merely ask for a moment of your time. Others look at you pleadingly and only follow up if you respond somehow, with a raised eyebrow or twitch. In any event they give up quickly in response to a polite refusal.

However, I have had some more aggressive encounters. I was once approached in Washington Square by a vested schnorrer who was collecting on behalf of some children’s charity I had never heard of. She prefaced her pitch by asking me if I liked children. So many wise-ass responses flooded my brain (“Obviously, you never met my kids.” “Yes, at least until they can talk.” “No more or less than the rest of humanity, and that’s not saying much.”) that I froze. Finally, I merely spit out something insipid like, “Do you really think that will get you a donation?” I hate those missed opportunities.

(This exchange did remind me of when my son Will ran for Mayor of Allentown while a student at Muhlenberg College (“Where there’s a Will there’s a Wamser”). He took an ant-vax position. His explanation made perfect sense).

Another solicitor approached me by asking where I would rate myself on a scale of 1 – 10 as a nice person. I immediately shot back “0”, though I admit I did it with a smile. Having been asked this asinine question the “0” was honestly how I felt at that moment. The smile was disingenuous.

The problem is that I probably do rate higher than a “0” on the nice scale, though where I would not want to guess. I feel a twinge of guilt passing these kids by, especially when I know the organization they represent to be meritorious. I am tempted to stop and explain that I do give to charity, but not to street solicitations.  

I never had this problem with the Moonies. They were easy to blow off without a second thought. I just can’t do that with these fresh-faced youngsters who look so damn sincere. Believe me, I fight the urge to engage. I just don’t feel great about it.

Plus, I feel some commiseration with these street urchins. Likely they are more akin to the long-gone door-to-door supplicants selling magazine subscriptions to earn money for college. Like those dear departed mendicants, they are probably only making a pittance of what they need to survive. That alone is worth our empathy.

The irony is that the airport ambushers were true believers, or at least I assume so. I doubt if the Krishnas were paying anyone to shave their heads, don the saffron and troll the Philadelphia International walkways. Maybe they deserved more of my sympathy than this new crop of solicitors. Nah!!!

Solicitations will always be with us, whether it’s these patrons of the sidewalk, or in the flood of mail that comes daily, especially this time of year. Most are from worthwhile organizations doing important work. Picking and choosing those who you want to support can be agonizing. However, one thing is for sure. Come-ons more likely to elicit testy responses is not the way to go.  

The other day I was thinking about The Andy Griffith Show – as you do. In particular, I was pondering an episode where Ralph, the brother of Otis Campbell, the Mayberry town drunk, is coming to pay a visit. Otis is in a tizzy because he believes his brother to be a success, and he is ashamed that Ralph will see what a failure he is. To help Otis out Andy agrees to let him pose as a Deputy while his brother is in town, much to the antic chagrin of Barney.

All seems to being going well until Ralph comes staggering into the Mayberry jail three sheets to the wind. It turns out that he is the town drunk where he lives, and tops off his evenings, like Otis, by letting himself into the jail to sleep it off. In one of the most ironic moments in sitcom history, Otis lectures his brother on proper decorum. Back slaps occur all around, and a lesson seems to have been learned. Until the next episode.

There are numerous avenues to explore arising out of this 22-minute classic. Consider the concept of a town drunk. It appears that every small North Carolina town has one, but only one. No one else wobbles into the jail after a night on the town, just Otis, and apparently Ralph. You know they aren’t the only drinkers. Are they akin to the proverbial scapegoats, taking the alcoholic sins of the community onto their backs? Is this truly a public service?

Before I could answer these sociological queries, I became consumed with what led Otis and Ralph to this vocation. Why did they feel this need to not only drink copious amounts, but to display their inebriation to the world? Otis certainly could have headed home to pass out. It was rare that Barney and Andy went looking for him. He came to them, as did Ralph.

Having been raised on a shallow understanding of Freud, Bettelheim and Erikson, I naturally assumed that childhood trauma had to be the cause. The fact that they are brothers is instructive. I think it is probable that Ralph and Otis’ father was a drinker as well. Like them, he was a big man and when he was in his cups the fists would fly. Their mother wanted to protect the boys but was ineffectual.

As the brothers grew, they began to imitate the only strong role model they had. They too took to drink. They also realized, whether consciously or not, that the only time their father even noticed them was when he was drunk, so they imbibed in public to get the attention they longed for.

Their drinking led to endless trips to the Sherriff’s office in the dry town where they were raised. Oddly enough, it was only there that someone paid heed to them. Maybe it was not loving care, but it was more than they ever found anywhere else. They had located a haven, and a lifelong pattern had set in.

I realized that you could do this backseat dissection with many sitcom characters. They are perfect for analysis. With few exceptions, they are one-dimensional, letting us avoid the nuances involved in the personalities of real human beings. How many of us know that Otis works as a glue dipper, whatever that is? I didn’t and I have seen every episode countless times. He is one thing and one thing only – the town drunk.

Take Buddy Sorrell, Rob Petrie’s co-writer on the Alan Brady show. His nickname was The Human Joke Machine, but how did he become this person for whom jokes were everything? Undoubtedly, he was picked on as a kid for being both small and Jewish. He didn’t even have a Synagogue community to fall back on (he did not have his bar mitzvah until he was adult). Making people laugh was his defense mechanism. It became more than a way to distract his tormentors, it became an obsession. He had to have a joke for every occasion, just to feel safe. Luckily for him he found a professional outlet for his neuroses. Otherwise, he’d be sitting in a Bronx drunk tank, a Northern Otis, trying to make Deputy Barney O’Flaherty laugh.

Sally Rogers, Buddy and Rob’s office mate, provides additional fodder. Why is her whole life focused on corralling a man and getting married? My guess is that she was doted on by her father when she was little. Her mother, however, was cold and distant. It got worse when her parents divorced and her mother blamed Sally. Ever since Sally has been searching for a substitute father figure. This fixation made her unpopular with other girls at Herbert Hoover High, fueling her lifelong inability to make friends with other women (secretly she hates Laura), as well as her caustic wit. Tragically, this same caustic wit has driven away the object of her obsession – a man to marry.   

As I thought about this, I realized that this could be a new parlor game. Players would be assigned a sitcom character and the one that comes up with the best psychological history wins. Extra points could be awarded for creativity, like opining that Otis’ mother became preoccupied with mah jongg as a way to escape her loveless marriage, further isolating Otis and Ralph. It could be called “Bonkers Backstory Bonanza”.

I think I have a winner here. Finally, a justification for all those years in front of the boob tube. Just so someone doesn’t decide to turn the tables on me and ask why I would watch the same sitcom episode so many times that I can remember it in detail 50 years later. But who would want to do that?   

In the wake of Tuesday’s election, I have been getting a lot of messages and poems from proponents of the losing candidate. These messages encourage us to keep our heads up, accept the result, and to look forward to better days. Wonderful sentiments, but, frankly, I am not there and may never be.

My state of mind recalls a scene from one of my favorite movies – Young Frankenstein. The good Doctor has just tried to animate his creation but seems to have failed. He turns to Igor and Inga* and softly says, “Be of good cheer. If science teaches us anything, it teaches us to accept our failures as well as our successes with quiet dignity and grace.” The three look revenantly down for a moment, before Gene Wilder loses it, as only he can, throttling the creature, while screaming “SON OF A BITCH BASTARD. I’LL GET YOU FOR THIS. HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?” I can relate.

Don’t worry, I am not going to be one of those pathetic people who wring their hands and whine, “I want my country back.” If anything, this election has brought to the fore what my country is and always has been. The moments when the angels of our better nature seemed to shine through were clearly just chimeras masking hate and paranoia.

I cannot be sanguine about this loss. The Republican reaction to their defeat in 2020 is too fresh in my mind. They lost, as the Democrats have here, but instead of accepting it as anyone would who cares about their country more than naked power, they decided to embrace lies that subverted the democratic foundation of our nation – fair elections.

I expected such behavior from He Who I Would Rather Not Name but was sickened by the sight of supposedly patriotic Republicans merrily jumping on that bandwagon. Many initially acknowledged the loss, but once they saw the political advantage of the lies, they quickly swallowed their courage and repeated what they knew to be untrue. In fact, it became a political litmus test for the faithful – country be damned.

All of this led to the abomination of January 6. More than 100 police officers reported injuries, some significant. All in the name of the party that purports to stand for law and order. Apparently, we should be tough on crime so long as those committing those crimes are not our supporters, or our candidate.

It will be interesting to see how this is swept under the carpet by the new administration. Will the Department of Education be kept around long enough to issue an edict that all be taught that the Great Orange One won the 2020 election and that the January 6 rioters where ANTIFA hoodlums pretending to be his minions? Will the 300 some convicted of participating in that riot be pardoned, and given medals for standing up for “Truth”?  

While this was only one lie, and one easily disabused, once it was repeated and repeated by supposedly intelligent people, it set the tone for an entire campaign. If we need to bash immigrants let’s just make up stories about them eating household pets. If we want to paint the current administration as out of touch and uncaring, let’s falsely claim that they ignored the devastation of Hurricane Helene. If any news organization dares to “fact-check”, let’s vilify them as biased and venal.

Yes, it worked. That does not mean that I can sit back and ignore the genesis of this “triumph”. It is not worthy of acquiescence. The “triumph” is one of cynicism and nihilism.

I have no illusions about the history of this country. I do not think that it was created by moral giants. You cannot embrace slavery and claim that designation. Nor do I think that we are the greatest nation on earth, or somehow a manifestation of God’s will.

I do think that no country was founded upon greater ideals than the United States. As flawed as the founders were, their embrace of concepts like equality, free speech, democratic elections and rule of law stand as pillars of what a nation should be, even if they failed to implement them. These ideals may never be reached, but they should be what we strive and fight for.

This nation has seen movements like Black Power, Women’s Liberation and Gay Rights struggle valiantly for recognition of those left behind. These are the most American of movements, seeking to apply the ideals embedded in our Constitution and other originating documents. They are also the ones most at risk with this election result. The leaders of these movements didn’t prevail by taking defeat with quiet grace and dignity. They faced setbacks by screaming “SON OF A BITCH BASTARD. I’LL GET YOU FOR THIS.”   

I am not sure what to do with this anger. I do not see many avenues to channel it positively. I just know that I intend to hold on to it and see where it leads. I know it will color anything done over the next four years, and I am OK with that. The election result may be valid, but that does not mean that I must accept this administration as legitimate.

So, once again, thank you to all who circulated those constructive, forward-looking, reasonable homilies. I know that they were drafted with the best of intentions. Forgive me if I tore them up and flushed them down the proverbial toilet. I am just not through throttling the monster yet, and hopefully never will be.

*RIP to the immortal Teri Garr

I have experienced many different emotions during Presidential elections – anger, bewilderment, even elation. However, I have never felt bereft – until now. Despite my strong views as to how I would like to see this come out, I cannot help feeling disconnected from the whole process. It’s as if this were happening in a different country that I cared about but was not a part of – like England. Debates about the impact of this or that statement or action by a candidate on their chance of success leave me cold.

I have no doubt that my disaffection is caused by the fact that the rules of engagement have clearly changed. I felt passionate about the outcome of prior elections but viewed them in the context of an ebb and flow of American politics. There were exaggerations and misdirection, but it was all within certain parameters of conduct. Candidates had to be careful not to overstep those parameters or risk, presumably, alienating voters. Those parameters are now gone.

I have developed defense mechanisms to limit witnessing the devolution of the American electoral system. I read only headlines, not articles. I shun conversations about the election as if they were the plague. I watch TV clutching the remote ready to instantly mute any political commercials that airs. While the old Tom Wamser would have reveled in watching a Presidential candidate nominated by a party that has declared war on the LGBTQ+ community swaying arrhythmically to a song praising unfettered gay sex, I now avert my gaze.      

When I look back on my assumptions about the American electorate, I flog myself for my naivete. I knew people were gullible and easily led, but I still harbored some belief that they at least appreciated veracity and at least a pretense of decorum. I was obviously wrong. The myth that a candidate had to “appear Presidential” has been exposed and destroyed.

I also knew that people only engaged with issues at the most visceral level. After all, there had to be some logic behind throwing all that money into ignorant, reductive, meaningless TV ads. Still, I bought into the idea that issues did matter, even if only at a surface level. Silly, silly man. What matters is lashing out at bogeymen created by inane media images and gross generalizations.

All people care about is their side winning. Everything is justifiable if you prevail. The consequences are meaningless. Who cares if we have a country that regards the system as rigged so long as you can use that lie as a hook to secure more support. Any fabrication is appropriate if it results in victory.

I really don’t know what to do with this estrangement from the process. I know how much our lives can be impacted by the outcome of the election, but can’t get by the sense that we have, as an entire country, already lost. The lies and obfuscation will not stop on November 5. I seriously doubt that once that genie is out of the bottle, and it is out, it can be shoved back in.

Sometimes various strands converge to lead me down rabbit holes that are hard to get out of. This happened when I stumbled upon a quote from author Saul Bellow where he allegedly said – he later denied it – “Who is the Tolstoy of the Zulus? The Proust of the Papuans? I‘d be glad to read them.” The quote is cited as a defense of the Western canon of literature, and a comment on the supposed dearth of literary art in the third world. In reply to this quote a writer named Ralph Wiley retorted “Tolstoy is the Tolstoy of the Zulus.”

The obvious question in considering Bellow’s statement is “Can we dismiss other cultures because they have not produced denizens of the fine arts internationally recognized?”. The answer is, of course, a resounding no. Given the chance, writers such as Chinua Achebe, Ngugi was Thiong’o and Yaa Gyasi have proven they are every bit as talented and profound as their Western counterparts.

But Wiley’s response troubled me as well. Is it true that Zulus can read and appreciate Anna Karinina, or is the cultural gap too wide? Can I fathom the art of a society as different from mine as that of Papua New Guinea? Does my failure to understand their art make it any less important? The authors cited above make clear that many themes are global, but still there are no doubt nuances that are untranslatable.  

As I was pondering this debate, I came across a statement by Neil Gabler in his book, “An Empire of Their Own”, which explores the founding years of Hollywood. While discussing the transition from silents to talkies, he posited, in essence, that film is the most accessible artistic expression and is at its most accessible when a story is told through pictures alone, without the interference of dialogue. As such, silent movies were the ultimate universal art form.  

I have always had a fascination with silent movies, those odd flickering dinosaurs best known for over-expressive acting, outrageous physical comedy and people moving about at a speed that doesn’t look quite human. They seem like a time machine transporting us back to a long-gone age. The aspects that can render them unwatchable for many, I find captivating.

There is no doubt something was lost when the talkies hit the theaters. Silent directors had become masters at conveying plot with image alone. The visual was more than sufficient to convey their intent. To the extent title cards were used, they were supplemental. That simplicity of storytelling was somewhat lost when sound became the norm, as anyone who has had to suffer through a voiceover can tell you. Even today, the best filmmakers understand that a striking image is worth more than 10 minutes of chatter.  

Gabler’s comments sent me down another path, one already partially occupied by the Bellow/Wiley exchange. Were silent films a medium that could be appreciated both in remote Africa and Paris? Could cultural differences be overcome through moving images in a way they could not by other artistic mediums?

There is an argument to be made. Silents eliminate the need to struggle through extensive descriptive prose, find a museum to roam through or differentiate between doric and ionic columns. It is easy to inhale the power of an image. Fritz Lang’s vision of the future in “Metropolis” can be immediately consumed in a way that Issac Asimov’s intricate “Foundation” world cannot. That does not mean it’s better, just that it can reach a wider audience.

However, silents do express a sensibility that reflects the culture which produced them, just as talkies do. “Birth of a Nation” is a uniquely American film, unfortunately. Similarly, the silents of Mikio Naruse and Jasujiro Ozu highlight tensions rooted in Japanese society. To suggest that anyone, anywhere can grasp these films is questionable. Can a rural society that has never even conceived of a robot, let alone struggle with issues of capitalism, get “Metropolis”?

As I internally debated the universality of silent movies, I started reading the book “Radiance” by Catherynne Valente. Valente creates an alternative history in which the Edison family ruthlessly enforces patents on film technology so as to make the production of sound films so expensive that silents continued to reign. Audiences had become so used to silents that they rejected those few films where sound is used. (Note: I cannot recommend Valente’s book, as creative as it is. If you want to read novels on a secret film history, I would suggest “The Book of Illusions” by Paul Auster or “Flicker” by Theodore Roszak).

In Valente’s world, Gabler’s argument is ascendant. Silent films have become an art form that binds not only nations, but worlds (she has space exploration and colonization beginning in the 19th century). While history’s path as laid out by Valente seems unlikely, it is based on some fact. Thomas Edison did try and ruthlessly enforce his motion picture patents in the early 1900’s, until he lost an antitrust suit in 1915. Regardless, I cannot fathom a sole diet of silents.     

Amid this canoodling, I needed to watch a film from the 1920’s for my Criterion Challenge (a topic for another post). I chose the G.W. Pabst film, “Pandora’s Box”, starring Louisa Brooks. Released in 1929, this German production, this story of a femme fatale who leads men to their doom, is considered among the greatest in silent cinema.

“Pandora’s Box” both validated and refuted Gabler’s arguments. The storyline is likely universal (I assume that men everywhere blame women for their failings). The images were sufficiently evocative that the few title cards were almost extraneous. The direction was superb, wonderfully capturing the locales from elegant to seedy. Even the acting was sufficiently understated so as not to convey the characters’ emotions without eliciting laughter.

Yet, lurking in this movie, fairly near the surface, is an antisemitism that is particularly chilling considering the time and country in which the film originated. The lead character, Lulu, is identified as Jewish by a menorah prominently displayed in her apartment. Her “father” – the exact nature of the relationship is unclear – is named Schilogh!!! With that genealogy established she is explicitly compared to the mythical Pandora, who introduced all evil into the world.  

No doubt someone unfamiliar with German history could watch this movie and simply enjoy it as the misogynistic romp it is, assuming you like that kind of thing. However, to fully “appreciate” it, the context is essential. The film would play much different in Tibet than it would in Berlin. (I am sad to say that, based on Letterbox reviews, and the Wikipedia article on this film, its problematic nature goes by most Americans as well).

Not surprisingly all this pondering has led nowhere. The questions remain unanswered. That may be for the best. We cannot avoid the culture that shaped us, but we can also open ourselves up to other cultures as well, even if the understanding is not exact. No one art form can fully bridge that gap, but, if it’s well done, each can bring to the table a universality that can open up worlds. That’s enough for me.   

We all love a good scam. Whether it’s reading about hustles like the Abscam entrapment or the Madoff Ponzi scheme or watching movies like Catch Me if You Can or The Sting, we enjoy the intricacies of plans that take others for a ride. Heaven forbid, however, it happens to us.

The most recent grand hoax was a doozy, and almost resulted in the sale of Elvis’ Graceland. Subsequent to the 2023 death of Elvis’ daughter, Lisa Marie Presley, “Naussany Investments” went into court claiming that Ms. Presley had borrowed $3.8M and put Graceland up as collateral. Naussany submitted loan documents and Deeds of Trust purportedly signed by Presley to support their claim.

A foreclosure sale was actually scheduled for May. It was only then that attorneys for Presley’s granddaughter went to court to stop the charade. The sale was blocked, and various law enforcement agencies got involved.

The scheme was uncovered as the brainchild of a Lisa Jannine Findley. Findley not only created a non-existent corporation, but numerous personas to support her claim. She reportedly has a history which includes romance scams, forged checks, and bank fraud. When confronted she apparently tried to blame that ever convenient group of scam professionals – Nigerian identity thieves.

The audacity of this scheme is breathtaking. Usually scams are done behind the scenes, in private face-to-face meetings or over the phone, and involve things of interest only to the scamee, like money. This one not only required the sanction of a court but involved one of the most famous buildings in the United States. It was bound to create significant publicity. You have to be impressed by the cajónes necessary to even try and pull this off.

In many ways that audacity was key to this ploy, and its attraction. Who would have thought someone would really try something this outrageous. You can’t blame the Court and Presley family for their initial acceptance of the documents produced. Yet, Findley had to know that sooner rather than later many people – lawyers, reporters – were going to pick the scheme to shreds. Maybe she thought she could get the foreclosure through quickly and disappear with the money. Maybe she just has more hubris than the average bear.

Most scams are not as intricate as this one, which is probably why many succeed where this one failed. We know how easy it is for people to be hoaxed by complete strangers who either promise the moon and stars or present some heartbreak story that would make even baseball players cry. The idea is to get the money fast and melt into the sunset.

I am not sure why humans are so susceptible to these ploys. It would seem that evolution would have honed our radar to look out for gifts falling from heaven, or sob-stories with no support. Wasn’t it beat into the heads of our ancestors that if Kronk in the cave next door told us that there was mammoth meat just sitting out on the veld waiting to be taken something was radically wrong? Did they just fall for the mammoth meat trick time and again, only to return to find their cave stripped of their best flint tools?

Why didn’t we learn that there are certain people out there that can render a story so convincingly they can have us signing over our first-born child? Has the narrative always been so enrapturing that it’s worth the price of whatever we give up, at least until we that time when we cry out “Eine moment, Bitte”? By that time the storyteller has generally flown the coop.

In some ways our gullibility reflects well on humanity. We tend toward trust and compassion, which makes us a target for those who would abuse that trust. We want to think that we are tough, but in reality we are marshmallows constantly on the precipice of believing whatever some silver-tongued shyster has to offer.

We also are eternal optimists. When a treasure trove appears to be dropping from the sky we hesitate, but then say, “why not?”. Why can’t it be me who strikes it rich through sheer luck? Why can’t I be as fortunate as all those rich jerks who are wealthy solely because of the family they were born into?

At the same time, we believe that we are better than that. We won’t fall for the tricks thrown at us. We aren’t going to respond to an email from a Nigerian Prince needing a few thousand dollars before they can transfer their massive wealth to us. We aren’t going to send money to a stranger to bail our grandchild out of jail.

Conversely, we think that those taken in by schemes are sad sack dolts who just couldn’t see the obvious. But when you read about the people involved, they are just normal folk. Yes, they made bad decisions. Maybe they let their greed get ahead of them. Maybe they thought with their heart and not with their head. But they aren’t that different from the rest of us.

I know that I am susceptible. While I have never been scammed, I have been tempted. Once Julie and I went to one of those Buyer Clubs. It was all hush, hush. Everyone there was talked to individually, and we were not allowed to ask questions before the entire group. Still, I was intrigued by their sales pitch. That was until Julie pointed out that their selection was very limited, and we were locked into what they had without seeing it. They wouldn’t even show us their prices until we joined. That’s when we walked out.

Knowing my predilections keeps my guard up. More important is to have someone to sanity check what seems attractive in the moment. A minimal explanation is generally needed to burst the bubble and see the scheme for what it is. Once that happens, we can just retreat to our own version of the Jungle Room and rewatch Paul T. Goldman.

*Sorry for my recent silence. I was having technical difficulties, which hopefully have now been resolved. I hope to get back to regular posts.

I have watched more of the Olympics this year than I have in quite a while. Part of that is circumstances beyond my control, but more than that they have been pretty darn entertaining. I find myself drawn into events that I wouldn’t have given any thought to only a few weeks ago.

The reason I drifted away from the Olympics is that they can be repetitive. You can only watch so many contestants gallop around the equestrian course while the announcers’ ooh and ahh over two second differences before the mind numbs. It is worse in the Winter Olympics where sports like luge or downhill skiing are so monotonous they have all of the excitement of a traffic jam, unless of course there is a crash.

The timed races, however, can be thrilling. The other day I found myself watching the 10,000-meter final – 25 laps around the track. I was about to turn it off at lap 3, when I became engaged by the strategy of the Ethiopian team, who took turns setting a pace they hoped would knock other runners out of the competition. Despite their efforts, an American runner stayed with them throughout. It was clear he was going nowhere. By the time there were only 5 laps left you knew a great ending was coming. The final kick, where some dropped back and others surged, put you on the edge of your seat. When the American runner managed to withstand challengers to win the Bronze – the first American medal in this event in over 50 years – it was all you could do not to stand up and cheer.

It’s not just the Americans that generate goosebumps. The charge by Frenchman Victor Perez on the back nine in the final round of the golf, where he went six under on five consecutive holes, was electric, and not just for the French. So was the Women’s 100m win by Julien Alfred of Saint Lucia, especially because her island is so small she has to turn around at 50m just to finish a practice heat (or so I heard). And there is something special about a country at war winning a gold, as did Yaroslava Mahuchikh of Ukraine in the High Jump.

Watching the games makes me want to live in a city hosting the Olympics, though that’s probably a ‘be careful what you wish for’ fantasy. Philly would be ideal as a host city, if it was part of an I-95 bid that included New York, Baltimore and Washington D.C. (The Amtrak Games?) Of course, if we did that New York would soak up all the big events as well as the opening and closing ceremonies. Still, some Philly flavor would be a great enhancement.

The Inquirer posted its selection of Philadelphia specific events last Sunday which included some usual suspects like greased pole climbing, and some incongruous choices, like chicken eating and boxing on the Art Museum steps (Yawn!!). They missed out on some of the truly unique gems that Philly could offer.

For example, a 400m alley race would be terrific. Contestants would have to run across cobblestones, leap over obstacles, like discarded mattresses, and avoid the various unhoused sleeping in doorways. Competitors could also choose to ride an abandoned shopping cart, though there is always the danger that the wheels have been locked. Extra points could be awarded for stopping to give a hungry person a sandwich.

A Philadelphia bicycle road rally would be breathtaking. Cyclists would have to dodge the vans, cars and construction vehicles parked in designated bike lanes, while keeping an eye out for motorists running red lights and gunning through intersections. A special pedestrian medal could be added for those that can evade the Doordash motorbikes on the sidewalks.

A particularly fun event would be the stadium boo-a-thon, where pampered athletes would have to withstand non-stop abuse while trying to complete their tasks. Even though these would be summer games, snow could be imported to pelt the Olympic mascot, and Santa Claus too, if he dares show his face again.

Not all events would have negative connotations. A Reading Terminal marathon would call-on participants to sample food from each of the 30 or so food vendors. Old City Coffee stations would be available throughout, though contenders can opt for a smoothie, or some fresh-pressed juice from the Four Seasons Juice Bar (not to be confused with the more infamous Four Seasons Landscaping).

The finale could be a scavenger hunt locating Philadelphia specific items. For example, contestants would have to find each of the seemingly 40-some Benjamin Franklin impersonators and identify 20 of his inventions scattered around the City (no, he did not create the first cheesesteaks). They would also have to take selfies in front of 100 of the 4,000 murals adorning City walls. Finally, they would count how many people line up in a given day to take their picture with the Rocky statue in front of the Art Museum (if they can count that high).

Even if the final ceremonies were held in New York, Philadelphia would still be represented. Will Smith could come charging out of the crowd and slap Mayor Eric Adams. Jason Kelce would be there in full mummer regalia chugging a Victory ale. We would bring back Chase Utley to lead a F**k New York cheer. It would be glorious.

Well, I must end this now. Greco-Roman wrestling is coming on and while I have no idea what that is, I have to see the Zholaman Sharshenbekov (Kyrgyzstan) vs, Mehdi Mohsen Nejad (Iran) match. Go Zholly!!!!.             

This is why I rarely write about political issues. A few weeks ago, I got on my high horse and opined that we had to focus on issues and what the candidates would do when in office rather than their personalities. It was based on the assumption that we were stuck with the contenders for the Presidency that we had.

Since that ill-considered broadside, we had an assassination attempt that almost took out one aspirant, and the other quit the race. In other words, my argument that we should focus on the issues rather the people became passé almost as soon as it was published. While there are many conspiracy theories floating around both of these developments, few (OK, none) have mentioned this “coincidence”.

I should have known better. Rule number one of the Presidential race cycle is that the core narrative will change every two weeks or so. It wasn’t long ago that we were debating the impact of the Trump conviction, then it was the Biden debate debacle. From there we moved on to the assassination attempt. That didn’t last long before we faced mounting calls for Biden to drop out. Now all we can talk about is the ascension of Kamala Harris. And July just ended!!!!!

Let’s face it, in a sane world any of these developments would have been decisive. Not long ago it was unthinkable that we would elect a President that had been convicted of a crime. Nor would we consider a Presidential candidate who fumbled over his positions the way Biden did (Nixon’s 1960 debate performance had the eloquence of Obama by comparison). An assassination attempt could be counted on to generate the type of sympathy that could launch a candidate to the highest office (though it didn’t have that effect for Teddy Roosevelt, though it probably tanked Taft). The ignominious late-in-the-day departure of a candidate could be counted on to end a party’s chance to prevail.

Yet, you get the strong sense that all of these seemingly cataclysmic events are merely fodder for the chroniclers who will write up this campaign when it’s all over. Through it all, the polls have hardly changed – not that you can trust the polls. We are split and will remain split through November 5 and beyond.

Over the next 100 days there will be more of these “shocks” that the talking heads (as opposed to the writing heads, like me) will point to as game changing. There will be stupid comments, policy stumbles, scandals pulled from the distant past, and other seemingly meaningful developments.  They will get us chattering as if they meant something to the final outcome, but I doubt if they will.

What will swing the election? Who comes out to vote. We know that the Trump army of devotees will show up. Will those who hate Trump and everything he stands for come out as well, as they did in 2020? That is all that matters.

Frankly, it should be simple. There are more people who oppose Trump and his policies than support him. The majority of Americans are in favor of reproductive rights, as has been demonstrated every time this issue is put on the ballot. Most recognize the risk of climate change and want to see the government address environmental issues. People want a fair system of taxation, not one that rewards the rich. We are uncomfortable about the prospect of a “moral” minority who see Trump as a way to impose their beliefs on the nation. Most of all, we just don’t like or trust him.   

The problem is that many of these same people are so disgusted by the political atmosphere that they are inclined to just throw their hands up and wish a pox on both houses. They have not seen the changes they sought during either the Biden or Obama administrations and have given up hope. They are content to just let the chips fall where they may. That seems especially true of young voters.

The split in the electorate is so close that it will not take a lot of such voters sitting out the election to turn it. In fact, even if many do vote, their lack of engagement could be fatal to the Harris campaign. It is usually the young who are willing to make the phone calls, hand out leaflets and go door-to-door. More importantly, they get each other excited and interested in showing up on election day. The Democrats need that to get the turnout.

Yes, issues still matter, but for most of the electorate they are sufficiently well-defined. Even with the switch of Democratic candidates the lines are clearly drawn. We know what each aspirant will support and what they will do in office. They may say differently in the next few weeks to try and pander to the center but there are likely to be few surprises as of January 20, 2025.

All this should be kept in mind as we see the wild swings over the next few months. We have to try to avoid getting caught up in the various permutations that will inevitably occur and focus on the end game. We must convince people to vote their beliefs on November 5. If that happens, what seems cataclysmic now will just be fodder for the historian.

I read in the newspaper the other day (yes, some of us still read newspapers) that four intrepid “explorers” recently emerged from a year long isolation in a 3D printed habitat that sought to replicate what it would be like to live on Mars. What a shock!! I didn’t even know they were gone. It does explain why I didn’t get a response to my texts.

The Mars Dune Alpha enclosure provided only 1700 square feet of living space. That’s about the size of a two-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment in Philly. The crew was selected for their scientific expertise. Apparently, the model squad for a trip to Mars includes a biologist, structural engineer, physician, and microbiologist. The original concept was to use the Fantastic Four, but since their movies keep bombing that was scrapped.

The four-member crew had to pass the NASA qualifications for astronauts, which means they met muscle strength and aerobic standards. They also got to float in a pool while wearing a spacesuit and enjoy the “vomit comet”. While their ages weren’t given, photos of the crew emerging after their ordeal appeared to place them in their thirties or early forties. However, space is supposed to age you.

The two men and women spent their time carrying out tasks astronauts would face on an actual trip to Mars, including simulated spacewalks. NASA monitored the pseudonauts’ health and performance to learn how to support a crew during long missions and what risks there may be for humans, especially with limited nutrition. Speaking of nutrition, the troupe supplemented pre-packaged food with vegetables they grew themselves. It doesn’t appear there was room for a grill.

There are so many unanswered questions from the brief, sterile accounts of the journey that I could find. While the four came out smiling, where they really thinking, “I don’t ever again want to be in an airplane hanger with that creep let alone a space the size of an undergrad’s apartment.” Or “Another morning waking to an off-key rendition of Oklahoma, and they would have had their first faux space murder on their hands.”

Of course, what most people really want to know is, was there sex? My guess is that we’ll never know, but speculation will abound. It’s only natural. In every space movie we’ve ever seen male and female astronauts eventually hook up. (Heaven forbid we depict alliances of a same sex nature, even though that’s more likely considering the composition of most movie space crews). Doesn’t real life mimic the movies? Of course it does.

While there are questions that we cannot answer, the pandemic does give us some context for understanding the Mars Alpha experience. We too were virtually locked away from the world for over a year. We were pressed into prolonged contact with a small contingent and given little chance to escape. It would probably have been useful to have someone to monitor us throughout that time!!

Communication was easier. We had Zoom to keep us in touch, though after a while I prayed for any prolonged delay in transmission. You could get out to the grocery store, and that often felt like a moonwalk, with everyone masked and distanced as you floated down the produce aisle. A stroll through the neighborhood seemed like a Twilight Zone episode. There were few people to be seen and those you did pass robotically avoided eye contact, as if the virus could be spread through X-Ray vision.

To be honest though, the most apt context I have for the Mars Alpha experience was my first year of law school.  We weren’t isolated, but it certainly felt like it. Every day we would trudge into the same building and same classroom, surrounded by the same 50 or 60 people. There must have been others out there, but I really don’t remember interacting with them (except for the counter crew at Arby’s).

It was also pretty much a self-imposed news blackout. No doubt the world kept turning, politics kept happening and events of note occurred. But unless something shoved itself under my nose, I was too absorbed trying to figure out the oddities of federal jurisdiction or the rule against perpetuities to pay any attention. (If you want to learn about the rule against perpetuities watch the excellent Lawrence Kasden film Body Heat. They could have saved a lot of time by just showing us that film and skipping the textbook).

The advantage was that there were more than four people. After awhile you figured out who you wanted to hang with. You could avoid the others without too much problem. Not so easy when there are only four of you. I think an optimum crew might be about 10. Just enough that you could pick and choose a bit, though even then there would be no way to avoid that early morning crooning.

The denizens of my first year of law school also possessed necessary individual expertise. There were those who saved our sanity and taste buds by providing a home cooked meal every now and then. There were those willing to head to the rec room (Danny’s pub) to ease the tension. And there were those always planning one outing or another to get us out of the cocoon. The same essential balance as Mars Alpha.      

While we can relate somewhat to the would-be ‘nauts trial run to Mars, their future is uncertain. We were all preparing for things that we knew were going to happen. We were going to reemerge into the world once the pandemic passed. We were going to move onto careers once law school was over. I assume that someday there will be a trip to Mars, though who knows when that will be. When it does happen, it is unlikely that any of these four will be on part of that trip.

I would find that frustrating. If I was to be locked up for a year in a mock Mars expedition, I would want to be assured that the real deal would follow. That’s probably one of many reasons why I am not astronaut material. Regardless, I wish these four “Astronots” the best. I hope they got a taste of life on Mars beyond the Bowie song. I also hope they see their dream of a true Mars journey fulfilled even if they can’t participate. And I know that at the very least there will be one lesson learned from their earth trek – NO SHOW TUNES ALLOWED!!!!!   

*I am republishing this because it does not seem to have been distributed first time around.

It has been some time since I wrote a blog post. Part of the reason for that is banal – other things going on. More importantly, I felt I had nothing new to say. I do not want to just regurgitate ideas. No doubt it is a form of writer’s block, similar to the yips in golf (more on that in a future post). There were thoughts yearning to get out, but the will to force them onto the page did not exist.

Despite that, I missed writing. The act of trying to formulate an idea sufficiently to give it structure is exciting. It is easy to come up with a concept, but much harder to test that concept by seeing if it can be restated coherently. I knew a time would come when I would take the proverbial pen in hand once again and attempt to summon the muses (hopefully without pretentious ornamentation).

What finally prompted me to rejoin the fray is the recent Presidential debate and all the hyperbole surrounding it. As usual, we have become focused on the wrong questions, even when, for once, the answers to the right questions are right in front of us. We go on and on about Biden’s age, and/or Trump’s criminal and civil convictions, but those are sideshows. The truth is that neither of these men should be our next President, but because of the broken system we have, they are who we’re stuck with. It’s time to move beyond these surface issues and ask what either would do with another four years in the White House.

Here is where it is interesting. For once we don’t have to guess. In every election since 1892 we have had at least one candidate who had never been President, and therefore could only rely on rhetoric to know what that candidate would do if elected. We KNOW what Biden and Trump would do with another four years because they’ve already been there, done that. Sure, there will be nuances and new problems, but the priorities of the candidates are set and have already been acted on, for better or worse. What they have done, and not done, is what we should be focused on.

Speaking of distractions, the 1892 rematch between Grover Cleveland, who was elected President in 1884, and Benjamin Harrison, who had defeated him in the election of 1988, is of some interest. According to Wikipedia, the two main issues were tariff policy and a Republican proposal for Federal regulation of elections to the House of Representatives, a program that was vilified in the Democratic south (gee, I wonder why?). Oddly, both tariffs and voting rights are back on the ballot this year, though hardly the central issues. (I note that the Wikipedia entry on the election of 1892 was voted the “pedia’s” 23^rd dullest in a recent poll). (Ok, I made that up).

Anyway, what do we KNOW about the next four years under either Biden or Trump? (I will try and be as neutral as possible when laying out positions, and apologize, somewhat, where I fail). We know because of what he did in his first term that Trump will decimate the EPA and limit environmental enforcement as much as possible. He does not believe that climate change needs to be addressed and will undermine attempts to do so. Biden will promulgate regulations that address climate change, though he will not institute more overarching measures called for by environmentalists.

In a transposed echo of 1892, Trump will continue to try to limit voting rights, endorsing measures that make voting more difficult for many. Biden will seek to expand access to the ballot, though he has had little success doing so to date in respect of a process that is largely controlled by the states. Trump will also denigrate the veracity of American elections, and use that as the reasoning behind his policies, while Biden will support the system as honest and fair.

Trump will aggressively attack illegal immigration, making it a centerpiece of his Presidency, as it was the first time around. He will use drastic means (a wall, troops) to stem crossings of our southern border, look to significantly limit even legal immigration and will target removal of those already in the country without proper documentation, regardless of how long they have been here. Biden will also adopt aggressive measures on the southern border, though without the fervor of Trump. He will also try and implement a path to citizenship for those already in the country.

Trump will renew his isolationist foreign policies, withdrawing as much as possible from commitments to longtime allies. He will sharply curtail support for Ukraine and stress the importance of good relations with Russia to the extent of non-interference with their territorial ambitions. Biden will continue to value, and strengthen, allegiances throughout the world. He will financially and materially support Ukraine in its war with Russia, and otherwise try and limit Russian expansionist tendencies.

Biden will fully support access to abortion and birth control. Trump will allow measures that would significantly curtail both. Trump will seek to reclassify Federal jobs as political so as to replace long-term employees with those beholden to him, as he moved to do at the end of his 2016 term. Biden will maintain the status quo whereby most of those employees are not subject to removal based on their political allegiances.

I could go on. As far as I can see, the only important issue where past practices cannot be fully relied on is in respect of the on-going Israeli offensive in Gaza. We know that Biden will support Israel with materials and money, while at the same time trying to limit the scope of the offensive. Trump was not faced with a crisis like this in his first term, so we cannot say for sure what he will do. However, he previously showed full support for Netanyahu, so we probably can surmise that he would continue that policy.  

At the end of the day the actions of a President are much more important than the personality of the President. We could live with a doddering Executive-in-Chief or a convicted criminal who struggles to open his mouth without lying if they would just sit in the Oval Office and do nothing for four years. But that’s not how it works. They will act, and for once we KNOW what they will do.  The question is can we live with the policies that will be implemented under their “leadership” over the next four years. The rest is meaningless diversion.