tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-265271972024-03-18T23:46:48.001-04:00We're Just SayinHumor, politics, travel, food, children, parents, biting social issues, less biting social issues, social issues with absolutely NO bite: all will be treated equally unfairly.Iris&Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08131960635510843593noreply@blogger.comBlogger1269125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26527197.post-44164465628418991902022-02-13T16:54:00.003-05:002022-02-13T16:54:15.895-05:00<p><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">Its crazy:</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">i cant get past feb 10th without some reminder that this is the day, 51 years ago... (impossible to actually write that number and believe it could be me..) that I was fruitlessly trying to talk my way on to a Vietnamese Army helicopter, to get into Laos, at the outset of the Laos invasion (the attempt to cut off the Ho Chi Minh trail).... aware that all the vets (Larry Burrows(LIFE), Henri Huet (AP) and Kent Potter (UPI) were already on the bird... as well as a Newsweek guy and i was the lone major publication (TIME Mag) photo guy NOT on that bird -- feeling like a tyro, a twit, an incompetent jerk... someone who just couldn't cut it.... who couldn't figure it out ... and i walked away completely angry with myself as the chopper's engine started to whine...and away it went...</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">to be shot down 20 minutes later, killing all of them.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">I think something in my soul has driven me to try and make the most of my professional life since then having been spared that awful fate at the time, but so aware that those guys on the chopper were the savviest, smartest, most experienced....and that even they were not beyond the fickle moment which fate was capable of dealing at any time. </span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I remember so well haggling in very strong terms with the Vietnamese Captain in charge of who got on that helo, and was on the edge of being insulting to him... when a reporter from TIME who i worked with, Jon Larsen, who had heard my unsuccessful pleas,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>came up to me and whispered,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>"you better get out of here for a while and cool down, or you ll NEVER get to Laos"</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">It was an hour later that I was walking by the underground Army HQ, when that same Captain came out, saw me, and said, in halting English, " I think maybe your friends shoot down, Laos."<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He said it twice then walked back inside. At that point no one knew any more than that, and I ended up just walking away, till I saw Hal, the LIFE reporter, who worked with Larry, walking towards me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I had seen him sitting next to Larry on the chopper as I'd walked away, earlier. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>"Boy am I glad to see you," i said.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>"They just told me they thought the helo was shot down, but here you are."<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">He said, "I didn't go. They did a hover test, the pilot said it was too heavy and someone would have to get off.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Larry looked at me and said "LIFE is a picture magazine, you can come later."<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">At that point I didn't think I could do any more, and wandered off to shoot pictures around the base camp, eventually making my way back to the Quang Tri HQ that evening.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I walked into the ongoing press briefing about 6pm, and Brian Barron, a blond toussel-haired earnest faced BBC reporter, turned to me and whispered "have you heard, Larrry Burrows was shot down in Laos...."<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">How quickly, how piercingly quickly, fifty one years can blow by. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-converted-space"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-converted-space">We're just sayin'... David B</span></p>Iris&Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08131960635510843593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26527197.post-29792743327048606462021-12-22T23:37:00.000-05:002021-12-22T23:37:57.196-05:00<p> <span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">While this has become known as the Holiday Season, for a Jewish kid who grew up in the very Mormon outpost of Salt Lake City, we pretty much knew it as</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">the Christmas Season, with Hannukah and a few other winter holidays accompanying.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">Quite unlike most of my East Coast Jewish friends and family, we did have a Christmas Tree.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">And though we learned all the Christmas carols in school during those cold and snowy Decembers (hey, it was Salt Lake! )</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">it remained far more of a civic enterprise than anything particularly religious.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">We had stockings hung by the fireplace, and the one thing we kids could count on was getting a jar of Hawaiian macadamia nuts, with which mom would whip up some sensational banana-macadamia nut waffles for breakfast.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">They were sublime.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">At the age of 11 or 12, my big present was a little yellow box, in it, a Kodak Holiday Camera kit: the camera, looking very serious and beautifully designed in its dark brown plastic, and a flash attachment with a plastic shield, should there be a flashbulb explosion (I never saw that happen, but I'm pretty sure it has occurred a few times.) My little Holiday took 127 film, most of the time being Verichrome Pan black-and-white, with the occasional roll of Kodacolor.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">But more than anything, that feeling of having your first camera is something you don't ever forget.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">I used that little camera for several years, documenting the Burnett family at home, on trips, and especially pictures of Dagmar, our wonderful little dog.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">When I finally joined the Olympus High Yearbook during Junior Year, at age</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">16, I saved up for an aged Exacta 35mm reflex camera, and eventually bought it used for $40 downtown.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">I had been saving for a couple of months to score a Spiratone tele lens, and that Christmas I received a check from mom and dad for fifty bucks (that was a LOT of dough then) with a note that I should use it "for a Zoomar Lens!" </span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">I'm not sure there ever really was a Zoomar lens, but that Spiratone glass might as well have been one.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">A lot of light, a lot of images passed through that lens in its lifetime. </span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJ7q9qENH7hnqir_B1HDoVhcTbkypesxkLZTdFQvglVu6sGtJRmwsFX5sIEHrxJZ0VowpUg5OIuQkNRtfZWurRk3rS5zf7rJTlTjx8oGcD-utDYe7WLc1WxZ_ZlS8rjcA8_Xzb8UNFWsxLR8ahR2_EE00eV0unZcNWx_L8kMuyjNtNRpKPlA=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJ7q9qENH7hnqir_B1HDoVhcTbkypesxkLZTdFQvglVu6sGtJRmwsFX5sIEHrxJZ0VowpUg5OIuQkNRtfZWurRk3rS5zf7rJTlTjx8oGcD-utDYe7WLc1WxZ_ZlS8rjcA8_Xzb8UNFWsxLR8ahR2_EE00eV0unZcNWx_L8kMuyjNtNRpKPlA=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Today, I went downstairs where that very same Brownie Holiday camera sits on a book shelf, where it has been keeping my 1964 Yashica-Mat company for the ten years I've been in Newburgh.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The Yashica-Mat still looks like you could attach a 65D Honeywell potato masher strobe and go cover the State House or a High School football game.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>(The esteemed former Salt Lake Tribune photographer Ross Welsher once told me, back in the LBJ era, that "I'd rather have a new Yashica Mat every year, than a<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>new Rollei every 3 or 4....")<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>My Holiday sits just about perfectly balanced, on that book shelf, the strap as supple as it was 60 plus years ago.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I held it up to a window this afternoon, put my almost teary - eye next to the red winding window on the back, and fired the shutter.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Quite like the Holga, there was a tiny, very brief flash of red light, indicating that yes, the shutter still works.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Now and then, in a minor fanciful moment, I imagine packing a Domke bag of 127 film, and heading out on assignment with the Holiday.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Looking back at some of the snapshots from those early days, I realize that what we always tried to convince ourselves, that it is more about the vision than it is the equipment, still holds true.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>When I go to bed, I'm happy to know that should I need it, my little Brownie Holiday is ready to go. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> <br /></span></p>Iris&Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08131960635510843593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26527197.post-27112916925476852932021-06-07T15:59:00.001-04:002021-06-07T15:59:11.215-04:00And...There I Was....<p> <span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px;">There are some of us who, over the course of their lives professional and personal, have reinvented themselves. sometimes with a conventional career (mother, teacher, public affairs counselor and entrepreneur), sometimes not so much (never mind) — it is not my intention to do a me,me,me blob. At first, when we moved south, I thought I would help with local politics</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px;">--</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px;">that was only somewhat successful. By the time I got connected to a campaign, it was too late for me to really do anything that would have any impact. However, it was fun to hold signs, ride in a car caravan, and help with a mailings. In addition, the candidate turned out to be the daughter of a dear friend - that was the icing.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Anyway, how to spend whatever time I have left?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Being a fourth quarter queen,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>nothing is for sure. Then the answer came as I was crossing the street, along with a large turtle and some tall birds who I always think of as wearing stilts. The street we were all crossing was bust. This not California, and some of the drivers are of questionable driving skills. So, I leapt out into the traffic and protected the wildlife that was migrating to a place where the water was more to their liking. And there it was, my next career.</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Traffic guard to tropical wildlife. While you're doing your job, you feel pretty great about doing a good deed.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It only takes a few minutes, you don’t have to work 9-5, and your schedule is most flexible.</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">What is supposed to happen is that I wake up and find inspiration in whatever strikes me as a possibility.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>So I roll out of bed and voila! there’s a job description on my desk. Well, that has never happened,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>but what does happen is I roll, the fog lifts, and something strikes me as a possibility. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>So I start making phone calls. The process is often slow, but if you go for it, good things will happen. For example, my first substantial job in the government was in the Carter administration. He (that would be President Carter) thought political appointees were multitalented and very capable. When they needed escorts for the Kennedy Center awardees, they asked some senior staff to help out. It happened that Fred Astaire was a recipient, and was always one of my heroes. Most of the other senior staff was not "senior" enough to know who he was. Needless to say, I jumped at the chance to escort him, but he was so kind that yes, I felt like Ginger Rogers. </p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Most things in my life happen unexpectedly. When i lived in the middle of nowhere Massachusetts a friend of mine asked if I would work on the Udall Presidential campaign. I had worked on the McGovern campaign, where other than S. Dakota, Mass. was the only state he won. Yes, I do claim that as a personal victory. I admitted to Jessica that I didn’t know anything about politics (I was a technician), and she said no one would notice, because it was the Udall campaign. This was not true. Mo Udall was so decent and so human that all kinds of people loved him. At first I worked only in Massechusetts. Then I travelled with him as personal staff. Who knew that would take me on a path I never expected. In only a few short weeks I became the liaison to the original Saturday Night Live Cast, theater stars, and numbers of people who became life long friends.</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">That was a long time ago and now you’re starting to think “she is so superficial”. Yes, if that’s what you think, you have come close to the truth. For me it was all about collecting famous people as friends. The “Star Trek Next Generation” cast loved me during the Clinton Administration and invited me to the “wrap party”. Patrick Stewart and his brothers, (all of them look exactly alike) went to the White House as my guests. The highlight was meeting the Dali Lama, and not washing my hands for a week. </p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">During the Gary Hart Campaign, along with Patricia Duff, I coordinated all celebrity volunteers. Seth found Jack Nicholson’s phone number and called him….. don’t even ask. </p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">While at USA Networks and the SciFi channel. There were stars galore, and it was the first time I ever made money.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The Four Seasons had my profile because I was there so frequently for double breakfasts and lunches and there were always stars posing by the pool. Thing is, I was so used to being surrounded by stars, that I was able to sit at the pool (which I turned into my office), and watch without being impressed. If you are not impressed with celebrities, they trust you to do what’s in their best interests. </p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The thing is, in politics and business, one opportunity often leads to another. The list is so long I can’t even remember most of the opportunities. There was a time that I wanted to be a strategist for women’s issues and I went to China as the communications director, which included Hillary and other remarkable women. These jobs permitted me to travel all over the world meeting with a plethora of fabulous women, each trying to change their world as best they could.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Enough me me me. Oh there's so much more. The fact is my career choice never lasted more than four years. Don’t tell, but the process of how to get things done was more interesting to me than all the glitter. In that regard, it’s not as important to me as making an impact on so many issues and tasks. Maybe there is more, but you’ll have to wait to see.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We're just sayin'... Iris</p>Iris&Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08131960635510843593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26527197.post-51032997386284057972021-04-02T09:20:00.003-04:002021-04-02T09:20:59.041-04:00The Gefiltefish Chronicles and YOU<p> </p><p><br /></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Preface</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I wrote this right before sundown of Passover. It remained unpublished because we lost two people we cared for. The wonderful actress Jessica Walter was a long time friend. She was fun and funny, warm and loving. And we lost my wonderful, zany, talented cousin Marty who was always a constant source of entertainment. He called himself Jordan’s 'Manager,' because he always gave her excellent theater advice. Jordan called me yesterday to say she had a dream about Marty. It was so real and vivid that when she woke she was still thinking about it. She said they met at an airport. He told her he was going away but didn't disclose the destination. He was delighted to see her because he wanted to say Goodbye.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They had a big warm hug and she woke up. It was so real that she woke up smiling.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Maybe it was a dream, and who knows....</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Passover has always been my favorite Holiday. It was the one holiday we spent with our whole family— grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and usually strangers who had no place to go. One Passover I invited a woman who I knew was a transsexual, mostly because she was over 6 feet, big hands and her voice was male. When she told me that her parents had thrown her out and she hadn’t had a Seder in years, I invited her to our big family Seder. If you’re not used to family festivities ours is not an easy place to start. There are often 100 people and enough food to feed an army. No one is a guest. You want to eat, you work. She loved every minute of it. Even when we mistakenly served the essence of soup, which was the water in which we boiled the matzah balls.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>My grandpa said there’s always room for one more, and we all lived by that.</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Anyway, when we were young we were told that Passover was the time to see family but we were kids and what we thought it was about silver dollars. The Uncles would arrive with bags of silver dollars (in the '50s they were much more available)<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>they would be met by cousins<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Stevie and Chuck,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>who would guard the Uncles<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>carrying our precious Passover gelt. It was the money you would get paid for finding the Afikomen so that the Seder could continue and finish. Once we had eaten dinner we would line up and every uncle would give us 10 silver dollars. Then we reached our grandmother who would take a per cent of whatever we were given, and give it to charity.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It was not easy for us,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>to part with the loot, but over the years we learned how important “tsedukah” was to keep the community healthy. The story grandpa<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>told -- in broken English -- was about when it was right before Sabbath in the shtetls, the Rabbi would go house to house and collect money for the poor. If you could afford it, you would put money in the box,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>and if you needed to care for your family, you would take the money you needed. No one ever knew who was giving and who was taking.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It was an important lesson that shaped my life.</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">As we grew up the Seders grew larger. When I was working for the Carter Administration and I couldn’t get home I would have a Seder with Washington friends, some Jewish, some Southern. One of these seders brought David Burnett into my life kicking and screaming.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We met the night of the peace signing at the White House. Our mutual friend, Arthur Grace fixed us up.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“He is funny and world wise and you will love him” Arthur said. I didn’t, and he didn’t.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It was a disaster and when I told Arthur never to do that again, he somehow convinced me to invite David to the Seder.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The detail of how I pursued this guy I didn't even like was painful, but he came bringing with him a case of wine, some Kosher, some drinkable.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The kosher wine tasted like cough syrup. The drinkable wine was excellent.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He came for an evening and stayed a week.</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">And so began a five year tortured relationship until we finally wed in 1984. The drama produced Jordan Kai Burnett in 1986.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>After Jordan was born we went back to my family Seder. Passover was a healing time for me and eventually it was for us. Meeting the whole family could be frightening. But David had been in wars and international crises, so he did Ok.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Mostly he was fascinated by the way my mother and aunts worked to make having 50 to 100 people feel like an intimate matzoh-laden soirée.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He made a tape of one Seder but my uncle forbid him to shoot the actual Seder.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It is important to mention that even though I didn’t attend family Seders I participated in cooking the fish and preparing the cholesterol.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>This is important because the Passover connection always remained in tact.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">In 2004 he asked my Aunt Peppy if he could spend time with them preparing the holiday foood. She agreed and told him he could also shoot the actual Seder.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He was with them for the shopping, the grinding, making the horse radish, putting the cholesterol together, preparing the black radish, the soup, the matzah balls, welcoming the guests and final goodbyes.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It took six weeks.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We decided we should make it a family movie so the children yet to be born would know how we did it in the “old days” - like they'd done it a century before in Brooklyn.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Fast forward to the product. Our eldest first cousin underwrote the edited edition and our dear, talented friend Dick Swanson, took a shot at the first edit. Kay Koplovitz, the CEO of USA Network<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>thought it was good. And my pal Barry Schumann was at pBS.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They all agreed it could be more than just a home movie.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>You can see the film here: <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>https://vimeo.com/262650769</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The Seders are getting smaller sometimes we don’t have the service, but we are never alone on the holiday because we have<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The Gefilte Fish Chronicles documentary to keep us in touch with all the people we love, here or on the other side.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>And if you want to take a perfect present when you visit someone's home, get a DVD or Companion Cookbook (a companion to cholesterol!) at www.gefiltefishchronicles.com <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p>Iris&Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08131960635510843593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26527197.post-8274153437962006262021-03-10T12:38:00.000-05:002021-03-10T12:38:09.880-05:00Joe Duffey, Mentor & Friend, R I P<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">When I learned that Joe Duffey had died, of course I wanted to know the details. Was there going to be a funeral or a memorial service. He didn’t want any of the death hoopla. Just savior the obits and the memories.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It’s hard to write about someone you loved without the essay becoming about the writer. Which would be me on this occasion.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Joe Duffey was my colleague, my mentor, and mostly my friend for over 40 years.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>After the Carter’s moved into the White House and the entire staff was looking for jobs, we discovered that there was a book which listed all the jobs available for political appointees called the Plum Book.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Jane Watkins, a dear friend with whom I lived in DC made it her business to find the perfect job for me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>And she did. It was at the State Department,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>in the Bureau of Cultural Affairs.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The Director of the Bureau (I’m using State Department language) was a guy named Joe Duffey who was an original Carter supporter.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It was a great job and he had to fill a number of “slots” ( that means jobs) for political people.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It’s not important how I got to Duffey, but thanks to friends like Jane it was impossible for him to ignore the requests to interview me. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The conversation was brief. He asked if I knew anything about the State department, the Foreign Service and Cultural Affairs.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“Sure” I said.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Which was a lie, because I knew nothing about any of those things. In fact, when he hired me I thought the Foreign Service was the American version of the Foreign Legion.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But Joe hated to say no to anyone.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>And more importantly, the Bureau was going to become its own Agency and he was transitional until he took a job as the head of the National Endowment for the Arts.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Eventually,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>USIA was moved out of the State Department and became a stand alone agency.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;">USIA was a wonderful place to work and even without Joe, it was good. But we stayed friends and I was already friends with his wife, Anne so it was easy. Joe stayed at the NEA until the Carter Administration was replaced by the Reagan people.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I stayed in DC but reinvented myself as the professor I loved to be at American University.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Not to long after I arrived, Joe took over as the President in charge of everything.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It was a joy to be working with him again. He was a terrific educator with a vision for what was needed at the University.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He was always<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>a visionary. When the Clinton people raised their heads and became the people in charge. The personnel system was a mess so Ickes and Eli asked me to help out.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The first step was to get rid of the Bush people. In order to do that, a few of us who had been in government before took over a few agencies. I got USIA, and The Endowment for the arts. I hired all the political appointments and waited for a director.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The Director was Joe Duffey.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It was a few months before he was confirmed, along with Penn Kemble as Deputy Director. Two Visionaries with diametrically opposed politics.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Joe asked me to stay because they needed someone to implement their visions— a technician of sorts. Penn was also relieved that he could remain a visionary and they could remain somewhat idea people. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;">There were, of course, rules.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They were not allowed to hire people without checking with me because I knew the number of people we could hire.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>There was a sign on my door that said "...after Penn or Dr D, says you can work at USIA, check with me."<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Perhaps my favorite Joey D expression was, “I don't have to go everywhere that I have never been”. Joe thought the Foreign Service officers were always trying to get rid of him by scheduling him for foreign travel.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He came to all the senior political appointee meetings and he had no problem wearing the deally boppers we provided, as reminders of our travel.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He adored little Joe and was so proud of his dancing ability.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He loved his children and Anne’s children and they were always at the top of his list if they needed something.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>My favorite memories were the games we played.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I would sing a Raffi song and he would wind up singing it for the whole day.</span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;">After we left USIA, and USIA foolishly became part of the State Department, Joe worked for a private higher-education company, once again providing the vision and respect all his former jobs had prepared him for. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We met for lunch on occasion over the years. Always something I cherished and enjoyed.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>There is no question that Joe has visions for wherever he has gone, and hopefully I will work for him again on the other side. Love you<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p>Iris&Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08131960635510843593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26527197.post-19805180130758744652021-02-08T22:20:00.002-05:002021-02-08T22:20:24.626-05:00Fifty Years On...<p> <span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">I stumble a bit, me, the former Math major, when I try and do the 'math.'</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"> </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">Last fall was fifty years:</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"> </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">I arrived in Vietnam in October 1970 following a two year stint freelancing for TIME in DC and Miami bureaus.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"> </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">Frankly, I never thought I would be the one writing about something 'fifty years ago...." but here we are.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"> </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">I found the assignment work in Miami was rather thin after TIME closed the bureau and moved the reporter (the wonderfully irrascible Joe Kane) to that new bastion of Southern politics and energy, Atlanta. Over the summer of ’70 I'd stayed for a few weeks in John Olson’s (https://www.life.com/photographer/john-olson/) </span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"> </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">Chelsea apartment while he went back to Saigon to work on a LIFE story about a soldier's return to civilian life after a year in the bush. When John came back to NY in July of that summer, he said that there was still a lot of freelance work in Vietnam, that it might be worth my pursuing - and in any case would be more interesting than languishing in Miami. I was by that time quite ‘over’ Miami, and those long hot weeks of little work, and steamy hot sunbaked cars, so I bought a one-way ticket from Salt Lake City to Saigon (I left my car with my brother in DC, where it was stolen a month later and never found.) My first time in Asia, I bought 4 Nikomats ($85 each) while passing through Tokyo, had my first authentic Chinese dumplings, in Hong Kong, and landed in Saigon in early October, with two hundred rolls of film, and a $500 'guarantee'</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"> </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">(a basic "sum" to be used to support a story, different from the other concept of 'day rate' where you were hired by the day) </span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"> </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">from John Durniak at TIME, a gift really. John could be a tough and demanding editor, but he could be terribly kind if he thought one little step would help you on your way. And though it eventually led to his undoing, he was a man who had more ideas in an hour than most editors, certainly photo editors, had in a lifetime.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"> </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">(He blew through</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"> </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">his annual freelance budget at the NYTimes in one January week, when he assigned photographers to cover every one of the newly liberated Iran hostages in 1981,</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"> </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">the week they were freed. But boy, did that guy have ideas.) </span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">When I told John I was heading to Vietnam, he said to me… “do a story for me -<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>call it<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Children of War…” I paused, then bagan to ask, “John, what do you want me to do… ?” and before I could finish the sentence, he said “No, no! You tell ME the Story. YOU’re the journalist, your pictures should show ME the story.” Over the decades since, I have been immensely glad for that teaching moment.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">John had sent a note to the Saigon bureau telling them that I was coming, and like most distant enclaves - especially in the pre-Instant communication era - they were rather defensive of their established team, and in the beginning only begrudgingly welcoming to me. They couldn’t understand why TIME would send someone all the way to Saigon to do a story on "children of war" which half a dozen of the regulars could easily have handled. They didn’t understand that John’s assignment for me was to basically help me cover my airfare just to get there, and that I was coming on my own, not being sent. (I paid $512 for a one way, with stops in Tokyo and Hong Kong.) John Saar, the LIFE correspondent, a loquacious and witty Brit with a very enterprizing side, ran into me on day One as I was trying to introduce myself at the Time office (Room 5 at the Continental Palace hotel) and mentioned that Larry Burrows was leaving the next day, probably just in his room across the square at the Caravelle, and why don’t I go say hi. I was of course a bit reticent about just knocking sight<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>unseen on Larry’s door, but when it opened, there was a big broad smile, and within a few seconds he’d poured me a scotch. We sat for an hour, Larry half-reclining on his bed, surrounded by a half dozen giant, gaping Halliburtons, talking about LIFE, his stories, and what it was like working "in country."<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I was quite amazed how, as we talked about past pictures of his that I remembered, that he spoke of them by the title that LIFE had given them in the layout. One in particular “The Degree of Disillusion” had a few pictures I remembered well, but I recall thinking that I was so inept as a journalist that I’d never given any of my TIME stories a real title.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Larry was sincere, unsparing of criticisms of the difficulty of his own work (he was there finishing a story about a young Vietnamese boy, a casualty of the war, who was returning to his village with newly done leg braces and crutches, things which worked all right in a hospital but were less useful in a small village with unpaved paths. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He was incredibly generous of his time to a newbie such as myself.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I have always tried to remember to carry that forward, when I meet someone just starting out with dreams perhaps greater than their talent.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Larry left the next day, and for a month, I settled into my sparse, abjectly colonial room in the Continental Palace Annex (so sparse that capitalizing the "A" in Annex is certainly overkill) , a charm-free building across TuDo street from the real deal. It was a big spacious room, but with lights and and a fan dating to many previous regimes, and a small squadron of geckos who cavorted unhindered on the walls with all the precision of the Stanford Marching Band. I left the US with maybe a thousand bucks. Maybe. I was paying about four bucks a night to stay there, though I’d been given a recommendation to try the nearby Hotel Royale, run by the kindly Corsican, Monsieur Ottavi, who had played host to the likes of Horst Faas, Peter Arnett and dozens of others of the more adventurous ilk. A room at the Royale was about three bucks a night, and each morning that first month that I woke, the chintzy skin flint in me ached with the knowledge that I had spent a perfectly useful dollar so frivolously . I did move after a month, and lucky for me I did, for it was at the Royale that I met and became friends with the man who would inadvertently mentor me, the man for whom merely being in his presence would teach you more about how to be a photographer than any school could.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">He was Phillip Jones Griffiths, a Welsh photographer working through Magnum, who was in his 4th or 5th year of covering Vietnam, and who within a year or so would finally produce his incredible photographic book, “Vietnam Inc.” Phillip was someone who enjoyed palavering, and he was pretty good about dealing with the company of tyros such as myself. At a small Chinese cafe on TuDo we more than once joined any of a half dozen other aspirants, Phillip always ordering beef with ginger. Sometime after I’d been in country for a month or so, and still trying to work out which orphanage to visit, and which hospital to survey, Phillip unloaded on me, in a way I’ll never forget. “Being a photographer in Vietnam has nothing to do with doing some silly story for TIME or Newsweek. It’s about getting into the life of the country." [there was a pause you could drive a truck through, here, for added emphasis on what was to follow:]<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span> "You should fill your rucksack with fifty rolls of film, take a plane to Danang, and don’t come back to Saigon till you’ve shot it all.” <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">It was probably the best advice I ever got. I spent much of that winter (well… a South Vietnamese winter…) working on the story, shooting for a few other publications - USNews, and with Gloria Emerson for the New York Times. But most of my time was spent on the road trying to run down pictures of the lives of South Vietnamese children whose lives had been in jeopardy because of the war. In January of 1971, it began to look like something was brewing in I Corps (the northern most tier of South Vietnam). Phillip was leaving for London, and it looked as though nothing, even a big invasion story, would keep him in Saigon. But one afternoon he said “I think Larry’s back in town. I saw a 707 coming in to Tan Son Nhut looking like this…” and he held his hand up at a 45 degree angle, intimating that Larry’s equipment (he was famous for always traveling with strobes, a 4x5, a medium format outfit, as well as 35mm) had once again pulled the tail-end of a jet much closer to the ground than the nose. Philip left for London, bequeathing me his AM/FM/Cassette player, as journalistic gravity began pulling the press corps to the north of the country.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I saw Larry a few times in Saigon before we all found ourselves near Quang Tri, much further north, awaiting for what would turn out to be the Lam Son 719 invasion of Laos, an attempt by the US and ARVN troops to try and cut the Ho Chi Minh trail, slowing the arrival of men and materiel heading from the North into the South. The first night, near the Laotian border, there was a big encampment of ARVN troops, getting ready to bivouac for the night, and head into Laos the next day. Just at dusk, with a background of the soft muffled sounds of people getting ready to settle in for the night, a horrific series of explosions ripped an area just a hundred yards or so, from me. An American Navy fighter had accidently dropped a late-hanging cluster bomb on this concentration of ARVN troops, the definition of 'friendly fire,' as it was leaving the area.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I huddled in fear from my first experience with aerial bombs, jumping into a cavernous shell hole with another newbie.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I looked up, into his frightened face, mirroring my own, I'm sure, and said "Is this your first?" <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He nodded yes, and from that moment,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>George Lewis of NBC and I were friends.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Looking up and across the clearing,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I saw a figure rise up and run towards the terrible cries of pain and anguish, not away from them. It was Larry, shooting what turned out to be his last set of published pictures in the fading light. I'd already thought, how can anyone shoot a picture, let alone color, in this almost non existent light.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But Larry was a master of his gear, and those pictures would end up in LIFE the following week.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I ended up spending the night in the same crater I'd met George, sharing it with a few ARVN soldiers, and was pissed the next morning that one of them had swiped my brand new, and virtually unused, Buck survival knife. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The next day, as dozens of APC’s ran the up the Route 9 dirt road into Laos, many of us, trying unsuccessfully to catch a ride across the border, stood near a sign erected for the purpose of reminding all Americans that their presence on the ground in Laos was not only not required, it was banned. We all signed our names on the warning sign, as if to make it more real.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">photo: Roger Mattingly/Stars & Stripes</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The next day, the press corps moved en masse in dusty trucks back to Khe Sanh, the former Marine base which had become a household word in the spring of 1968, where we hoped to find a chopper ride into Laos. For the first time in several years, American helicopters wouldn’t just routinely let you ride with them (if they had space.) The word had come down, no doubt from Kissinger and Nixon in the Oval Office, to keep the press at bay. No one seemed to be going anywhere, and the following night I was camped in a press tent at Khe Sanh, when there was a sapper attack, North Vietnamese troops getting through the wire, tossing explosives, destroying helicopters, and causing some number of casualties before being killed themselves. I ‘d gone back to Quang Tri to ship that film to Saigon, and the next morning managed a chopper ride back to Khe Sanh, arriving after nearly everyone else, where I would start again trying to talk my way into Laos. That's where the story was, and those were the pictures we somehow knew must exist. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">It was the era of that Nixonian phrase “Vietnamization” and as the ARVN were taking more charge of things, a different kind of order and approach was needed. The ARVN had a lot of helicopters and guns, but the pilots weren’t always the most well trained or experienced. I wandered around the chopper pad, looking for the Press officer in charge, a very starched, very 'in charge,' Vietnamese Major. Gathered there were several of the first wave, the people who were always the very first to land somewhere and make their pictures. Larry was amongst them of course, as were Henri Huet, the Franco-VN photographer with AP, Kent Potter of UPI (sitting on the left with the boonie hat in the<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>"No US<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Personnel" picture) Keisaburo Shimamoto, a Japanese freelancer working for Newsweek, and Tu Vu, a young Vietnamese Army photographer. </span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Also in the mix was LIFE stringer Hal Ellithorpe, a writer who often went with Larry to make sure to get all the names spelled right in the captions. (This was still the era of writers serving as, essentially, note takers for photographers. Where the hell did THAT idea disappear to?) </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The Major in charge then started boarding the ARVN "Press" chopper with that small group, and I tried coaxing him into including me in the mix. I did, after all, represent TIME Magazine.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He didn’t want to be bothered, least of all by me, and brusquely told me to come back later (in modern parlance I think he was telling me to Fuck Off, which is more or less what I was telling him as well.) I remember that feeling of being the one guy who didn't get to go, the one guy whose editors would drill a new asshole for not being competitive, the one guy who didn't make a picture of the biggest story in months.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I was still trying to make a good impression after 4 months "in country," in a town filled with smart and capable war photographers.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>After all, you could only get by so long with 'not quite artsy enough' pictures of rows of helicopters, loading up troops to head west. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The turbines of the Press chopper started whining, and with it, my understanding of how screwed I was - the lone magazine guy standing by watching, instead of being on board.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Those aboard got strapped into the chopper just as TIME’s bureau chief Jon Larsen came up to me and said, wisely, that maybe I should just get the hell out of there for while, and cool down, “… otherwise you’ll never get to Laos.” As I walked away I had a very clear view of that first wave of photographers, my envy no doubt getting the better of me, getting ready to make some important pictures of this very news-worthy invasion. I remember all the noise - Huey helicopters could be very noisy, and several of them could be extremely noisy. But for the moment as the choppers became gently shrouded in their own dust, I could only think of how I’d been skunked, that TIME was the only major mag not on that chopper, and that I was supposed to be THAT guy. I was pretty down for a few minutes.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I wandered around the base camp for a while, trying to photograph groups of ARVN soldiers and Marines, and after an hour or so, ran into John Saar again, the LIFE reporter, who had just arrived from Quang Tri. I told him that Hal and Larry had taken off in the helicopter and were probably in Laos by now, shooting pictures. We made our way eventually back to the ARVN TOC, (the Operations Center ) where the 'press' Major worked. A moment later that same Major came out through the door, stood hesitantly for a moment and then said “I think maybe your friends shoot down, Laos.” And with no other explanation, he turned and walked back inside. John and I were panicked to hear this but we weren’t allowed inside the TOC and stood waiting for a few<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>minutes to see if he would return. Then I looked up and saw Hal Ellithorpe, the LIFE stringer, walking towards us from maybe 50 yards away. I breathed a sigh, and said to John, “ well, it can’t be Larry’s chopper, because Hal was on it, and there he is.” </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">As Hal approached I waved at him, and said “Boy, am I glad to see you. The Major just said he thought the photographer’s helicopter was shot down, but” — looking at him “obviously not.”</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“No,” he said. “I wasn’t on the chopper. We did a hover test, the pilot said it was too heavy, and Larry looked at me and said 'we’re a picture magazine, you can come later.' I never left.”</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">At that moment I realized something awful, in the middle of a war, had happened. Several people I knew, on a helicopter that I had tried my damnedest to board, were now missing. We waited without much more information for an hour, then I walked off and tried to belay my angst by shooting some pictures. Late in the afternoon I caught a ride back to Quang Tri, where the press center was, and shall remember for the rest of my life, the look on BBC’s Brian Barron’s face when I walked in at dusk, near the end of the briefing, and Brian turned to me and whispered, “ have you heard, Larry Burrows was shot down over Laos.” In a world of so many chances, and in war where you never really knew what was coming next, that news just stopped me cold. I’d been with them all the previous few days, and it seemed like an impossibility that they might have all so quickly perished. </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">It was years before recovery crews were able to gain access to the area where the helicopter crashed. (AP reporter Richard Pyle and photographer Horst Faas wrote a powerful book about their many years long attempts to recover the bodies… “Lost Over Laos….” <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>well worth a read.)<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Amidst the remains the only convincing bit of evidence was a piece of a Leica camera, traced back to one purchased by Larry years before, at a store in London, and a watch strap which was determined to have been Larry's. Those few remains, gathered decades after the crash, were the basis for the memorial for fallen correspondents at the Newseum in Washington DC. No doubt that missed ride has been something I have pondered my whole adult life, wondering what little favor fate threw me that day. I think I have tried to live up to the sense of mission which photoreporters undertake, to tell stories, and to do so with compassion, truth and always accompanied by a vague wonder of those talented photographers whose lives were cut short — “what would THEY do here today?” Each day you work as a photographer you face issues, some trivial, others more grave. And you never know what is going to be the moment of grand success or total failure. But it is that desire to tell the story, to reach out with the language that needs no words, which keeps us going.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Fifty years on....<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>David Burnett <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>February, 2021</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>Iris&Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08131960635510843593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26527197.post-3710294076314596692021-02-04T22:06:00.003-05:002021-02-04T22:06:46.638-05:00They Dont Make it Easy<p> <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: #2c2c2e; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: white; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 16px;">Y</span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: #2c2c2e; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: white; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: courier;">esterday i confessed that i had been stupidly upset about not getting a cover vaccine. It’s just frustrating not to be as active as is possible in order to achieve success. But we actually have been actively pursuing all the possibilities — it’s just without much success. That’s not what I want to blob about today. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: courier;"><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: white; font-size: 16px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: #2c2c2e; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: white; font-size: 16px;">It’s worth mentioning that i probably have the most wonderful friends ever put on this planet. It has been difficult for me to find joy in their successful inoculations. And that’s the “no fairs’ . of course I am delighted that they will be able to see friends and travel without the silly concerns th</span></span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: #2c2c2e; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: white; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 16px;">ose of us who have not been stuck in the arm with some kind of element that wards off the virus that has caused this pandemic. </span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: white; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 16px;" /><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: white; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 16px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: #2c2c2e; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: white; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 16px;">Maybe it’s just the idea that I feel limited in my choices. When someone tells you that you can’t have all the freedoms that existed for you a year ago, it’s a problem. There has never been a time when anyone told me I couldn’t do something, it presented a challenge. Whether it was staying out late or playing where we were not allowed to play as a kid, or functioning without mask in our now everyday life, it always presented or presents a challenge. The new reality is that you have to wear a mask for your safety and the health of those with whom you hang out. </span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: white; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 16px;" /><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: white; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 16px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: #2c2c2e; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: white; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 16px;">Anyway, thats not what I wanted to mention in this blob. My friends have been so great a comforting me, supporting me and try to make things seem better. They know it drives me crazy when someone says, have you tried this or that. Of course, we have tried everything. </span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: white; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 16px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: #2c2c2e; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: white; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 16px;">But they want to make it better, which no one can do other than the Publix Covid line. </span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: white; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 16px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: #2c2c2e; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: white; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 16px;">We will get there, I just have to remember to breathe.</span><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: #2c2c2e; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: white; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: #2c2c2e; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: white; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 16px;">We’re just sayin’...Iris</span></div>Iris&Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08131960635510843593noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26527197.post-53104085067771182712021-01-01T18:49:00.000-05:002021-01-01T18:49:09.785-05:00Welcome to New Years....<p> <span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px;">Allow me to digress …. like you have a choice. When we lived in DC and then Virginia, our house was the center of entertaining, especially on holidays. We were famous for our New Years, Passover, Thanksgiving, Hannukah and Super Bowl celebrations. New Years always included caviar, blini and until we broke the machine, melted raclette and sweet gerkins. One year David came back from Russia with a dog food bowl sized container filled with caviar. In fact, since everyone always hung out in the kitchen, we realized the kitchen was too small and built a kitchen addition. Passover we usually wore silly hats, and Hannukah was the time for songs, karaoke, latkes, and dancing. David and I got engaged one New Years Eve and decided we needed to get married within three weeks or we would talk ourselves out of it. It might have been four weeks because we didn’t want any silly old wedding to interfere with our Super Bowl party. Some of the best New Years Eve parties were with good friends and always included David taking pictures in the magic chair in his studio. We still have the chair, it is still magic and it is in his new studio. For the last few years we have celebrated with family at Captain Jakes, a place which is owned by friends, and the food is excellent. Always a good time.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">A few years ago our friend Karen got married on New Years Eve, which was fabulous. There were two icings. One was on the cake and the other was that we could see the fireworks across the Hudson River in New York City. </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">After this terrible year we were looking for a happy celebration. We made reservations at one of our favorite places, the Cafe Chardonnay. But at about 5:00 David ran into a few neighbors, who we call our 'pod people' and the dinner decision was changed to a socially distanced drink at the pool. We decided to get dressed up. I wore glitter in honor of my mother - David and Paula merely dazzled. It was just terrific. This is a nice small community where people are covid careful and good fun. After the pool drink we came home, drank some more, set the table in the formal dining room and had a steak and salad dinner. It was a perfect evening. It is unlikely we made it to midnight, but since there was no colorful antics in Times Square - other than a tipsy Anderson Cooper -<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>and Dick Clark is dead, it didn’t matter. Celebrations in New York have become so complicated a good time is hard to find.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDJEOiPSltCQ6m_KPUiW78lfev2CSxPo3XtMOSP8wbvkgoCyDTPpb6k5Yl-aWg551vnLXedVOQ_zq57Wrur2fv-aQktC5wdHsQa0H3i_zHKA_fiT86MdseGtbsPXeiPOZOpuDQ/s4032/IrisPaula201231newyearseve_6102.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDJEOiPSltCQ6m_KPUiW78lfev2CSxPo3XtMOSP8wbvkgoCyDTPpb6k5Yl-aWg551vnLXedVOQ_zq57Wrur2fv-aQktC5wdHsQa0H3i_zHKA_fiT86MdseGtbsPXeiPOZOpuDQ/w479-h378/IrisPaula201231newyearseve_6102.jpg" width="479" /></a></div><p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">We are looking forward to our vaccines, in the near future, and we are looking forward to a little normalcy in the coming year. That is not too much to ask, even for the people who are not so normal (yes, I consider myself a part of that group.) <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We're just sayin'... Iris<br /></span></p>Iris&Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08131960635510843593noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26527197.post-76752131880452738082020-12-25T09:31:00.001-05:002020-12-25T09:31:06.224-05:00A DMZ Christmas 50 Years Ago<p> <span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Back in the early 1960s, in the wake of Sputnik and such fanciful terms as "the Space Race," the "Missile Gap," and Pupnik (Sputnik 2 carried a little Russian terrier named Laika), and, in the words of one of the old geezers (gee, he must have been at least 50!) at Jack's Barber Shop on Highland Drive, "if they can put a dog in space, they surely can send a missile over here." When you're 12, and sitting on the wood board the barbers used to elevate children in the big (and mechanically quite amazing) 'barber's chair', words like that from the geezer seemed to carry a lot of weight. Like all the men in that room, he had unquestionably served 15 years before in World War II, and may have even been a witness to the sound, light, and destruction show known as Stalin's Organ. ( A multiple tubed rocket launcher which fired, depending on design, up to 4 dozen rockets all at once, a blizzard of terrifyingly howling explosions and noise). Post Sputnik, when the US briefly expressed regret that the Soviets hadn't waited until early 1958 to celebrate IGY (the International Geophysical Year, a period of joint exploration and research) but had just gone ahead and launched their first satellites without waiting, wanting to let the world in general, and the US in particular, know that their science was as good as our science. It led to a remarkably nimble jump in American education: all of a sudden the late 50s and early 60s were producing one advanced science or math program after the next. I was pretty good at math, not bad in science, and from '58 onwards thought I would be spending my life building rockets for the US space program. The new programs were innovative (I remember the 8th grade Math workbook, created by U/I Champaign Campus) and we students felt pretty juiced. I even knew what integrals and derivatives were, long before those words became popular in the rest of society. (And today, I know they exist, but remain incapable of even describing them.) I was in AP Math the whole of high school, and Mr Barton, the much beloved math teacher at Olympus High School, was our leader. He'd flown helicopters in Korea, and applied many of the little things he learned to math in general, and life in particular. He once described the subtle talent needed to fly a chopper. "You can't," he said, "actually MOVE a control on a helicopter." That would be too much. Over correction. You just have to THINK about it, and that will be about the right amount of pressure." Stuff like that, uttered in a flurry of theorems, has stayed with me for these 55+ years. Most of all, he implored us to slow down, and to "think clearly." For years, on the back of my Nikons, in the 70s, with the arrival of the Dymo label maker, I had the words "Think Clearly" sitting just below the viewfinder of my F and F2s. Our little home room Math class was full of geniuses: Don, Diana, Randy. We were only about a dozen in the class, but we knew we were lucky to be there. My senior year, I placed 11th in the State Math Contest. Not bad, you say, and I would have to agree. But in fact I was only 4th in my Home Room. Yea, it was that kind of crowd.</span></p><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">I probably would have gone on to build rockets ( which no one really did, but you might have the chance to design the buffer valve on a LOX tanking connector for a Saturn V F-1 rocket engine) but my sophomore year Calc professor mumbled as he tried to explain the dark secrets of advanced math, and I fled in a panic to Poli Sci, which became my major, and left me free to pursue photojournalism, my other great interest, which grew from working on the high school yearbook Junior and Senior years. I had a great break in the winter of my Senior year of high school. The little local weekly paper for whom I'd been shooting the odd assignment, and getting paid a whopping $3... or was it $5? was purchased by new owners. (Was it $3 or $5? ... either way, it was enough to keep me interested.) The 'break' part of that was that the two guys who bought the paper were my mom's cousins. And when they enquired about the source for pictures in the paper, the young woman who assigned me, and took delivery of the pictures, told them it was a neighborhood kid, Dave Burnett. What a frolic of serendipity. They needed someone to shoot pictures, and I needed someone to publish them. I worked all spring and into the summer of my Senior year (yes, 17 year olds DO think they know everything!) and it was a wonderful, engaging, exciting thing to see my pictures run each week. The one sucky job was the day-long traverse of the city to shoot pictures of houses for the real estate page. The ads apparently made a fair amount of dough, and offering to photograph the house for the display ad was a marketing plus. It was still an era of minimalism, and if I had 16 houses to shoot, I would start in North Salt Lake, and work my way south over the next few hours, with a book of maps in hand (news flash: there was no Google Maps in 1964!) For 16 to 18 houses, I could shoot two frames of each place and end up with one roll of film. It was a lot of driving, very little shooting, but I had the order right on my poop sheet, and the right houses' picture always seemed to accompany the correct write-up. The one time I freaked out was due to a darkroom error which could have gone horribly wrong. I spooled the film onto a Nikkor reel, dropped it in the tank, covered the tank and put the lights on, only to discover I had put it in the Fixer. Holy Shit, John Wayne, what do I do now? Lights out, cover off, pull reel... rinse in water, put in D-76. Incredibly, it actually worked, and I was saved from having to drive the 16 house circuit yet one more time. For any photographer of my era, if you didn't put the film directly in the fixer, with the lights out, at least once, well, hell , you're not really a photographer. </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">It was a fun time, and I only wish I had been a little better on captioning. Lack of precise information, which at the time didn't seem like such a big deal, is something which has followed me for decades. I still admire the wire service and daily paper photogs who knew that no picture of theirs would ever be seen if it didn't have a proper caption. Working, as I ended up doing for six decades, for magazines - weekly and monthlies, it never seemed THAT important. Pictures in magazines seem to fill a slightly different role, and the necessity of detail was not as demanding as the daily press was. For that I remain somewhat sorrowful, as the stories behind the pictures, those little picayune details, eventually offer greater illumination than the image alone can provide. The arrival of the online world of photography has provided a few very positive moments for me. About five years ago, I had a message to call a guy in Illinois, who had called the Contact office in New York, looking to speak with me. When I called him back, we spoke a long while, and he told me how, forty-odd years after his time as a grunt in Vietnam (1970-71) he would often start to think of his friends, especially those who didn't come back, and that around Christmas, those moments came with greater frequency. He had been stationed on the old ConThien base on the DMZ, and had won a lottery his Sgt. had held for two guys from that base - out of a couple hundred - to get flown south to Phu Bai, and attend a Bob Hope Xmas Show. He described how, a few nights earlier, being unable to sleep, he hopped on his computer late that evening, and typing in "Bob Hope Phu Bai 1970." </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">A cool picture popped up of a bunch of GIs in a large crowd, watching the show. The picture wasn't Bob Hope or Johnny Bench or Joie Heatherton. It was the soldiers. The audience. A very energized audience. And as he looked at the picture, and blew it up, he realized he was IN the picture. Our conversation went on quite a while, became very emotional as we spoke of those long ago days. I told him that I'd had to leave the Bob Hope show early to catch a chopper back to Alpha-4/Con Thien, the same base where he had been stationed. I got there in the early afternoon of Christmas Eve, wandered around a good bit, spent some time in the TOC (the Tactical Operations Center) before getting a bit of sleep. UPI had sent one of their guys, Barney Siebert, to do a feature on the DMZ at Christmas, and we all spent much of the evening trying to make sense of it all. I recall that they flew in turkey dinners for the troops, yet it was anything but a White Christmas. Early the next morning, the first chopper in brought a crusty old Naval officer who hopped off the bird, and within minutes was cutting up with some of the enlisted guys, the ones who looked like they might have been staying up on guard duty all night. The Admiral, whose craggy face and puckish smile I still remember, was named John McCain. He was CINCPAC (commander of the Pacific forces), and as he hoisted a breakfast beer, and joked around with those enlisted guys, his son, another John McCain was a prisoner in Hanoi, a few hundred miles to the North. In 2008, I shared this story, and picture with Senator McCain, and he was grateful to have this photograph on the wall of his office. </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY_z1HbJ69B0xqpS6OeP8w-AUJLlgwfJHdsTLwhiTJwCZDiM_eBRIfn-grT6F5UdVuNIufiSmP9lnAaI0sdi_VNVX_7WoupQGnBDRNavTgpgTam0v08GMQws98BX_MJnTMofcO/s2048/BUR7011_30_15McCainSr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1399" data-original-width="2048" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY_z1HbJ69B0xqpS6OeP8w-AUJLlgwfJHdsTLwhiTJwCZDiM_eBRIfn-grT6F5UdVuNIufiSmP9lnAaI0sdi_VNVX_7WoupQGnBDRNavTgpgTam0v08GMQws98BX_MJnTMofcO/w457-h313/BUR7011_30_15McCainSr.jpg" width="457" /></a></div><br /><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: center;">Admiral McCain (CINCPAC) Christmas 1970</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">The young soldier who found himself in my picture, Terry Knox, also gave me a gift, 45 years later. We spoke of all those things: being a grunt, Con Thien, the unlikelihood of being chosen to attend the show, his great surprise years later at realizing he was IN the photograph I'd shot. When I had a job in Illinois a couple of years ago, he drove down, and we had a coffee, a catch up, and a very big hug. Sometimes those hugs are really the grist of what we come to appreciate in this life.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">I am constantly amazed at the reach which the internet has created, even for those of us who were really lousy caption writers. One of the assignments I did for the weekly paper - The Rocky Moutnain Review - in Salt Lake in the summer of 1966 was to spend a part of an afternoon at Ballet West, a company of talented dancers under the direction of William Christensen (even 54 years on, I remember his name without having to look it up!) During that afternoon session, a couple of rolls of Tri-x (in the era when there wasn't a story you couldn't DO with a couple of rolls of Tri-x!) I photographed a young dancer at rest, at the barre, on point, and looking like a cocked slingshot, ready to be fired at a passing mailbox. We never spoke (yea, that's a whole other essay) but I found her visually charming, adorable, and eminently photogenic. I got her name, we ran a picture - or maybe a couple, I don't remember, a week later, and I felt like I had actually come up with a cool picture just by being there, and looking around. Looking around is the key. My old pal Joe Cantrell, who had Cherokee blood in his background, had taken a name which I have always felt perfectly summed up our mission. In those moments, he would call himself "Walks Slowly, Looking." It is what we do, when things go right. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRQd8dI7HZXM0s4ynZCxyBBmCw2FMpcgphp9Txj3sk3pcqFuxEBfm5uAcXakThLc5Nd05tA26PApwxLrzTC0yrbF1_ZPNGdtF-orfwCYXdeeDnkG0yAiuhjXOBMvJP7ZySkBVC/s1800/BUR6407BalletWestSukiSmith01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1179" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRQd8dI7HZXM0s4ynZCxyBBmCw2FMpcgphp9Txj3sk3pcqFuxEBfm5uAcXakThLc5Nd05tA26PApwxLrzTC0yrbF1_ZPNGdtF-orfwCYXdeeDnkG0yAiuhjXOBMvJP7ZySkBVC/s320/BUR6407BalletWestSukiSmith01.jpg" /></a></div></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: center;">Suki Smith / Ballet West 1966</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: center;">photograph ©2020 David Burnett/Contact</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">So my picture of young dancer Suki Smith ran "not quite as big as I would have liked" in the Rocky Mountain Review, and for 54 years that was pretty much that. Then a couple of months ago my brother in law, Larry Cofer, newly armed with an Ancestry account, tracing his own families' story as well as ours, took a minute to look for my dancer. It became a long and not uncomplicated process, but at one point I found what looked like a connection to her, and wrote a note on FB. (I always look for the first names that are the least common. That gives you a chance, at least.) And tonight I received this message: </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">"Oh my goodness, this is amazing! Suki is my mother & was still dancing up until a few years ago. Thank you so much for sharing this with me."</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Photographers view the world slightly differently than most. We see, we stop and look, we notice, and above all, we try to take that wonderment of what we see, and preserve it, to give it a fuller, extra life, one which we hope can be shared. Pictures tell their own stories, and when they give you a chance to cross the chasm of time, in this case, 54 years, it's like a gift. Photography is.... Memory.<br /></div></div>Iris&Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08131960635510843593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26527197.post-62203472313568719842020-12-20T22:01:00.001-05:002020-12-20T22:01:03.554-05:00No Longer Youngest<p> You can’t get to my age and not think about what you want to accomplish in the years you have left on this planet. When someone says he/she went to the other side, I find this description is so much more palatable than; Oh, he/she died, kicked the bucket, passed away, or was terminated by the Mandalorian. What was really on my mind was, “why am I thinking I need to accomplish anything”. As it happens being a fourth quarter queen has been quite satisfying. But in the back of my mind I keep thinking about something Judith Viorst wrote in her book “When Did I Get to be 40 and Other Atrocities” At some point when she is describing her life she mentions that she will never be the youngest to do anything anymore.She also says that real love is when your husband is late and you wonder whether he was having an affair or he got hit by a truck and you hope he got hit by a truck. Needless to say, Judith Viorst is one of my favorite writers. </p><p><br /></p><p> Moving on... or moving back to the accomplishments part of this blob. There comes a point when we no longer put our age on a resume. In addition, we try to avoid anything that makes us look ancient, which is quite difficult. If a stranger looked at my resume they might think, geez how did she do all that? Obviously, the answer is — wait for it, she got old.</p><p><br /></p><p>There are some things that I would still like to accomplish, like getting “Gefilte Fish the Musical” produced, but again Judith expresses my feeling better than I ever could:</p><p><br /></p><p>I used to rail against my compromises.</p><p>I yearned for the wild music, the swift race.</p><p>But happiness arrived in new disguises:</p><p>Sun lighting a child's hair. A friend's embrace.</p><p>Slow dancing in a safe and quiet place.</p><p>The pleasures of an ordinary life.</p><p><br /></p><p>I'll have no trumpets, triumphs, trails of glory.</p><p>It seems the woman I've turned out to be</p><p>Is not the heroine of some grand story.</p><p>But I have learned to find the poetry</p><p>In what my hands can touch, my eyes can see.</p><p>The pleasures of an ordinary life.</p><p><br /></p><p>We used to make fun of the people who went to Florida, or if you lived in the West, to Palm Springs or Palm Desert. But now I get it — the cold and the snow are simply too much work. What"s funny is that when my parents did their yearly migration to Hallandale Fl. we thought that they, and their friends were old. In fact, you had to be older or you weren’t allowed past the Georgia border. </p><p><br /></p><p>So what does all this rambling mean. Nothing really, except I only want to stay on this side for as long as I’m functional, healthy and able to enjoy each day. And the fact that I will not ever be the youngest to achieve anything, isn’t too painful anymore. We’re just sayin’ ...Iris</p>Iris&Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08131960635510843593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26527197.post-50667463951384120772020-12-14T13:58:00.004-05:002020-12-14T13:58:29.034-05:00Those Holiday Movies<p> <span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px;">So I promised to write every day. I Lied. It's just that there is so much bullshit to sift through its hard to get my balance. Yesterday the TV miraculously went on and was tuned to MSNBC, my news channel of choice -</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px;">not really - its just that all the networks do happy news and its hard to be happy when another 3000 people died, and are dying everyday. Anyway Ali Velshi was in Michigan watching trucks leave the lab with the Covid vaccines. As it happens he was interviewing an expert on immunizations who was talking about how it took seven years to develop the covid vaccine, not seven months. Because the research was based on Ebola and Sars data. At some point while the Dr. was talking, Velshi said, “We need to take a break from this discussion to see the trucks leave the lab. Its an historic event.”</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px;"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Whats wrong with this picture? It is seriously warped to call trucks leaving a lab, Historic. Its kind of like the “breaking news” label. Everything is "breaking news." My guess is the label is supposed to make people think that they are going to hear something unusual, important, even startling. That is never going to happen because when everything is soooooo impactful, then nothing's impactful. This is why people cannot possibly take the news seriously. Right now there are several kinds of “news.” Happy news, Entertainment news, and Biased news, depending on what you read and what you watch. Probably the closest you will get to real news is PBS, but even that information can be editorial rather than facts. For those of us in the receiving side,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>all this bullshit information is simply noise.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Now let’s talk about real news. As many of you may remember, Hallmark and Lifetime holiday movies, are among my favorites. The casting in the past has been pretty much plain vanilla. By that I mean Handsome straight white people. But in the past few months there has been a change. The lead characters are sometimes Black or even Asian, and even interracial and .....hold your breath... sometimes they are gay. Lifetime movies are a little more overt with their single sex couples. Also, not all the people are attractive. Sometimes they are downright unattractive or on the pudgy side. What a relief. All those years that we aspired to be perfection zapped in a single holiday season. Here’s a fact:<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The absence of people of color was noticeable. What was more noticeable was that most of the people of color (black asian,brown, red) looked like handsome white people with lots of make-up. It cannot be that I am the only person who was disturbed by this. </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Anyway, those movies should probably be boycotted but I simply cannot resist the totally mindless entertainment in this fantasy/other reality, with the same script repeated in every single one of these dramas, whether they are happy or sad. They don’t touch my heart, but the good news is that they also don’t touch my mind. Happiest holidays. We're just sayin...Iris</span></p>Iris&Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08131960635510843593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26527197.post-60269954857068291292020-12-08T22:42:00.003-05:002020-12-08T22:42:25.054-05:00More Than the Speed of Sound<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdc9Ugrsk_YJOxa1ieEKl2YAmPzZ3sK8oFeUpHwe1B_DV34MaWz_J_2YzxjGkpnJwzMeen5diNzKUFQl-1wxepsdjrDU5P9bxkNGfXoNAxmdBtCPOMPldPccsXT4GDM2DJHYg6/s1400/yeager148.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="948" data-original-width="1400" height="338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdc9Ugrsk_YJOxa1ieEKl2YAmPzZ3sK8oFeUpHwe1B_DV34MaWz_J_2YzxjGkpnJwzMeen5diNzKUFQl-1wxepsdjrDU5P9bxkNGfXoNAxmdBtCPOMPldPccsXT4GDM2DJHYg6/w533-h338/yeager148.jpg" width="533" /></a> <span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">As you start to become a person about whom it can be said that you are 'of a certain age,' the definition of "certain age" can take on a lot of different meanings.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">We spend so much of our lives imagining that we might live to a ripe ol' age, and barring accidents and illness, we just might.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">But in a world where the news is instantaneous, a mile wide and a half inch thick, the passing of notables is something which briefly grabs our attention, usually very briefly, and lets us reflect on their lives and contributions.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">Sometimes the contributions are concrete - discovery of a star system, or creating of a vaccine against a raging disease. Other times it is a bit more metaphysical - just try governing a country with 400 cheeses.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">I remember how in his late 70s my dad started to get tired of his friends passing away - golf buddies, friends from the jewelry business. He just didn't want to think about it after a while.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">I have always thought it might have something to do with how we acknowledge that in our friends, we see ourselves, and start to feel our own vulnerability, and mortality.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">This week with the passing of former French President Giscard d'Estaing, and General Chuck Yeager, we see two notables, their life's work now ended.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">I spent a lot of time photographing VGE during his 7 years presidency, and it remains a memorable time for me, especially when I see the ridiculous moustache and hair I was sporting in the 70s.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">(What was I thinking?)</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">In the 1990s, at the apex of my advertising career, I photographed Chuck for ROLEX.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">(Yea, my dad worked for OMEGA for years, but hey, business is business!)</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">Most of the people I photographed for ROLEX (Cynthia Gregory, Placido Domingo, Picaboo Street among others) were top-notch, easy to work with, and considering that there was nothing to look at on the back of my camera except the tab from a film box, very patient.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">(That's why we had light meters!</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">Try it sometime.) </span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">With Chuck, it was agreed that we would all meet at an airport in central Florida. "We" meaning Chuck Yeager, my art director, the guy who owned the P-51 (painted to resemble Chucks WW2 plane, the Glamorous Glennis) and the account rep. (The account rep is the person who handles the $3000 watch during the photo shoot, though in this case, I think Chuck brought his own.)<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It was a crisp mid morning light that graced us, and as usual I had no assistant, no lights, no nothing. Just a chance.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">We shot in front of the wing for a while (the ROLEX ad), then as he slowly tired of the moment, moved to the back othe plane where he could throw a glance up at Glennis' tailplane.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It was all over in 20 minutes or so, and afterwords, sitting in the car, I made damn sure every roll of shot film made it into a<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>caption envelope.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The stuff was treated like gold. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL-6T7t01sV7pdxS6PKmilHX3RauPblSZHlA78glyqE4ZZmfoYNBCAzR2h5SG7oICxmxeMO77mgJsixCpyke8YXvENb2ndKTOebHtpmEdWIeT3Z-DKa5yEloBiiJ_Y6h6JhvQU/s1400/YeagerP51Rear9x6-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="928" data-original-width="1400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL-6T7t01sV7pdxS6PKmilHX3RauPblSZHlA78glyqE4ZZmfoYNBCAzR2h5SG7oICxmxeMO77mgJsixCpyke8YXvENb2ndKTOebHtpmEdWIeT3Z-DKa5yEloBiiJ_Y6h6JhvQU/s320/YeagerP51Rear9x6-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>We sometimes have this passing moments when you are in the company of greatness. It's never really been my way to ask for autographs, at least for myself.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But merely breathing the same air as VGE or Chuck Yeager, or any of the last ten Presidents, lets you share a moment to which you hope you can add a photograph, or two.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Those are the momentos, those are the autographs.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It's a gift to be a photographer, and one which we don't take for granted. We're just sayin'...David<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>Iris&Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08131960635510843593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26527197.post-6481971997916527692020-12-02T03:44:00.007-05:002020-12-02T03:44:36.641-05:00But For the Grace of God<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">There was some shopping to be done today so I volunteered to do it. I Got all my Covid paraphernalia organized. Mask,check, wipes check, gloves check. You know the drill and are probably just as sick of it as we are. The checkout line was not to long, there was only one woman in front of me on line. She had a moderate amount of stuff and then proceeded to go carefully though the items deciding how much she really needed them. It was a little tedious and I almost said something, but as I watched how painful it was for her to have to make the decision about what she could afford, I just kept quiet. How lucky we are not to have to decide between food, clothing and medication.</p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18.4px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The last time we were in New York we were struck by the number of small businesses that had closed. And struck by the increase of people who were homeless and just seeking a little help. It is truly heartbreaking. It is also frustrating because no matter how much we can give, there is no way we can help everyone. We are somewhat comforted by the number of public service organizations that do provide meals and places to stay. But it seems not to be enough. Before the pandemic there was an older woman on First Avenue who was the person to whom I gave a dollar or two every time I saw her. (It was very “there but for God go I”). Selective giving was a lesson I learned from my friend Phoebe when we were together in Calcutta. The poverty was overwhelming and I asked her how she was able to deal with so much pain. She told me that since she could not give to everyone because there were hundreds of people asking for help, she decided to pick out one person, usually a child, and give her a small amount of money every day. While we were traveling through India I joined her in this effort. It never occurred to me that I would have to do that in this country as well. In addition, where there was one woman on the corner, now there are five.</p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18.4px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">There is no safety net for people who are out of work, who are getting evicted, are homeless, sick or can’t feed their families. Witch McConnell and the rest of the republican senators, who have warm homes, lots to eat, and don’t have to worry about when their next paycheck will arrive, basically do not give a damn. They will use any excuse not to come up with a solution for all the people who are struggling. They know that this situation began with the pandemic and continues to be more complicated as time passes. What are they thinking? The answer is they are not thinking at all. Or at the very least they are totally without compassion.</p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The President, who thankfully will not be there for long, plays golf and tweets about how the election was stolen but then to his credit, the economy is great. Just look at the stock market he says, He and all the elected republicans should be ashamed of themselves. Maybe we should all be ashamed of ourselves for not taking care of our own and having to select one person everyday to help. We’re just sayin.’...Iris</p>Iris&Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08131960635510843593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26527197.post-89737810804702633502020-11-29T12:54:00.004-05:002020-11-29T13:11:09.769-05:00And Thanksgiving To You and You and You<p> <span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">It was a unique and special Thanksgiving.</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">At first the idea was to go to a closed restaurant and sit at small socially distant tables. It would have been lovely but due to circumstances beyond anyone’s control that was vetoed and an alternate plan was activated.</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">No one was in charge, which meant everyone was in charge.</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">Salads were ordered, cooking started, desserts were in overwhelming supply. We had enough food to feed all the Pilgrims with their Native American friends.</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Lets start backwards from last course to first. There was a lemon creme brûlée pie, a two layered carrot cake, blueberry, apple, strawberry rhubarb pie, pumpkin pie, pecan pie, and a dark chocolate mouse cake. We didn’t, bother with the Dairy Queen ice cream cake because that seemed like overkill. The main courses included, turkey, a ham, and a brisket. Side dishes were potatoes— sweet with marshmallows and mashed, string beans with those fabulous fake onions and mushroom soup, stuffing, cranberry sauce and gravy. For first course there were two kinds of salad and an Italian antipasto, cheeses, meats, peppers and olives. It sounds like a great deal of food for an small army of hungry guests. And so it was. only none of us ate together. It was COVID sensitive. We all brought the food. Carmen made the turkey. Amy made her extraordinary sweet and mashed potato’s and the ham. Joannie was responsible for the appetizers and desserts and I made the string beans. There has never been a Thanksgiving when I did the least amount of work until yesterday. There was no stress or drama. We all arrived separately between 4:30 and 6:15, picked up whatever food we wanted, yelled hello to Billy our host who stayed upstairs, and took the gargantuan amount of whatever we desired to our own homes. It was fantastic. Dr. Fauci would have been proud. </p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgocPha2Sk1jeTCPsEHcEo6YRmdYaAi7SXdwojPwiskZ0cNkKPWrgvkKz1w2LOSvvtjIzNN5jDVg7j8AzV9Rki7U4sbKTfz-TICe-9LkOzV6llwPgxt86L836PzzmuapFX48Nes/s2048/79D73CE9-234B-43E1-8672-687146EC8320.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgocPha2Sk1jeTCPsEHcEo6YRmdYaAi7SXdwojPwiskZ0cNkKPWrgvkKz1w2LOSvvtjIzNN5jDVg7j8AzV9Rki7U4sbKTfz-TICe-9LkOzV6llwPgxt86L836PzzmuapFX48Nes/s320/79D73CE9-234B-43E1-8672-687146EC8320.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>The alleged greenbean casserole before application of crispy onions<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Lsu99HnTnZ3YWMnXMYr3rfIzpo34SEqxfo3KdOxpGVV0aZ55hltJJOOPhaPE077D-bKEMT8JYwxoUod4gkXQZC3szWbqr63I0k-Kb5ONWSeMXB2MhkfwYOQ3p3sTXKnVILLI/s2048/F578C69C-7AB1-42B2-A296-0E0DCB5E7FC9.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Lsu99HnTnZ3YWMnXMYr3rfIzpo34SEqxfo3KdOxpGVV0aZ55hltJJOOPhaPE077D-bKEMT8JYwxoUod4gkXQZC3szWbqr63I0k-Kb5ONWSeMXB2MhkfwYOQ3p3sTXKnVILLI/s320/F578C69C-7AB1-42B2-A296-0E0DCB5E7FC9.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>Dessert? Possibly.... clockwise from upper left: choc cake, trio of pumpkin, apple, and strawberry-rhubarb, creme brulet tart!<br /><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13.1px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The interesting thing was that somehow, with everyone doing something, me the least, it was a take home dinner with all the love invested in the food and all the concerns for health respected. For the last seven or so years we have celebrated all the holidays and special occasions at my cousin Billy’s. He is a great host. He spares no expense and seems to enjoy the festivities as much as the rest of us. But this was the first time I can remember that we delivered and took away the food. Sure we missed the bonding but it was a round robin of sorts... even though the food was in one place, different people dropped and took home the goodies. </p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13.1px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">We did take a moment to remember that on Thanksgiving we always took mom to the hospital. And for the years before she moved all the friends had dinner with their families and then gathered at my house for desserts. We also took a moment to remember the empty seats at the table for people who are gone now. We also celebrated all the family who participated in this ever memorable holiday. Hope your holiday was equally enchanting. We’re just sayin’.....Iris</p>Iris&Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08131960635510843593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26527197.post-49448913564480468702020-11-27T23:24:00.002-05:002020-11-27T23:24:18.725-05:00<p><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">From the annals of "I wish I'd been a better photographer.." in the spring of 1970 I was living in Miami, not a lot of work coming my way, but still stringing with some regularity for TIME. I was living in tropical splendor in beautiful Miami Springs near the airport (I could bike over and see some very cool 1940s planes, most of which were being flown by outfits from Salvador/Guatemala/Panama, and serviced in Miami.) One day I got a call to join the local TIME stringer, Bob Delaney (who also was a big star in local news radio, and he always signed of with "....total information radio!...." which I thought was a pretty good attitude for a news guy.) Our assignment was to drive north a ways (one of those trips where you realize how big Florida is...) to Bartow where we would meet a guy who ran a little soda shop, and who claimed to be the oldest living American. I'd heard of Charlie Smith, but didn't really know that much about him. (Yes, this was in the days before Cable News, and 24 hour cycles. In fact it was only five years after the first Mustang!) Bob was determined to get to the bottom of this story, and share it with his "total information radio" audience, as well as the twenty or so million TIME readers. We'd heard there was this guy in Florida who claimed to have come from Liberia in the 1840s, and was the last surviving American slave. That he was 128 years old. That was something. So we drove and drove, eventually arriving in Bartow, a little backwater town, and it didn't take a lot of asking around (yes, this was before Google Maps) to find the little shop where Charlie Smith sold Pepsi. What I'll never forget is the opening of the interview. Bob said " Charlie, they tell me you're a hundred and twenty eight years old, is that right?" After a short pause Charlie answered with great determination. "No, no..." he started, and at which point I thought, 'this story is SO not happening....it sounds like a wild goose chase.." But then Charlie continued, "No, I'm a hundred twenty seven." </span></span></p><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: courier;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ThalVxM8WVLKB8lNnf_H7uBLaRTKGEOE_ATS_6dUat8O1RGj4BzrF5YQ0XSW-8Bz0z3gqOMcNptZ9R45dUPj6zRbxvQo_OTIIVxMqOi458EeXfbphmNW8K9oDrOOC3F0bRMn/s2048/CharlieSmith140605-0023MR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Charlie Smith, Bartow FL aged 127" border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1357" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ThalVxM8WVLKB8lNnf_H7uBLaRTKGEOE_ATS_6dUat8O1RGj4BzrF5YQ0XSW-8Bz0z3gqOMcNptZ9R45dUPj6zRbxvQo_OTIIVxMqOi458EeXfbphmNW8K9oDrOOC3F0bRMn/w409-h640/CharlieSmith140605-0023MR.jpg" width="409" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Charlie Smith, Aged 127 1969</i></div><br />It was one of the coolest conversations I've ever been a party to, if only as witness. They talked for a while, Bob got a couple of "total information radio" worthy quotes, including Charlie talking about seeing Abe Lincoln as a young guy. And it was then my turn. Charlie's son came by, and if I remember right, he was in his 80s. But I kind of blew it. I didn't really think, I just reacted to what was, rather than try and make something a bit more incisive. Years later Carl Fischer made a portrait (I believe it was him) for Esquire, and when I saw that, I realized I was just a little too much "along for the ride." In the end, I got a few pictures, and while it could be said I was under equipped (I tried shooting something inside the shop, lit by one little dangling light bulb - not very successful) it was more a lack of inspiration than equipment. That tends to be the real issue when things don't work out. You just don't give it the 110% that it deserves. Since then, I realize that when you re doing portraits like this, one thing to remember is - keep moving. Change angles, distances, lighting. Keep it all in flux, and when you see something good, work the hell out of it.</span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: courier;">I wish I'd done better with Charlie Smith, but if I live to 128, at least that gives me a good chunk of time to practice what I learned that hot day in Bartow. </span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: courier;">photograph shot 1969 ©2020 David Burnett/Contact</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: courier;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: courier;">We're just sayin'... David</span></div></div>Iris&Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08131960635510843593noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26527197.post-35977421193688429932020-11-26T13:31:00.004-05:002020-11-26T13:31:40.220-05:00The "Thanks" in Thanksgiving<p> <span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px;">Yesterday my brother Jeff and I were talking about my Aunt Irene’s estate. As the executrix or administratrix, we have had to deal with lots of things about the graves. You never think about the plants on the grave or having the headstone (Aunt Peppy always called it a tombstone) carved. When Mom died we found an engraver who was fast, and made it uncomplicated. One, two, three and it was done. Not so with Aunties' grave. She died a year ago and the grave remains uncarved. When Lovey and Suzie went to say Kaddish (the prayer said when someone dies over every relatives grave) they found that the dirt in front of it was still piled up. Disgraceful. The yearly travel to all the distant graves has been a thing that all the aunts did,</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px;">but now it's only the two cousins. And we are all grateful that someone still does it.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px;"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">One of the things I always loved about my family is that they were able to find humor in everything, especially death. When mom died and she was on Bainbridge Island, off Seattle. The funeral parlor had to take a ferry to pick her up. This made it necessary to sit with her body until they arrived. What do you do when you’re sitting with the body that is no longer your mother? You talk about all the hilarious things she and her sisters did as we were growing up. Like the time Stevie and I took a $50 bill out of Aunt Sophie’s purse to buy camping equipment. We thought she wouldn’t notice. This was $50 in 1952. We were six and always in trouble. It was as if we were sharing the stories with mom, and we knew she was enjoying them with us.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Anyway, at some point in the history of the family, my dad had to have his leg amputated. The doctor who did the surgery was an idiot, and told us that it didn’t matter because he didn’t ambulate anywhere. We explained to the insensitive fool that he might not walk but he balanced on both of his legs. We knew he needed the surgery but we hated the doctors indifference.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">We never thought too much about it until we had a discussion about burials. We had asked mom to think of a site that was not in the middle of nowhere Long Island. She agreed and immediately did exactly what we asked her not to do. In the Jewish religion, the whole body needs to be buried together, and she had buried my dad’s leg in the cemetery about which we objected. This meant that they would both spend eternity on Long Island. When we asked her why she decided to do that, she said that we would never visit them anyway. This was not true. We do schlepp all the way out there whenever we can. Usually on the way to the airport.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">You may ask why am I writing this on a festive holiday. Well, if you worried about the pandemic, and are inordinately careful,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>it’s not that festive. People are forming pods, which means that you get to see the people in your pod, but no one else unless you are going food shopping. Some people are calling this period of time the “new normal,” but I’m not, because there is nothing normal about it. The question is, will things ever be the same again? Will we be able to walk down the street without a mask? <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Will we be able to hug the people we love? Will offices, restaurants and small businesses even survive? No one has any idea. We know that things will certainly not ever be the same, but I’m not ready to call anything, until theaters open, normal. We're just sayin'.... Iris</span></p>Iris&Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08131960635510843593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26527197.post-60918542666937519192020-11-24T09:27:00.002-05:002020-11-24T11:02:21.791-05:00Peter, and Olivier, and lil' ole me<p><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px;">It was my intention to write Christmas memories, but that will have to wait. Today David told me that one of our dear friends died. Peter Howe was a photojournalist who I met separate from David, and was he cute, yes! There were two photographers who I met and bonded with even before i knew David. They are both gone now. What a loss for everyone who knew them.. Olivier was a French photographer who died in the early 80’s. He was in El Salvador and he stood up instead of staying under cover. He told me that he wanted to do what he thought David would do, but of course David would never have done that. He was shot and brought back to Hialeah Hospital where he was supposed to be alright. Until he wasn’t. I visited him every day and was sure he would heal. He didn’t. A few days after I arrived in Florida and was staying with my mom, she came into the living room and said, “I’m so sorry about your friend. The one who was in the hospital. He passed away.” That didn’t make any sense because everyone expected him to get better.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px;"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Peter Howe was born in England. He was a former New York Times Magazine and Life magazine Picture Editor, and the author of two books on photography, "Shooting Under Fire" and "Paparazzi." He was also the author of the Waggit’s Tale series, about an abandoned dog and his pack who live in Central Park.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">These two characters were nonstop fun. Two quick stories to give you an idea:</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The three of us went to the Republican Convention in 1980, in Detroit. They were shooting, and I was invited because I was the Director of Security for that year's Democratic Convention in New York. We hung out the whole time, and entertained each other because the Republican Convention was, you guessed it, pretty dull. At one point we went to a reception for Delegates. The two of them were quite adorable, and the older female delegates couldn’t resist knowing who they were, where they were from. It is unclear how it started, but at one point one delegate asked Olivier a question. Peter jumped in and told her that Olivier's English wasn’t very good, so we started to do "simultaneous translation." First the woman asked Olivier a question in English, and Peter (who IS English but also a man of the world) turned to Olivier and repeated the question in English English. Olivier then turned to me and answered the question in English but with a heavy French accent. I then turned to the woman and answered the question in English. This went on for at least a half hour with other female delegates participating. Needless to say, we spent the next three days laughing until our stomachs hurt.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Second story. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Peter called me one evening because he was shooting in Denville, NJ and I was staying with my mom at our old homestead in Boonton, NJ, only twenty minutes away. The event was a heavy metal rock concert. Peter explained to me that we needed to wear ear plugs because the venue was small and the concert was going to be really loud. We put in our plugs and I waited in the rear for him to finish. As he walked up on the stage I saw he was bending down. His earplugs fell out and he stepped on them, making it impossible for him do do anything but shoot while his ears bled. After the concert we went out for a drink, but we were yelling, instead of talking, and the bartender finally asked us to leave. </span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;">1980 Rep. Convention / Detroit</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;">Olivier Rebbot helps Peter Howe up to a photo position, and further merriment</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;">photograph ©2020 David Turnley</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWq2OdtQHKyrB5OxrpJFPaWvoLjcj2F3fe2FJUIL8aqpI8WVHa1AtRytWndgJ05EMBE3pX_HNEYx_dSOHa5dlrjnQndIQwHxbJsdlluIhkSs8Y1n1Ml80DqXMvjNOOGasWi26z/s2048/TURNLEYD_80RepConvOlivierPeterHowe1336828_o.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1435" data-original-width="2048" height="395" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWq2OdtQHKyrB5OxrpJFPaWvoLjcj2F3fe2FJUIL8aqpI8WVHa1AtRytWndgJ05EMBE3pX_HNEYx_dSOHa5dlrjnQndIQwHxbJsdlluIhkSs8Y1n1Ml80DqXMvjNOOGasWi26z/w537-h395/TURNLEYD_80RepConvOlivierPeterHowe1336828_o.jpg" width="537" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">These stories do not in anyway due justice to the essence of the these two amazing talented, sensitive, men. For whatever reason photojournalists seem to be exceedingly attractive. They don’t have to be handsome because they are mysterious. But these two guys were sexy <u>and</u> cuddly, if thats possible. The three of us were playful friends. Always ready to do anything for a laugh, it did not matter the event. Sometimes they were shooting and I was on the other side of the ropes making sure that they would have the picture they wanted to take. We were pals. Even though I may not have seen them for months at a time, we always picked up where we left off.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="text-align: left;"> </span></div><p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">It has never been easy for me to say goodbye, so I won’t. I will just love them forever wherever they may be.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We're just sayin'... Iris</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p>Iris&Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08131960635510843593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26527197.post-35478391727184002582020-11-22T20:30:00.005-05:002020-11-24T10:04:09.938-05:00A Wedding in the Time of Ickiness<p> <span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px;">It is said, by someone somewhere and we will never find out by whom it was said, that everything happens in threes. It is hard to remember whether it was bad things, or good things that happen in threes, but I’m going with good things for the purpose of this blob. Yesterday the last of my three nieces was wed. They are actually my cousins, but they feel like my nieces so thats how I think about them. </span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Each of the weddings was unique because it is an unusual time with the pandemic still raging. The first of the three was in July. It was a zoom wedding with only a few people inside the temple and a larger group waiting outside the temple to throw things at the happy couple. We weren’t there but it looked like rice.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>How did the tradition to throw like rice begin? We watched it on zoom. Considering most of the guests were hundreds of miles away, it was quite intimate. Everyone on zoom felt like they were a part of the happiness. The bride looked spectacular.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq-rzMPQAhWk3ypQ287ESdVAv2G8TJotlGSQni-ANGVFnqh84yDHpo5IDzvPEDyJxO92KgfKNuxr63dI7y-7ueKYvgyeI7KskL1f8CHiOcjNKWp5z3IfxDGzyeEZerQ1b2hPzT/s2000/BUR201121JohnMadisonWeddingNewburgh0793mrbw.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1333" data-original-width="2000" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq-rzMPQAhWk3ypQ287ESdVAv2G8TJotlGSQni-ANGVFnqh84yDHpo5IDzvPEDyJxO92KgfKNuxr63dI7y-7ueKYvgyeI7KskL1f8CHiOcjNKWp5z3IfxDGzyeEZerQ1b2hPzT/s320/BUR201121JohnMadisonWeddingNewburgh0793mrbw.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The second wedding was outdoors in a lovely setting overlooking the Hudson River. There were only a few people at the ceremony, all social distancing. After the ceremony the friends and family, mostly family threw flower petals. I was not fast enough, but I was determined, so I chased the happy couple around the corner and well into an area where they were taking pictures. Did I feel stupid? Never, when it is a joyous event.The food was amazing. We all sat at small tables and the wait staff came table to table with the food courses. The tent, under which we all sat, looked like we were in a house with large windows. It was neat. The timing was perfect because by the time we were getting cold, the celebration was over.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The third wedding was last night. The guests were spread out in the Synagogue. The chuppa (a symbolic tent) was gorgeous. It was covered with flowers and the backdrop was white with pearls. After the ceremony we didn’t throw anything. We went to a local chic restaurant, where there was a private room and again small tables to social distance. Everyone wore masks but since that is a new reality, it was fine. The meal was endless. First a series of appetizers, next sherbet to clean the palate and finally a delicious entree, steak or halibut. The bride looked stunning.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">These young women are special. They are cousins and very close. The wonderful thing is that they all married remarkable men. At each wedding you could feel the love was enormous and the happiness contagious. Each wedding in its own way was perfect, and filled me with joy.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Once we have a vaccine and the pandemic is under control, it will be easier for young people to express their love without having to cut their guest lists to very few people, and covering their faces with pirate-like face coverings, but these kids were determined to get married and celebrate. We can all learn a lesson from them about persistence and bliss.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We're just sayin'...Iris</span></p>Iris&Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08131960635510843593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26527197.post-1521649473694965742020-11-20T22:04:00.004-05:002020-11-20T22:04:53.332-05:00Hooking Up With An Old Friend<p><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px;">Among the terrible things about the pandemic is that you have to work very hard to make new memories. Over the course of the last several days, since my birthday, I have reconnected with old friends, colleagues, and former students. It has been amazing. Mostly, it has been amazing to talk about memories that have been forgotten or at least buried somewhere until there is a trigger that causes them to materialize once again. You may have noticed through my writing that I have been a little blue. It’s over, I have put on my leather looking stretch tights and moved on to a better place. In a really better place I might have seen my parents, friends and aunts and uncles, but I am not ready for that place. In addition, it is not like me to mope or feel sorry for myself, not when you have had the kind of life I have had. And it’s not over.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Last night I talked to a brilliant young man with whom i worked USA Networks. I think it is a better description to say “with whom I worked” instead of "who worked for me." The young people who worked in PR and Public Affairs with me were so much smarter than me. Anyway, I sent Matthew to CA because we needed a talented person, and he wanted to go. Its funny how things happen. The other day someone mentioned the Soup Nazi in NYC. The people who worked at USA often went to this little soup place a few blocks away, that later became famous in the Seinfeld series. Along with soup you got bread and often fruit — unless you didn’t move the line along at a lighting swift pace. The first time Matthew went, he didn’t know about moving swiftly along part. There was a reason they called him a Nazi. First he yelled at Matt. Yes, it was probably embarrassing, but the retribution was more painful. Matthew never ever got bread or fruit after that. It didn’t matter how fast he moved or how much he ordered. There was never bread or fruit.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">At the sometime I was talking about Matthew, he was reaching out to find me. And was it fun to remember the silly things we did. You are probably not going to believe this, but there was a time I was a little outrageous.When I worked at USA, and had to visit our LA offices for the programming we were producing there, I didn’t exactly go to the physical office. It was much more convenient to stay at the Four Seasons (not the landscaper!)<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>and have my meetings there. The staff liked it better as well. My day often started with two scheduled breakfasts, at least two or three lunches, cocktails and dinner. When i wasn’t eating or drinking, you could find me on location with David Hasselhoff or any of the stars in our shows. People who work in LA have a totally different mind set than people on the east coast. </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">At some point Jack Germond, a political reporter and dear friend was in LA and I asked Matthew to drive him around. Why he was there was a mystery. Since Jack had my car, I decided to take a bus. No one in LA takes a bus. I thought it might be colorful. How far could it be from Santa Monica to Venice. It was far, an required a bus change. Needless to say, I got lost,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>and had to have one of the LA staff pick me up in the middle of nowhere. (This was before Lyft/Uber!)<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We all had a good laugh — I think.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">That job was terrific, and if it hadn’t been for Barry Diller buying USA and firing so many of us, Televison rather the all the other things I did might have been my career. The memories just keep on coming and I am having a great time. Oh, I wanted to mention that Matthew is involved with a new technology and working with the WWF ThunderDome. It has so many uses and potential that if someone called me back I would share it. It’s about putting thousands of people around the globe in seats at a venue. The Link <a href="https://twitter.com/sportel_awards/status/1321170717963100161?s=10"><span class="s2" style="color: #094fd1; font-kerning: none;">https://twitter.com/sportel_awards/status/1321170717963100161?s=10</span></a></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">There is also Business Insider piece that explains the technology</span></p><p class="p3" style="color: #094fd1; font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s3" style="font-kerning: none; text-decoration-line: underline;"><a href="https://www.businessinsider.in/sports/news/the-inside-story-of-the-wwe-thunderdome-a-futuristic-arena-built-for-the-pandemic-which-already-has-130000-fans-waiting-to-get-in/articleshow/78410132.cms">https://www.businessinsider.in/sports/news/the-inside-story-of-the-wwe-thunderdome-a-futuristic-arena-built-for-the-pandemic-which-already-has-130000-fans-waiting-to-get-in/articleshow/78410132.cms</a></span></p><p class="p4" style="color: #094fd1; font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s3" style="font-kerning: none; text-decoration-line: underline;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s3" style="font-kerning: none; text-decoration-line: underline;">The cool stuff is still coming.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We're just sayin'.. Iris</span></p>Iris&Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08131960635510843593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26527197.post-31879278732383720042020-11-15T19:45:00.000-05:002020-11-15T19:45:05.674-05:00Sit Down, and SHUT UP<p> <span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">For all my friends who said such lovely things about me, thank you. Believe me I was not looking for compliments, but it was really nice to read them with the birthday wishes. Again, thank you. </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Today The Monster admitted that Joe Biden won the election but, wait for it, he was not conceding because the election was rigged.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>For Christ sake, even the fat guy at Justice said that there was no fraud.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>So you know what, it’s time for him to "sit down and shut up."</span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkiIxBako2denfrc1npX98iztJ_MeGifCCPkbqL50yug1NAhNfv2lyKJWaJ_HkX0WSeroJGj2ZcZuQWTN8NEw7V8A_j1-OSlPqOwiLGYYOcTDWxVnbAjNf3-rQpcvKNCNRemjG/s1402/guyswithguns+copy.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1122" data-original-width="1402" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkiIxBako2denfrc1npX98iztJ_MeGifCCPkbqL50yug1NAhNfv2lyKJWaJ_HkX0WSeroJGj2ZcZuQWTN8NEw7V8A_j1-OSlPqOwiLGYYOcTDWxVnbAjNf3-rQpcvKNCNRemjG/s320/guyswithguns+copy.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The first time I ever thought about "sit down and shut up" was on a flight to Seattle to see my mom. People were hovering in the aisles, not satisfied about I don’t know what. But they were standing, so the plane could not take off. It was incredibly frustrating, and before I started to meditate and I swear to you I was ready to yell, just 'sit down and shut up.'</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Just when you think you are rid of the Monster, he says he didn’t win, but he’s not conceding. In the meantime there are citizens who are armed and ready to defend the nation - from who? From me for sure, and you, and any reasonable people who believe that the election is over. And if the Monster is not going to go away, he really should just sit down and shut up.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">What is there to do. My team is prepared to clean house at all the agencies and departments, but the Transition Team has not answered either phone or text messages. We are all frustrated by the lack of movement in what we perceive to be the transition but since we don’t know what they are doing, who’s to say. The most interesting thing for me is that I do not know one person on the transition team. Hopefully that means it’s a whole new cast of leaders. It is my hope that they understand how dangerous the Republicans who are now in positions of power - and who I hope will be discovered and made to go away. One can only do what one can do. But honestly, I thought the Monster had come to terms with his loss. All we can do is hope he will<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>- sit down and shut up.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We're just sayin'... Iris</span></p>Iris&Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08131960635510843593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26527197.post-43118846354206341172020-11-14T21:30:00.007-05:002020-11-14T21:30:45.222-05:00A Birthday Girls Reflection<p> <span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">When my mother was in her early eighties I caught her staring into the mirror. “What’s up mom”, I asked. She kept looking at her reflection and finally said, “When I look into the mirror I don’t recognize who I see”.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13.1px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“What do you mean mom, you look great.” </p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13.1px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“But what I’m seeing is not what I was expecting. I guess I expect to see someone younger and with some pizzazz.”</p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13.1px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“For your age, you look terrific.”</p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13.1px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“For my age, is the issue.”</p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13.1px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">To be honest I didn’t really understand, until lately. When I look in the mirror I don’t recognize who I see either. Luckily I’m friends with people who I have known forever. Long time friends see you like you were when you were in high school or college. At least they say so.</p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13.1px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">When I look in the mirror I see a stranger with Clarabelle like blonde hair, many wrinkles and my nose looks big. Was my nose always big. It’s hard to remember. Today for my birthday I did six loads of laundry, raked the leaves, made my bed and cleaned the basement. There is so much paper on my desk it’s hard to remember where it all came from. So tomorrow my plan is to sort all that paper. </p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13.1px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Remember when you were little, and had kids’ birthday parties. We were luckier than most kids ((me and Stevie) even though we were only two weeks apart and we lived together we each had our own party because that was the law. We had the same relatives and the same friends but we always had our own parties. We probably shared presents, and there was always entertainment (us) usually dancing on the couches. And we were absolutely adorable. This is no longer the case. </p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13.1px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">When I realized I would never be a great beauty that was ok because I had a case of terminal cuteness. When did that go away? Over the years these things happen. It’s usually subtle, but then one day you look in the mirror and there’s a stranger staring back. Oh, there are remnants of the person that used to be, but not so many. My wish over the years was to be able to grow old gracefully. I have numerous friends who have been able to do that and I admire their casual attitude about it. Maybe the work I chose over the years required a young person to succeed. Someone with unrelenting energy. At some point the energy diminishes and things that you used to do simply can’t be done. I can still read papers on another persons desk upside down. It was a learned skill that no one can take away, regardless of age, but my eyesight is not so good anymore. And I am still quick witted, some would even say funny. Oh yes, I can still come up with wacky ideas, and am willing to participate no matter how wacky. That is innate and comes with a sense of humor, and a friend who always insisted we think, not only out of the box, but out of the universe. </p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13.1px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">So what does this all mean? Nothing really. Understand that I am not whining. My life has been terrific, many firsts and more seconds. It’s just that without serious face work, I’m never again going to be the cutest kid on the block. Good news is, I don’t need to be, because I am happy, active, meditating and just the person I want to be. A Democrat with a conscience and a moral core will lead the nation when fatty, fatty 2x4 finally goes out the White House door. My cousin with whom I shared those birthdays said, all that needs to happen is the secret service says “we are out of here.”</p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">How lucky am I, how lucky are we all. It’s my birthday: Time to eat a Diary Queen. We’re just sayin’....Iris</p>Iris&Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08131960635510843593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26527197.post-56838228384419615782020-11-12T01:04:00.005-05:002020-11-12T01:04:37.001-05:00Does This Ever Get to End?<p><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px;">I changed my mind.</span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">He stood out in the rain without an umbrella. He paused to gently touch the wreath he had just put on the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. If you didn’t know that it was all for the cameras, kind of like holding a bible, after they cleared and gassed the peaceful protestors, you almost would have thought it was a special moment. It's the first time he has been out of the White House since he lost the election. Yes, despite what you may have heard from Republicans and political appointees, he lost the election. </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Have you been waiting for the Monster to come to his senses? Let us not forget, he has no sense, yet alone senses. We all need to remember that he has been saying that if he lost the election it was because there had to be fraud. He couldn’t just lose the election because people understood that given the choice between a hollow shell, who knew that the entire nation was in danger from the pandemic, and a human being, who cares about the health of the people and the health of the nation, they would chose the latter.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The thing that still puzzles me is why would any woman or any minority or any immigrant would vote for someone who didn’t care about their human rights. Maybe its me, but when I worked for the Carters and saw that even when people had something to lose, they would choose human rights over expediency. The Carters were serious about human rights and human dignity.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Its why he’s the best ex-president ever. And when Hillary said, "womens' rights are human rights," she meant it, and changed a great many lives. In the 60’s we marched for every injustice. Whether it was the war, women’s rights, or civil rights, we went out on the street and yelled about it. How could any woman vote for aperson (that’s the nicest i can be), who talked about women the way he did on that infamous Access Hollywood bus interview. If he’s not a rapist, he certainly took liberties with any number of women over the years. He has no respect for what he calls ugly women, dirty immigrants, or minorities who are poor. Guess he hates white people who are poor, or anyone who is not in that 2% of people who are really really rich. Remember when is was pro-choice and a Democrat?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Even then he was a fop but not dangerous. Oh, how things change when a brat realizes he has some power, and all he has to do is lose his moral core. Not that he ever had one — which does make it easier —but based on the last four years, it appears he never did.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">This inability to admit he lost. That he and his many “monsterettes” are not going to be able to use their power and position for anything other than entertaining one another. What must it be like to suck the blood of an entire country, and then when you still have blood on your face, deny that you did anything evil. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Guess Ivanka will have to sell her own clothes and jewels without being the daughter of the President. A few weeks ago I saw one of her Ugly dresses in TJMaxx.</span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">And the lovely husband who always looks like he’s smelling farts will have to go back to knowing nothing without his father-in-law giving him assignments which are clearly beyond his minimal ability. It will be good not to have to listen to their foolish ranting anymore.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Now i will have to go to sleep knowing that tomorrow he will fire good people and replace them with dolts and political imcompetents. We can only hope that he will not sell top secret information to his pal Putin in exchange for a hotel in downtown Moscow.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We're just sayin'...Iris</span></p>Iris&Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08131960635510843593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26527197.post-43723974585006467382020-11-10T21:08:00.001-05:002020-11-10T21:08:29.021-05:00Kick Ass - No Prisoners: It's Transition Time<p> <span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px;">Let’s pretend that President-elect Biden asked me how should he answer the Monster who is not leaving the White House any time soon. The Secretary of State said today that there was no need for a transition, because Trump would be staying for another four years. We all know this is crazy town but those of us who were well-versed in crisis communication would tell you that there is something dangerous for all of us by allowing the Monster to craft the narrative. Which goes something like this:</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px;"> He won, and they are filing lawsuits, because if he hadn’t won, there wouldn’t be so many people supporting his effort to prove fraudulent voting. These people are Republican elected officials, political appointees, and people who voted for him. Should Biden allow the Monster to get away with more lies and false narratives? </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Tonight Biden laughed at Pompeo, the Secretary of State for another 70 days. The Justice department, I don’t have to tell you. But the Monster is making very dangerous people in positions at the Defense Department. And further, Biden isn’t receiving the kind of international briefings that is usually given to the President-Elect. That in itself leaves the US exposed to some Despots and Thugs, friends of the administration who have depended on Trump not to make waves or change. Putin comes to mind, but there are others. </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">A few years ago, stop me if I have already told this story, Pamela Harriman called me to find out how she should comment on a supposedly scandalous book that was going to be released about her life. What I told her was not to comment at all because no matter what she said would be a problem. She took my advice and when asked what she thought about the book, she said,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>"no comment," and the book went away, Would I suggest to Biden that he was playing it exactly the right way by ignoring all the accusations of fraud?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>This is a tough one, because it is not in his DNA to be confrontational. But I don’t think you can allow the Monster to craft the narrative. In addition, People don’t want to think of the President-Elect as a wus. So he needs to do something. Maybe not himself, but he has some very strong message people, and surrogates. The Lincoln Project comes to mind as a possibility for crafting a Biden narrative, along with some very strong surrogates, like Obama and the Leaders of the Black churches and organizations. </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">This is not a matter of ignoring - this is a matter of laughing at the Monster.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He hates to be ridiculed almost more than anything else. He is a fool, and that needs to be made clear to the American public. The rest of the world already knows it. Why is he not conceding? <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We know he hates to lose but there has to be something else. It’s all about the money. He is raising money for PACs, for his new Party, for his new movement. Since he never released his taxes, we have no idea if he has any private funds. My guess is he does not, and this intentional delay in conceding is because he needs the money, and really, there is no better platform than the White House to make a financial pitch. Let us not forget the man has no moral core, so this is a perfect scam, much like Trump University. (A deep dive on their new "Fund Raising to Fight Fraud" money operation makes it clear that almost none of that money goes to the Fraud Fight, it's going to Trump bill paying.)<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Biden should keep doing what he’s doing, but the people who are communication experts should not let this pass. We need to take back the narrative, and craft a message that makes all these Republican yahoos look like the idiots they are. In one of my last blobs I disagreed with Vice President Biden, and said that the opposition is the enemy and it’s time for us to, as I said before, kick ass and take no prisoners.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We won:<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>we don’t need to be nice, its a waste of time.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We're just sayin'....Iris</span></p>Iris&Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08131960635510843593noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26527197.post-63011626279085587282020-11-09T01:23:00.003-05:002020-11-09T01:23:55.927-05:00Post Op Post Op<p> <span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px;">Update: </span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px;">the Monster is still saying he won, and he won bigly. There apparently is no length to which he will go not to lose. Most people would be embarrassed about this idiocy but not the Monster or all his little monsters and monsterettes. Moving on, please.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Joe Biden said he will sign executive orders that put an end to a ban on Muslim countries, he will rejoin the Paris Climate Accord, and the World Health organization and so the dreamers do not have to leave this country. I’m sure there will be more because the maniac doesn’t understand the the majority of people in this country don’t like what he’s done for the last four years. Is that all it was?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It seems like a decade. Joe Biden will try to heal the country. He will make wearing a mask patriotic. Wow.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Here's what is extraordinary about the campaign, and it may or may not be true. Biden and the woman who was his campaign manager were never together. There was no war room, like there was in the past. For political hacks like myself, this is unbelievable. Who ever heard of this kind of campaign leadership? I am truly in awe. Maybe they will realize they need me to clean house and after I do I will take my mop and bucket and retire to Florida. Trump has no interest in healing, his tweets go on and on ad nauseum. Saying he has lost perspective is like saying the moon will never come out again, and the sun won’t shine. His actions are unbelievable. He has regressed to being four years old and his parents won’t let him burn the house down. Let's all go outside, once the tropical storm ends, and scream “the monster is a lunatic” maybe we can get some electronic megaphones and do it right in front of his house in Florida. Really, How could anyone have voted for this monster?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>And I mean that in the most affable way. It has never been my role to be nice.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">On more interesting: <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We are having a tropical storm here. Its a little scary. The winds are high but not 70 miles an hour so its not a Hurricane, but it is not fun. And we will probably lose electricity. Its flickering.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I finally found candles. It was harder to find matches. But I was lucky to find Yartzeit candles and they burn for 24 hours. There was a slight earthquake in New England and that probably wasn't fun either. On a sadder note, Alex Trebek died today. In the last few years he lightened up and seemed to develop a better sense of humor, but he was always entertaining. Can anyone take his place? No, but some say George Stephanopolis, is a possibility. That would probably work since no one can replace him.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">And speaking of tragedy this certainly has been a tragic year, what with the pandemic, the Monster and his election behavior, and Sean Connery has died.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>And most tragic of all, we’re in the midst of a tropical storm which means Tyrone cant go out. We did go out this morning but he was quite disconcerted and couldn’t figure out why he was standing in the rain.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Anyway, if the storm ends I’m on my way north on Thursday. There is a wedding I’m so looking forward to,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>and a colonoscopy, not so much. The travel is a little tedious but if you want to go from one place to another thats what you have to do. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We're just sayin'...Iris</span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">`</span></p>Iris&Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08131960635510843593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26527197.post-48032237465237340822020-11-07T20:19:00.001-05:002020-11-07T20:19:08.647-05:00And The Winnnnnah.....<p><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: AmericanTypewriter; font-size: 14px;">When I heard that Joe Biden won the election, I took a deep breath and thought about the dreamers, the children in cages, my gay friends, all the women who have suffered humiliation at the hands of the monster, health care, the millenials who voted, and my children and grandchildren. It is possible that their lives won’t be impacted by all the monsters. </span></p><br style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: AmericanTypewriter; font-size: 14px; text-size-adjust: auto;" /><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: AmericanTypewriter; font-size: 14px; text-size-adjust: auto;">It’s funny to be in a place where I have no people to celebrate with and even if there were there is a pandemic out there waiting to put a knee on my throat. On my way home from tap I passed a large group of Biden people holding signs and celebrating to victory. Today there were no Trump thugs there to push them around. Unfortunately, there is also a storm which will put a damper on the celebration in the next few hours. At least its putting a damper on Tyrones afternoon walk.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: AmericanTypewriter; font-size: 14px; text-size-adjust: auto;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: AmericanTypewriter; font-size: 14px; text-size-adjust: auto;" /><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: AmericanTypewriter; font-size: 14px; text-size-adjust: auto;">Maybe I’ll go back to that corner and stand with them again, It depends on how hard the rain is falling and the wind is blowing. When we won an election in past years, nothing stopped me, but in those days my work was from a desk and reasonable stress. This time my work was in the field confronted by thugs, and the level of stress has made me tired. Celebration is possible whether Im in the street or watching it all over the country. The main Monster says the election is not over and he won big. What more do you need to know about the moron.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: AmericanTypewriter; font-size: 14px; text-size-adjust: auto;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: AmericanTypewriter; font-size: 14px; text-size-adjust: auto;" /><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: AmericanTypewriter; font-size: 14px; text-size-adjust: auto;">The storm outside is getting worse, Tyrone didn’t even want to go out but he did and now he gets to be in. The best thing about the celebrations is that people are gathering as if every corner is their community. And in fact it could be. The pride the young people are feeling is much like the Obama victory. They voted and they have taken the victory as a personal victory, a referendum on justice and civil liberty. They should be proud. On a personal note, Jordan and David are driving across the country. Jordan said if Joe wins she will take off her top and dance in the street. Thank god she found out while they were in a gas station.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: AmericanTypewriter; font-size: 14px; text-size-adjust: auto;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: AmericanTypewriter; font-size: 14px; text-size-adjust: auto;" /><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: AmericanTypewriter; font-size: 14px; text-size-adjust: auto;">This is the anniversary of women getting the right to vote. How proud are we all that Mamala will be the Vice President? Very? I wish my mother and my aunts were alive to see this. It is a very fine thing. We're just sayin'....Iris</span>Iris&Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08131960635510843593noreply@blogger.com0