Wonderful and Horrible and Wonderful

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The President spoke to the UN today and something he said confused me.  He said, “Democracy cannot be imposed through military force.”  Which is true. But the word  “imposed” was disturbing. I thought that democracy was a choice that people or countries made by themselves... maybe in an election and maybe because of economics or technology.  But what is the alternative the President is suggesting.  And if he is saying it depends on what the people want, then why were we in Iraq or Afghanistan. Maybe I misunderstood.  But I am not going to waste my time on things that happen at the UN, although the NYPD has so screwed up the traffic that it is impossible to move anywhere on the East side-- even if you need to retrieve a car or get to your apartment.  Maybe it will be better when Obama leaves. Hopefully that will be tonight.

The staged reading of Gefilte Fish Chronicles, the Musical was fantastic both in Newburgh and in NYC. The cast and crew were at their best and the audiences were very receptive. They laughed and cried in all the right places.  So now, if anyone has a couple of millions, there is a show for you to produce.

Team Gefilte, Autumn 2013, New York

The most wonderful and the most horrible things happened to me yesterday.  In the wonderful category was the show and the reconnection with a dear friend. In the horrific category, I lost my phone.  It is important to note that I do not have a smart phone.  I have a relic of years gone by.  But it does have a keyboard, all my contacts and a keyboard that is big enough to type on.   When I realized it was gone, I was a bit panicked but happily, I did not have a melt down.  That didn’t happen until after we called the restaurant and the cab company.  Neither had any idea where it might have disappeared.  When something like this happens, you can not depend on the people who were not there, when you were there,  to be of any help.  It seemed to me that it made more sense to storm the eatery and look for myself.

When I was ready to go David suggested that I call my phone and see if anyone answered. As I mentioned, this is not a phone anyone would steal to use...except as a paperweight.  So that’s what I did. And someone did answer. And he was lovely. Unbeknown to us he found the phone in the cab this morning and called the first person on my contacts, Angie in LA. I did not know this because he called Angie at 6am LA time.  He was working in our neighborhood and we thanked him and told him we would be right over. 

When something like that happens you feel incredibly vulnerable.  And worse, since none of us know any important telephone numbers anymore, isolated.  I mean, family, friends and professional relationships -- no one.  You type their name, and the fone calls them for you.   It was only a few years ago, before I had a million contacts in my phone rather than my head, that I asked my cousin for her daughter’s phone number, and she didn’t know it.  This will never happen to me, I thought-- incorrectly.  Yes, it is convenient to press a button to connect with someone in your life. But connections should be much more important, shouldn’t they?

Anyway, it was terrific to have my phone and continue to press buttons all day. But I did start to memorize those numbers I want to keep in my head instead of in the cloud.  We’re just sayin’… Iris

If Only A Tweet....

So I was wondering if Janet Napolitano, now that she’s leaving her position as Sec. of Homeland Security, will have to suffer the same humiliations and annoyance we all have to suffer at the hands of the illustrious TSA when she flies anywhere. Wait, here’s a better question:  Does she get to keep her security detail for the rest of her life?   And do we, the American public,  finance private security for the person who has never been inconvenienced by the decisions she made.

This blob, like so many others, will be different pithy thoughts about subjects with which no one has more than a little concern.  For example, a toilet that doesn’t work at a hotel.... oops, that’s not the topic, I meant Syria and how people Tweet about complicated subjects in less than 140 characters.  The simple answer is you can’t.  But if you did, what might you say:

Assad is a doody ball who cant tell the truth

Barack made Syria about him instead of humanity

Right and wrong is a cultural decision

We need to think about jobs in the USA

It’s about time Judy and Gwen are PBS nightly news anchors

Assad is really good at explaining his actions

Obama is not good at explaining his concerns

Maybe God won’t write Assad into the Book of Life

Maybe Obama should just punch Assad in the nose

Someone should have pinned Assad’s ears back

Not like a punch but serious plastic surgery 

People who look silly always want to use drop chemicals

Wasn’t Agent Orange  (or Napalm?) a chemical weapon

OK, I don’t understand Tweeting so I feel left out. That being said, it’s unfortunate that we are teaching a generation of children to have very short attention spans, to short cut conversation wherever they can. And not learn how to spell.  But then, why do they have to have to have long conversations, or know how to spell.  Maybe because communication is difficult enough without having some common ground -- like ‘words.’ And maybe it’s important to explain some things in detail -- hence, a longer attention span. Life is simply not simple enough to abbreviate all communication. 

I digress from the pith of this blog.  Today we iced 125 cupcakes.  They are all hot pink with hot pink sprinkles and hot pink icing.  We had a Brady family afternoon, but with a Dubroff edge.  Jordan tried to boss us all in Aunt Peppy fashion, and no one listened in like the rest of the Aunts. There was no singing a happy tune, and that would have been better, but all in all, it was most satisfying for just that short time to be happy go lucky.

We are without television so we have no idea what is happening with the Mayoral election in NYC.  This is totally frustrating because it was such a circus that it’s hard to miss the rest of the entertainment.  Oh wait, we can listen to the radio – on the laptop.  What a novel idea.  We might even listen to Obama address the nation, on the radio – on the laptop.  When was the last time anyone you knew listened to the news on the radio, instead of TV.... by choice?  

We just heard from the Spitzer HQ. Who cares. Now Stringer’s HQ. Who cares.  Now to Quinn’s HQ. (apparently she’s the best candidate but her consultants designed a campaign that presented her in such a way, that no one liked her.)  Now that’s pretty dumb.  Who cares? Well if we don’t care why are we listening -- it’s what former political junkies do.  Oops, now we turn to DeBlasio’s HQ. He’s probably going to win. I guess that’s something to care about. I’d tweet something clever but I don’t know how.   We’re just Tweetin’  … Iris

There's Something about the High Holidays

The Jewish High Holidays are fast approaching.  When you hear that don’t you get a visual picture of challah and honey sneaking up the road, almost breaking the land speed record.  Neither do I, but it was a better beginning than “It is almost time for the Jewish High Holidays.”  Actually, while not a religious person, the Holidays mean a great deal to me.  It was a happy time for my whole extended family.  Everyone talked about what they would wear to Temple, and where they would by it. Shopping was always a favorite topic for my Aunts and my Mom. (Although it was unclear whether she liked shopping or returning better.)

It was the time for us to get our dress-up clothes, our school clothes and our school supplies.  There was nothing quite as wonderful as buying book covers, note books, new pencils, paper, erasers, and rulers, wven if we didn’t use them.  What a joy sharpening your own pencil, turned out to be. 

Anyway, the Holidays marked the beginning of Fall and the opening of school. They were usually after school began, so we got off the two days of Rosh Hashanah and the one day of Yom Kippur.  Tina, my best friend, and I sang in a special children’s choir.  It was supposed to be a serious, sweet, children’s presentation of the prayers.  But we could never make it through without looking at each other and laughing.  So the Rabbi, who had a great sense of humor, stood us back to back.  Unfortunately, we could feel one another laughing and no matter how hard we tried, we always got the giggles.

The High Holidays are a time for reflection, remembering, forgiving, and getting yourself together to face another year and whatever it brings.  Let’s face it, some years are terrific and some really suck.  But until you are at permanent rest, you need to make it through the 365 days that lay before you.  For me, these Holidays are the time you figure out who provide a support system, who no longer belongs in the picture, who can make you cry, and most importantly, who can make you laugh.  Those are people you never want to go away. 

September, rather than January (which is too cold), is a great time for reconnecting or even reconciliation (which is often more difficult).  Let me share a story. A few years ago, on Yom Kippur, the Rabbi told a story about not being in touch with a good friend.  He never made the time. After too many delays, he reached out and learned the friend had passed away.  The story inspired me to call one of my closest friends. We’d  had a falling out and because we didn’t live near one another it was easy not to talk. For over six or seven years.  We are tight as a new girdle now. And have been since that phone call.  We couldn’t even remember why we hadn’t spoken for all those years.

There are a finite number of hours in the day and in our lives.  I have worked pretty hard to stay in touch with friends from elementary school, high school, college, work, and politics.  When you work on Presidential campaigns you see your friends every four years, sometimes every twenty years, because people have their own lives and priorities. Hard as it is to believe that I am not everyone’s priority, it’s true.  But every once in a while a person whose friendship was more than important, pops back in to reconnect. That happened to me this week. It has been a joy to get to know a dear friend all over again.  And it’s like dominos.    You start to think about everyone with whom you want to connect. So you try.  For me,  that’s what these holidays are all about.  Happy and a Healthy New Year to everyone with whom I have connected, and everyone who knows I have tried.  We’re just sayin’…. Iris

Mentors and Editors, and a Word of Thanks

It has been gratifying seeing the acknowledgment of friends and colleagues the past two days, and I add my heartfelt thanks to the many editors, most of whom couldn’t take a picture if their life depended on it, whose forethought and imagination helped craft a whole new generation of photographers.  For the most part their view of photography and photographers went well beyond the mechanics of knowing how and when to press a button.  They were, in many ways, psychologists who had to figure out just the right way to inspire and motivate their photographers.  As someone who started in the late 60s, I would like to mention two editors, very different in their approaches, who held the position of Director of Photography at TIME Magazine from 1970 through the late 80s.  John Durniak  (1970-1979)  came to TIME from Popular Photography, and as  TIME was still the little brother of LIFE, there was often a feeling that TIME was a second class place to be a photographer.  You almost never got the space or attention that LIFE could give a story, yet in the end, you knew that a picture published in TIME would be seen by 25 million people in the course of a week.  I was a young photographer, fresh out of college (I’d had a summer internship at TIME before my senior year) and deciding that Vietnam was still THE biggest story, was preparing to head to Saigon.  John Durniak had been editor for no more than a few months when I went to see him, and ask for, at the very least, an introduction to the Saigon bureau.  In what I now realize was a wonderfully magnanimous gesture, he offered me four day’s guarantee ($500 – which just covered my San Franciso-Saigon airfare) and 200 rolls of film (yes, FILM!) and said, “ I want you do to a story,  call it ‘Children of War.’” 

I asked him, “What kind of story do you want it to be?”  And that’s when he became, in my eyes, a true editor, mentor, guide.

“No,” he said, in his usual forceful manner.  “You tell ME what the story is.  You’re the journalist on the spot.  Remember that your first impressions, the first pictures you take may very well be the most important.”    It was a little capsule of wisdom which I have tried to carry with me on every story.  John encouraged his photographers to surprize him. In fact it was almost obligatory.  The last thing he wanted was something predictable, and just knowing that, knowing you could well be on the receiving end (as I was several times) of a dressing down that usually started with something like “… you were acting like a beginner in journalism!!”  was enough to try and push you into your very own unknown territory.  Both John, and his successor Arnold Drapkin (1979-1988) had the advantage of TIME’s well stocked coffers, but while they had resources, for the most part they didn’t squander them.  If a photographer had an idea, maybe even a crazy-probably-won’t-work idea, they were game if they felt the photographer was invested in the story.  Today’s editors, for the most part, lack the financial resources to let photographers follow their instincts in the same ways.  Stories now tend to be much more contained, with more planning, and less of the “hang around time” budgets that we often were able to work under.  There is no substitute for being able to spend time with a subject.  One might have thought that big budgets and many days to work on a project would take the sweat factor away, but in fact, the longer you worked on a project, the more you felt you had to deliver.  I recently sent Arnold Drapkin a thank you note, because it is only now, 20 and 30 years later, that I can appreciate the real value, to me, of what he and others like him afforded us.  At the time, we all thought that not only making a picture, but seeing it in the magazine the following week was the ultimate pay-off.  The years have shown me, as I am able to look at my 40+ year archive, that the most important thing of all was the confidence of those editors who sent us out to do the work.  To make the work. To produce those pictures.  They exist today, and form a valuable archive about the history of the last third of the 20^th century.  Without the vision and energy of people like John Durniak and Arnold Drapkin, thousands of those pictures wouldn’t even exist.  To me, and my photographer contemporaries, living in an age where budgets and resources are a fraction of what they were,  I appreciate every day what I was able to do, and thank sincerely the people whose vision, confidence, and brash chutzpah let us work in a way that is fast disappearing.  We're just sayin'... David

Jack Germond, r.i.p.

 

“The Boys on the Bus,”  by Timothy Crouse, was a book that everyone, even with the slightest interest in politics, wanted to read because it talked about the political reporters who covered campaigns.  It was written as a piece for “Rolling Stone” in 1972,  back in the days when politics was fun. The article, soon to be a book, explained who these “characters” were and why they were important in the overall picture of election politics.  As a young aspiring political hack, everything in that book fascinated me.  It was a time when there were media buyers, campaign gurus, and advertising people who did strategy and created media campaigns for political aspirants, but politics was not a career. You did not go to school for it.  If you wanted to work in politics you majored in journalism, political science or history.  The only real study you could do was on the road with a campaign.  Politics for the professionals was just something you worked on like any other product.  In a world where the heroes were winning elected officials, the political press was, as they say,  (who ever they are, a breath of not exactly)  fresh air – but they were a colorful lot.  Among the most colorful of the characters on that “Bus”, were Hunter Thompson, Johnny Apple and, Jack Germond – who, just to give you an idea, wrote  his political memoir and called it  “Fat Man in A Middle Seat.”

Jack, at home in West Virginia, and, as he liked to remind you, only minutes from the Track

Jack died on August 14, 2013.  And although he was eighty-five and hadn’t been on that “Bus” for many years, it was a terrible loss for the world of real political journalism (as opposed to bloggers, news readers, and entertainers who call themselves journalists.) 

Campaigns, until the 80’s were such that the political staffers, reporters, the Secret Service, and even the Candidate were not enemies.  They all had a job to do but the relationships were not necessarily adversarial. At night, after a long day of events, everyone went to the bar, talked about that day, and tried to make the next day’s events so enticing that every reporter and photographer would want to cover that campaign.

Although I had worked on the McGovern Campaign in 1972 (in Mass. where we won!), my first full time political job, was the Udall Campaign in 1976. In those days the staff was told to be anonymous – if anyone saw your picture in the paper, you would lose your job.  It was not easy to be anonymous when your success depended on a relationship with the press.  Most of these guys (and there were very few women), were pretty normal for people who were never in the same place for more than a day or two – except Hunter Thompson to whom I once said hello, and he fled as if I had threatened him with a knife. It was about 3am the first time I actually spoke to Jack. It was a long day, I was starving (we were always starving because we didn’t have the money or time to eat). He came over and sat down with me. I was so excited, I was almost afraid to speak. “Hello, Mr Germond,” I said. And he said “I know who you are, you look hungry.” 

“Starving.”

“Well,” he said, “I know a place where we can get you something to eat.”

We walked through alleys, up and down staircases, through tunnels and finally, some where in Philadelphia, we reached a place that had hot dogs on the bar.  It wasn’t exactly a bar, nor was it a restaurant, but they were the best hot dogs I have ever tasted, and I was with Jack Germond, who knew my name.  It was wonderful. 

Jack knew a place wherever we traveled, and I was often invited to come along.  I had almost meals, with Jack, Haynes Johnson, Johnny Apple, Bill Boyarsky, a campaign novice named Charlie Gibson and often every writer on the bus.  Jack had rules (called the Germond rules) like--  no matter what you ate, (be it a steak or a hot dog), everyone paid equally – except the invited campaign staff, because we never had any money.  Or, he would tell anyone who asked a question, “I’m not talking til’ I get my martini.”   To tell one or two Jack stories minimalises how great a gentleman he was. 

We spoke often between campaigns. When I was teaching at American University he graciously accepted an invitation to lecture in my classes.  We had an occasional dinner (I never paid, even when I had money), and he taught me to drink martinis.  As a pundit, he was a brilliant strategist – but he knew very few political strategists would listen, let alone take his sage advice.  But Candidates would listen and if Jack criticized what they did, the whole staff heard about it.

How do you say goodbye to someone who had so much impact on your personal and professional life. You don’t. You just drink a martini to his memory and be thankful that  he knew your name. We’re just sayin….Iris

Nikki

Sometimes two is not better than none.  This week marked the passing of two dear friends. It’s funny that we call people who we have not seen on a regular basis for many years, dear friends.  But they were always dear to me and it didn’t matter how often we talked or saw one another.  They were in my thoughts on many occasions and I remember them beyond fondly.

Nikki MacNamee was in a women’s group we started when, as newly arrived  young women – some married with children, some married, some single and one, single and pregnant, which was most unusual in the 70’s.  We had moved to or lived in DC, a place where you found an understanding with one another that was comfortable and fun.  It was not like a book club, although reading was something often discussed  in a casual way.  It wasn’t  a therapy session, although sometimes that happened by accident – like when our unmarried friend told us she was pregnant and intended to keep the baby.  The only question was whether or not she told the father.  It was just a group of women who liked one another’s company having a bite, maybe a few drinks, and feeling good about being  together.  The meeting moved from one house to another, whosever was available—and unencumbered by men and children.

Nikki was a star.  She was married to a photojournalist friend. Politics and photographers were mostly what brought us together.  And that gave us opportunity to see one another outside the group –- which was also nice.  Usually we had a bite at whoever’s house and often go someplace for a drink. (those were not days we worried about drinking and driving because we never drank very much and we all lived within a few miles of one another. There was one night when Nikki made a request of a biker bartender that we all laughed so hard we almost fell off our bar stools.  She wanted a Courvoisier and ice. It was hard to imagine that she actually expected them to have it, but it was what she wanted and expected.  The bartender looked at her as if she was speaking some foreign language and said, “we don’t have none of that”, and Nikki persevered.  “Well you must, it’s cognac and you must have cognac”.  It went on for quite sometime, until in frustration she said, “OK we are outta here, and we are not coming back.”  We were still laughing when we left.  Of course we are not coming back, we didn’t know why we were there. 

Nikki was simply a loving, gracious, independent friend, and always up for some kind of adventure. When you are married to a photojournalist, you have to be pretty flexible.  The best part for all of us was that she and her husband adored one another.  It was wonderful to watch and of which to be a part.

The last time I spoke to Nikki was after I learned that she was sick and wasn’t going to get better.  She said she knew I was calling because her illness was fatal, but she was doing ok. Taking pictures,  reading and writing some poetry and having great insightful thoughts.  Regardless of the reason, she was glad to hear from me, thought about us and the good times we had, and she was comfortable about her impending end—although she wasn’t going without a fight.  She didn’t, but this lovely lady lost her fight a few days ago and we are sad,  and grateful for having been in her life. 

The other loss was Jack Germond, premiere political reporter and food maven.  It’s a little to painful to write both of these at one time so there will be a part 2, tomorrow we’re just sayin…Iris

Ra-dic-u-lous. Just Ra-dic-u-lous

Some things are too ridiculous to even mention.  But not for “We’re just sayin…”  The other day for example, I heard that Larry Summers was going to be the new Chairman of the Fed.  And why not?  He is a genius. He has no interpersonal skills, but that job does not require them.  He was a failure at Harvard…. But that was because he knew everything and no one else new anything.  Not a good idea to let that be known when you are working at one of the great American Universities.  He’s not a likable guy.  He’s not the kind of guy that you want to have a drink with and shoot the shit. Nope not Larry.

The time I spent with him was in the Clinton White House.  There were a number of people who were geniuses (genii?)  , the President was the only one of these smart people who had interpersonal skill, which sometimes he couldn’t control. But that has nothing to do with this blob.   There will no mention of names since most of those people have thankfully, disappeared.  When you had a meeting with Larry you could be sure of two things.  He wasn’t going to look at you (maybe he was afraid of women), and he wouldn’t be wearing his shoes.

Does it matter if you don’t wear shoes in the White House?  Only as much as it matters if you put your feet up on the table in the Indian Treaty room.  So now when I hear that Larry is going to get appointed to one of the most powerful jobs in the nation, I see him wandering the halls in socks (at least he left his socks on), always making important decisions. Maybe he thinks with this feet and when he wears shoes he feels like he is being strangled.

At 3:30 this morning, I awoke to David watching a Hallmark movie  on Hallmark ON Demand and talking about how bad the movie was.  David never watches Hallmark Channel. Admittedly, I do watch the Hallmark channel and when I do, David says I’m turning into my mother.  Well, what did he expect?   However, I didn’t even know there was a Hallmark on Demand possibility. The movie, (and why I remember this is unexplainable), was called “The Wild Girl”.  It took place about 1930 and was about Apache Indians, a photographer, (who David said didn’t know how to hold a camera), a female anthropologist, two Apache guides (good guys), and a small Apache tribe (bad guys). It would be impossible to tell you more than that because David was doing commentary as if he was the Characters on Mystery Science Theater 3000.  If you don’t remember this show, find it somewhere, it was hilarious.  On a scale of 1 to 10, the whole movie experience would get a 12 in terms of ridiculous.  Not only because the movie was horrible, but the time was either too late or early, and we watched the whole damn thing.

What can I say?  Every once in a while you just remember or experience things that are ridiculous.  And all too often, or perhaps not often enough,  we spend time reflecting on things we love, or hate or the frustrations we encounter in every day life. Recipes, critical reactions to theater, TV, movies, restaurants  or .politics, it is equally important to find reasons to make us laugh.  And that’s our favorite thing to do (other than eat.)  We’re just sayin’… Iris

The Hour of Happy

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Where do sink holes come from? Or from where do sink holes come? First you are at a Disney World resort, and then you are up to your pupik (use your imagination) in mud.  Sink holes are one of those things that just happen.... there’s usually no warning and certainly there appears to be no rhyme or reason.  Rhyme or reason is also one of those things that make absolutely no sense.  What does a rhyme, (hole and bowl), have to do with a reason, (unless you can find a reason for a sink hole). This blob is also not making any sense, so let’s move on.

Over the last two days we have experienced the most delightful civilized food experiences.  There are a few restaurants that are pet friendly.  It always becomes a big deal because most of them insist the pets stay outside.  It’s a law that pets, (including gold fish and little turtles) cannot be a part of a food experience, unless they are on the cement.  But what if it’s raining or snowing? Unpleasant at best.  However, there is a terrific cafe on 2nd between 54 and 53, that has incredibly good food.  No, pets are not allowed inside.  But it is attached to a clothing store, where you can bring your pet. No big deal -- unless you are banished to inclement weather.   The service staff (in both the restaurant and the shop) are very cool-- friendly, attractive,(incredibly gorgeous), and patient.  If you are in the cafe, (where the food, both breakfast and lunch, is terrific--especially the tuna salad, about which I am very particular), you are neither rushed or made to feel uncomfortable about taking your time.  It has a European feel, where food and civilized are usually compatible.  You can eat and shop and shop and eat, (my favorite things). While the food is delicious, and reasonably priced, the clothing and jewelry are not outrageously priced, but it has an upscale feel. If you are on the East side, stop by the Martier and have a bite or a buy, you won’t be sorry.

 the bar at Jamies

 the fluke was no 'fluke' and the 

amazing "mashed avocado" underneath -- awesome

 pork chop done to a 'tee'

 the $5 happy hour sangria..

Around the corner, on 53 between 3rd and 2nd, Jamie’s, which has been opened about 2 months.  Between 5 and 8pm, they serve oysters for $1.00 and drinks at happy hour prices.  In addition to a few excellent specials, the menu is diverse and satisfying. A bowl of mussels, fluke instead of flounder, and pork chops cooked to perfection. Yes, we liked it a lot because the food was wonderful, but in addition, the service staff, are nice friendly people, including the chef.  They seem to like the fact that you came to their restaurant to eat.  It is civilized in the best possible way -- pleasant and well worth the cost -- which is not outrageous or pretentious.

It was not my intention to write restaurant reviews -- theater yes, food no, however, every once in a while we find places that are so special, they need to take a prominent place in our worldly and wise, as opposed to our rhyme and reasonable blob.

Our kids were at Disney World, when the sink hole magically appeared. Our niece and nephew by choice,  were in Belfast, where there were riots. They were all thankfully,  OK. Sink holes, and riots are equally confusing.  They often come from no where and have no positive consequences. When we were kids and playing on the sand at the beach,  my mother would ask us if we were digging to China?  We believed if we kept digging we would eventually get to the “Orient.” When we saw movies about earthquakes, where the earth would open, and people would fall in, we thought they would also wind up in China.  Along with the earth opening, there were a great many things happening in China in those days, like children were starving so we had to eat our vegetables. When I went to China I found no people who had fallen through a crack in the world, although some children looked hungry.... Anyway, enough about China.  There are some lovely paces to eat and be entertained within two blocks on the East side of NYC.  We’re just sayin’… Iris

Top Secret.

 

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Speak only in hushed tones, this is a secret. Maybe even TOP SECRET.  No one must find out. It's a matter of National Security. Well maybe not that National, but please, if you find out, do not tell anyone.  Today the President is meeting with former Negro League baseball players.  Of course they are former, since the League doesn't exist anymore. Maybe that's what the White House doesn't want us to know.  It's like A-Rod. If he doesn't acknowledge his punishment, then it doesn't exist.  The Negro Leagues existed because Black baseball players were not allowed to play in the White Leagues. This is, of course,  just speculation because I can't possibly figure out why the else this event would be Closed Press.  No Coverage.  Maybe it does make sense: wait 60 years to be invited to the White House, and then not let anyone know about it.

Last night, because the White House wouldn't share any information with the press, we watched "42", the Jackie Robinson story. Aside from the fact that it was made like a "Lifetime”  movie, though not quite the quality of a Hallmark presentation, and the audio was awful, the sound mixing was so bad you could barely understand one word that was spoken. But the shameful way in which the Negro League players were treated, was embarrassing - even today.  So really, you would think the White House would celebrate their heroism. Instead of a Closed Press event, they should have had it on the field at Nationals Park, and invited every news outlet in existence.  

Anyway, Jeff Bezos bought the Washington Post, Murdoch bought the Wall Street Journal, and the two right wing Koch siblings are toying with buying  the Chicago Tribune and LA Times.  We won't have to worry about any news escaping from the White house or anywhere else.  Bezos says there won't be newspapers in 20 years. It will be interesting to see what he does in the meantime.  He revolutionized shopping and reading, it only makes sense to imagine that he will do the same to the newspaper business. At least there won't be any secrets.

And speaking of secrets.  Nevermind, let's speak of canceling the Olympics and closing all our embassies. During the Carter administration we cancelled the 1980 Moscow Olympics for a political reason (the Rooskies invaded Afghanistan with about the same luck we’re having), and it was the most ridiculous decision he made. Ok, not the most ridiculous, (there were so many), but sports, the arts, and culture in general are areas in which people of all political persuasions (except terrorists, who are known to be philistines but vigilant), are able to find common ground.  To cancel the Olympics because some low level staffer released information to which he never should have been privvy is shortsighted at best. It's apples and pecans. If we beat the shit out of the Russians in Russia, it will be much more poetic.  Making a Luger or Bobsledder wait another four years to go to Pyeongchang seems rather criminally insane.

Closing the Embassies may be a smart move.  Who knows. What those of us who have travelled abroad do know, is that they are hardly helpful or accessible when, as just an American tourist, you may need some help. To the general public, living or vacationing in places where there are consular offices or embassies, it doesn't make any difference. But to the rest of the world, the perception of the US, closing the places where we do international political business, is in itself a victory for the bad guys.  There must be a way to find an answer somewhere between opening the gates and let come what may, and boarding up the windows and sitting in the dark. Who knows: my State Department friends would say "I am of two minds about that". 

Secrets can be fun, like when like in the 50's, you make a game of the information (I've Got a Secret) or when you use them to torture a friend. But for the most part, information sharing is not usually a bad idea.  Which reminds me, I have a secret which could save the environment, open Cuba and defeat any terrorist organization. It is however, much too valuable to share without being compensated. I think I'll just keep it to myself, and Tyrone, my new puppy.

the new Deputy Assistant for National Security: Tyrone

Fuddy Duddies and the Gift of Entitlement

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Fuddy duddy  is not ever how I would have thought to describe myself. Buy apparently that has happened, and I am not sure it’s a bad thing.  There was a surprising article in the New York Post (yes, we read the Post,  but that’s been acknowledged in previous blobs), that discussed summer camp pictures. Kids can’t have cell phones at camp but they can post pictures for their parents to see. Parents study these pictures to make sure their kids are having fun.  They look at expressions, body language and God knows what else to determine that camp is “fun for their little darlings.”  And this is merely reflective of an ongoing pervasive entitled attempt to make life easy/fun/without struggle, for this next generation.

The consequences (with some exceptions) can be seen everyday in simple ways. On the subway, no one gets up to give an elderly or infirmed rider a seat. They don’t wait for a subway rider to get off, (I am sometimes guilty but unaware of this), before they push their way on.  Kids would just as soon slam a door in your face, as wait for a minute to hold it open.  Nor will they move to one side of the sidewalk to share space.  Some people would call this just learning good manners, but it goes beyond that. The ability to share, to recognize that hard work, a struggle, not always having a good time, as well as learning to make independent decisions while understanding, that even simple decisions have consequences that may impact on other people, a respecting another individuals space, are elements of character building  (I’ll get back to the exception). 

When we lived in Virginia new parents would block the streets so their kids could play without interruption of cars.  It didn’t matter that there was a park a block away.  They felt they were entitled to do close a public street, so the kids could have fun without the parents being inconvenienced.

The other day I was waiting for a train and a young woman sitting right next to me was listening to music on her cell--without ear phones.  It was loud and horrible music, but she was enjoying it and expecting everyone around her to enjoy it as well.  So I asked her if she had earphones.  She said, “why”?.  I said, “because other people might be distracted by it.”  She got up and moved, but kept on listening.

We are like so many parents.  We never wanted our children to struggle. We always wanted them to be happy.  And we thought that if we gave them excessive help it would make things better.  Probably we were wrong.  They are wonderful talented children, and we are grateful for who they are. ... we did the same as millions of other people -- which does not mean it was the right or wrong path to follow. It just Was....

My lifelong friend Joyce, never made it easy for her kids.  If they wanted something, they had to work for it. There was no coddling. Not that the kids weren’t loved. Nor did she want them to be miserable. But whether it was a TV, a car (or insuring it), or clothing, they bought it themselves. They never knew anything else. Now  they are both adults, with strong character and an understanding of what it means to work hard and find success on one’s own.   They are the exception. As are adults and children whose parents (usually blue collar and lower middle class), never thought about making life “easy” for the next generation.   These folks wanted their kids to be tough and understand how sweet success could be when you earned it.

Listen, sometimes I’m just grumpy about stuff, and unlike my mother, I am not nice to strangers.  Random shootings, defacing property, no clue about how annoying it is to have to listen to another person’s cell conversation, Congressional stupidity, inability to look someone in the eye and have an actual conversation, as opposed to a text or e-mail.....  Those are little things.  But I would like to think that this country is not going down the tubes because us old fuddy duddy duddies didn’t speak up and express our outrage.  We’re just sayin’… Iris

In-spiration.

It’s hard to believe that it is almost August 2013, and I haven’t written anything fantabulous for the blob in a few weeks.  There are no excuses, July just sucked for inspiration.  But this morning there was inspiring news.  Zimmerman the murderer, was lauded because he stopped at an accident (some months ago) and helped the people who were stuck in their car – out of the car.  Zimmerman’s father says, “that’s who he is.”  Blah Blah Blah.  Kidding, Zimmerman was not the inspiring news, I was just kidding.

But then there was the news that  Anthony Weiner, had not stopped sexting after he resigned from Congress.  Uh, despite the cries of mea culpa (instead of me an idiot), were all for naught.  And, here comes the inspiring.  His hubris is inspiring.  He doesn’t get that he did anything wrong, that his behavior might have offended some women, or that his lack of ability to tell the truth is certainly not a reason for him to withdraw his candidacy. 

Alec Baldwin, ( the new political reporter for the Huffington Post) wrote this: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/alec-baldwin/alec-baldwin-bill-de-blasio_b_3649933.html

 I’ll bet that both he and Eliot Spitzer are really pissed that they didn’t run for mayor.

The mayors race in NYC is complicated—at least for those of us who are political novices.  There’s one candidate who never smiles.  She appears to be totally without humor.  You have to have a sense of humor – at least about yourself, especially when it is something that important.  There is also a former comptroller (good with numbers, I believe). Then there is a candidate who is a former public advocate.  Personally, someone who has the ability to talk to people as well as understands their problems is where I am leaning.  But my little voice remains silent because I don’t vote in NYC.

There was other inspiration this week.  We bought a puppy to share with my young cousin.  He appears to be part puppy and part fur ball.  He does however manifest the family ability to pile up  all his toys and spread himself over them so as not to lose even one. This wouldn’t be as funny if Tyrone weighed ten pounds.  He only ways about three. So in order to protect his belongings he has to stretch himself pretty thin.  It’s inspiring to watch that little cupcake, so determined, so focused. And the other inspiring event is to watch Madison (his other mother) hold him, look at him and love him.

It’s so much nicer to find beauty in the love of a pet than it is to find malfeasance, masquerading as a political aspirant. 

Were just sayin… Iris

Perry and Della and Perry and Della...

Well Hallelujah, the President celebrated the 5000th Point of Light with the George Bush we all love.  And it was Open press.  No way the former President was going to allow this opportunity to help those points of light go unnoticed and uncovered – by the media.  So good for him and good for them both.  The picture they release is not so good, but at least you can see more than the White House photo if you want.  Tomorrow there is  a press briefing with Jay Carney, big whoop, and the President is being interviewed by a Hispanic TV show – I wonder if they’ll let the anchor in with his crew.  Needless to say, no one else will be there. We’re just sayin'…. Staff.

Two things:  First I am lighting 2 yahrzeit candles tonight, (also it’s a Jewish holiday called Tish’a Bav – which I always thought was a make –up holiday), so thanks for all the advice and suggestions.  Only this morning David asked if it was my mom who said, “I once asked my children if they had a happy childhood” in the documentary.  Yes it was,  but she never asked us if we were happy.  It was just assumed we were happy unless we were obnoxious in school. David got stung by two hornets tonight,  so we asked mom and dad to bless our  antihistamine.  My brother lit candles this morning, so we have the day pretty much covered. 

Second, and having nothing to do with anything…  it is always disturbing when I remember my dreams.  And lately that’s what has been happening.  Last night was a doozey. 

Perry Mason and Della Street were living together. It was before anyone knew Perry was gay.   Tipper Gore was visiting Barbara Stanwick  and she died. Everyone went to the funeral, which was somewhere out West in the 1800’s. I was invited and I went but somehow I found myself with three joints, which since I don’t smoke, I was going to use to trade for transportation. All of a sudden,  I was at a party and the police came and raided it,  but the dogs were happy to be with people and  didn’t find the joints.  Someone at the party said he would drive  me to the airport in my rental car, (I have no idea where I was going) but it didn’t matter since   he dropped me in the middle of nowhere and took the dope and the car.   So I started to walk in high heels (which I can neither walk nor balance in.) I had to get to the SF airport so somehow found a cab, which broke down and I started walking again, across some bridge. It was then that I got on a bus (I guess it picked me up on the side of the road).  I was carrying three suitcases.  They dropped me off at United Airlines, and I raced in carrying the luggage. It was well overweight, but the plane was about to leave and I had to run down three flights of stairs, having been able to skip paying the excess charge.  But on the stairwell a guy tried to rob me and I started to scream—and I woke up… Still screaming, David tells me.  I won’t even get into last night, although it involved cooking and shooting.  But it was not as memorable.

With that said, I understand dreams are a reflection of your inner thoughts and your fears.  If so, then I am clearly afraid of the wild west and carrying my own luggage.  We’re just sayin’… Iris

About That Candle

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It's the weekend so the " We're just sayin" staff will give the President a break:  he has no public events. What exactly does that mean? Does it mean he is doing nothing, or that he might be doing something, like playing golf, but no one is allowed to see it? (Oh, speaking of golf, today would have been President Ford’s 100th birthday and we think of him fondly.) But  we can wonder. With whom is the President  playing golf, and like with most corporate executives, will it further his career? 

 President Ford on the 18th, Rancho Mirage

It is also the 14th of July. Rosie Groman died on the 16th of July three years ago and I am in the yearly quandary. Do I light the yahrzeit candle on the 15th or 16^th,  or on the day of her death according to the Jewish calendar?  Last year I lit it on the 13th because dad died on the 10th and I thought that since they always wanted to share everything, they should share a yahrzeit candle. Really, I didn't do it to save money. The candle only costs $1.29. But I did do it because two yahrzeits within a week is just too painful for any one merely mortal child to suffer.

Two years ago, I went to the cemetery where they are buried and we had the same conversation we had when my dad had his leg removed, and mom had it buried in the plot they owned, all the way out in Long Island. It went something like this:

Mom & me...

Me:  "Mom, remember when you told me you were going to buy new plots in Newburgh and be buried with all your sisters. Well, you didn't fool us. We knew once the leg was buried, daddy had to go with it, and that eventually, if we wanted to have this conversation, it would mean we had to schlep all the way out in Long Island.  Yes, it is true that we, your children, could just speak to you in the Temple, or the kitchen, or maybe even the frozen food section at Shoprite, but then who would put a stone on your tombstone (as Aunt Peppy called it?) I always liked the idea of you having something that reminded me of a "gun slinger."  Anyway, you are not around to bless me with any guilt trip, but you are always in my head, reminding me that if I don't do it who will?” 

Mom:  “Jeffrey would like to,” you would say.  “But he lives all the way across the country. It's too far and too expensive to expect him to do it.  And I know you loved your father enough that once a year, you could go a little out of your way to say hello. As long as you are that close you might as well say hello to me. (We are, after all, under the same headstone!)   And your grandparents are only, you should pardon the joke, a stone’s throw away. While you are standing around, there is a little something I wanted to talk to you about. I was never good with plants. You know I killed anything green that was expected to flourish in my house. It’s why I liked plastic fruit and vegetables. 

And yes, I do forgive you for hanging my plastic onions on a tree in your yard to keep the deer away. As long as we are on the subject of green, is that why you decided not to sign up for perpetual grave care?   Daddy has it and when I look over, he's got bushes, but me, not so much.  Don't get me wrong I do like what you wrote on the stone, so you kids did something very nice, but could you get Els to clean up the green?  There is only one more thing I wanted to say until next year or whenever you do a stop by on the way to the airport -- which as long as you come -- is OK.  It's about the kids.  Since I am not around, you need to take special care not to hover. They need to grow strong and find their own direction. That's what I let you and Jeffrey do, maybe by situation, maybe because I was busy with your father or my sisters, but for whatever the reason, you both did all right. So, I won't say goodbye, because it's never goodbye. Stay well and remember, if you have your health....

One other thing.  You know, I never had duck; I am sorry for that, but don't worry, it's not your fault.  Love, Mom.”

We’re just sayin’… Iris

The Best Kind of Coverage of All: "Closed Press"

 
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Well, well, well. It seems that the White House has decided that there is no need to have any Open Press events.  This is certainly a change from previous Presidential administrations  (where there was at least pool coverage)  but if you want to control the message, both visually and on paper, then you use White House photos, and Press advisories.  Here’s what the staff of “We’re just Sayin …” thinks: 

It would be fun to see how a photographer would  cover a Closed Press event IF  they were allowed in.  That’s a pretty big IF.   This will be an ongoing and pithy commentary,  entertaining for all, especially for those who no longer have to race to the White House to actually cover an event.  And so we begin with the President’s schedule for July 11^th  where every event was Closed Press.  (Incidently, the term “Closed Press” was coined by the Nixon White House.)

DAILY GUIDANCE AND PRESS SCHEDULE FOR

THURSDAY, JULY 11, 2013

In the morning, the President and the Vice President will receive the Presidential Daily Briefing in the Oval Office. This meeting is closed press.

Later in the morning, the President and the Vice President will meet with Senator McCain and Senator Schumer to discuss commonsense immigration reform. This meeting in the Oval Office is closed press.

 LBJ meets with Everett Dirksen and Mike Mansfield

In the afternoon, the President will meet with the 1963 Loyola University of Chicago Ramblers championship basketball team in the Oval Office to honor the 50th Anniversary of the Ramblers championship title and acknowledge the key role the Ramblers played in breaking down racial barriers. This meeting in the Oval Office is closed press.

President Reagan and soccer star Pele with young athletes

Later in the afternoon, the President and the Vice President will meet with Chinese Vice Premier Wang Yang and State Councilor Yang Jiechi on the margins of the U.S. – China Strategic and Economic Dialogue. This meeting in the Oval Office is closed press.

 Presidents Nixon and Carter meet with Chinese Vice Premier Deng Xiao Ping

In the evening, the President will take part in a DNC event at the Jefferson Hotel in Washington, DC. This event is closed press.

President George HW Bush reads to his grandkids, a "kind" of an RNC event

Going forward, we’ll try highlight some of the other fascinating and illustrative White House  “Closed Press” events, since it rather looks like there be more of them in the future.  We’re Just Sayin’… Staff