Wednesday, April 1, 2026

KitKat

The four U.S. astronauts soon to be launched in the Artemis project for a few spins around the moon and back, will eventually be the only people who will have probably not heard about the 12 metric ton heist in Italy of collectible KatKat bars, because they will literally be out of this world. It is world wide news. Outside of newborns, who doesn't know anything about candy cars?

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and value is in the hands of the holder. Nestlé is the Swiss company that produces the candy bar, that I only see around Halloween when my wife puts together a variety of mini-bars for what are now the few Trick-or-Treaters we get. KitKat must be popular, because one goblin shouted with joy when I plopped a KitKat in their sack. Go for it kid.

My favorite candies were Canada mints and Mounds bars, those twin chocolate bars covering a coconut filling. Almond Joys with the almonds were okay, but Mounds bars were what I spent my tip money from the flower shop deliveries on.

I may be wrong, but there is something about a heist that grabs our attention. Remember the scene in Goodfellas where the truck driver goes into the diner, leaves the keys to the rig, and Bob's your uncle, his truck is hijacked by the Goodfellas who provide so many story lines to TV and movies. We can't get enough of them, either.

The Wall Street Journal's A-Hed piece, that soft piece of journalism that can be found every day for decades below the fold, now for decades, commenting on silly trends and other quirks of the human race, I doubt is rarely written on deadline. Until day.

The headline tells us: How a Massive KitKat Heist Turned Into Crisis PR Gold

The sub-heading goes: Nestlé response to chocolate robbery shows power of embracing embarrassing news

The WSJ, being a business paper, goes on about how Nestlé and even other companies are trying to turn embarrassment into lemonade.

Details of the heist are limited to the fact that 12 metric tons of the candy bars, 413,793, were "swiped by thieves when they were on their way from the factory in central Italy to Poland. Both the chocolate bars and the truck carrying them remain missing, though no one was hurt in the theft." Pretty dry stuff. They aren't used to reporting on crime. The PR angle follows.

The heist details are the truck was traveling on March 26 on a stretch of highway outside Turin when it was stopped by what turned out to be thieves posing as police. (Sound like the Isabella Gardner Museum heist?) The driver was later found, unharmed, but the truck was gone.

That driver will immediately be suspected of being in on it, just like one of the watchmen at the Isabella Gardner museum was. (He wasn't.)

Can you imagine a crew of thieves sitting around sitting around a garage somewhere drinking coffee and annoying each other, waiting for the intel to come through that the truck they want to hit has just left the factory with highly desirable Formula 1 shaped candy bars? Other news outlets carry details of the heist.

According to Forbes, "unlike electronics or high-value components, chocolate requires no technical resale network, It can be moved quickly through informal channels—small retailer, pop-up markets, or even online listings—before authorities can react.

This heist disrupted a carefully timed campaign designed to align with key races, including the Italian Grand Prix at Monza. Marketing windows in motorsports are unforgiving; miss the moment and the impact fades quickly."

My wife tells me that in CVS she's seen KatKat bars in the shape of Easter bunnies for the soon-to-arrive holiday. The day after Easter an Easter bunny shaped candy car is just another candy bar, and can be ignored.

Will this heist be like the Quebec maple syrup heist? They made a NetFlix movie out of that one. Will it be solved, or will it go ice cold like the missing Rembrandts and Vermeers from the Isabella Gardner museum?

The perpetrators of the recent Louvre heist have been caught (save one, I think.), but the jewels have not. There was just a heist of three paintings from a small museum in Parma Italy. A Matisse, Renoir and Cézanne were all taken in three minutes, the thieves racing away as the alarms kicked in.

But candy bars? Who do you fence them to? Who is going to absorb over 400,000 candy bars, no matter how you split them up? Is there a European bodega network that will snatch them up and put them next to other candy offerings?

For their part, Nestlé says the candy bars all have identifying codes. Maybe AI will crack its first case.

http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com 


Sunday, March 29, 2026

Renewal by Andersen

I need another house.

Not necessarily a vacation home, just another house that needs to have the windows replaced. How else can I take advantage of the affordability that will let me go without paying for 18 months? No money down: Zero, Zilch, Nada. 

I feel like I'm keeping people out of work since there are no windows in my home that need replacing. That's been done decades ago. I feel I'm keeping people out of work.

No design consultant to greet at the door. No expert measurer; no certified installers, no customer service team. I'm keeping a small platoon of people from invading my home. It's the advertising campaign that must have an end. But when?

An invitation size envelope lands in the mailbox Friday.  "Our neighbor at..." is the addressee. It's okay they don't know our name. It's better that way. Open the envelope and there is a card telling us about the offer that you'd have to be in a coma or in prison (maybe at the space station) not to have heard by now: 

"This month, take advantage of our special financing! No Money Down...No Payments... No Interest....with trailing smaller print: "if paid in full." Well yeah. No free lunch here.

Huge phone number, and of course a QR code to scan and schedule online. We all know how to do that, right? What the hell does QR stand for, anyway? Two years my friend and I were at a table in the Fourstardave Sports Bar at Saratoga Race Track and in the center were instructions to scan the QR code for the menu.

Not knowing at all how to do this, I had to ask the waitress to verbally give us the menu. It's not extensive, so this doesn't take long.

The following year we were at the same table and there was a print menu on the table and no QR code. Know your audience.

I have to say, I am a bit envious of anyone who might be needing and ordering new windows these days and having the choice to pick out window trim in a variety colors. Designer colors of course. Black does look nice. Up to know it was the Henry Ford marketing maxim: Any color you want, so long as it's white.

Who gets to stuff newspapers with Renewal by Anderson inserts? Is this a job I might get paid for in retirement? I'm sure the publishers are not spinning newspaper copies off the presses with these nuggets tucked inside the sections.

The back of the mailed invitation to redo my windows and take advantage of the special financing might give a clue as to when Renewal by Andersen might be disappearing, somewhat like Mikie Sherrill's ( I was a Navy pilot.) ads for running for governor in New Jersey this past November. There's an expiration date of  the renewal campaign: 3-31-2026, looking like it's handwritten by the person stuffing these inserts in envelopes to "Our Neighbor At..." Auto pen, definitely.

Will the campaign end and another one follow? Only time will tell.

http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com



Wednesday, March 25, 2026

On His Way

Jamie Ding, now an 8-day Jeopardy champion, is headed for rare air. His streak is now approaching double digits, and he seems like he's permanently at the champion's podium.

His winnings are approaching "real" money, something Ken James slyly alluded to after Jaimie's 8-day total of $222,203. Financial advisers are circling,

Jamie has cracked the 5-game ceiling and is now eligible to compete in the Tournament of Champions, whose 2026 Champion is Paolo Pasco, a crossword puzzle creator, 

Jaimie explained the persistent orange themed outfits to having something to do with his grandmother who was asked what her favorite color was. Orange.

The bureaucrat moniker is not so clear. It has something to do with his job, which is also not so clear. Given that his father is a neuroscientist, and the family moved from Australia, where Jaimie was born,  to Nashville, and that the parents made their way out of Communist China, there is my suspicion that they are connected with classified U.S. government work. Just speculating.

Jaimie hails from Lawrenceville, New Jersey, which is a stone's throw from Princeton, and where Einstein finally came to rest at the Institute for Advanced Studies. Think the movie Oppenheimer. Just saying.

Jaimie is also described as a law student. He is near 30, his exact age not revealed. He looks near 30 anyway.

Most of his games are runaways where he is monetarily over 2x ahead of his nearest challenger. That's when you're holding 4 aces, or a royal flush and can only be beat if you're crazy.

I'm looking forward to seeing how far Jaimie will advance in the game count. He's hot yet in double digits, like Harrison Whitaker, but he's getting close.

http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com

Sunday, March 22, 2026

How She Rolls


Maureen Dowd in her NYT Sunday Opinion piece reminds us of the circles she travels in. If you are anywhere near suicide and need a push, all you need to do is just read the headlines of the end-of-the-world- stories in this section. Newspaper assisted suicide. Available weekly if at first you don't succeed.

Examples:
•First page: Whims, Impulse, Memes and Lies...America should never fight  a war like this.
•This Is What Trump Is Fixated on Right Now?
•Better Ways To Spend the War's Billions
•2008's Financial Crisis Was Bad. What's Next May Be Worse.
•Joe Kent Blames Israel for the War. So Will Many American.
•An Unjust War Without Plan or Purpose
•Americans Deserve The Truth About Iran
•Dubai Was Supposed to Be safe, But War Doesn't Work That Way
•Measles Is Roaring back, and We're Not Ready
•White House to Music Fans: Just Kidding About Coming to Save You

Whew! 
Ain't nothing good happening here.

But Maureen's column is a bit of sunshine. At least until it devolves into an anti-AI screed.

Maureen is always dropping names. I'm guessing she's considered a Washington D.C. political reporter, but she's really a Hollywood reporter.

She reminds us where he goes: "I certainly felt aspirational. I aspired to have fun in the beautiful, curvaceous new wing of the Los Angeles County Museum of art—before my high heels started to hurt"

The translation is she was at Vanity Fair's after Oscars party. That's some columnist's gig she's got there. Expenses to attend the Oscars and rub elbows after? Well, at least it turned into a story. For tax purposes it had to.

We are treated to the celebrity eye-candy Maureen encountered. "Stars like Larry David and Al Pacino, who often dart away early [implication is she's been there before] were grinning and lingering. And who doesn't like to see Mick Jagger devilishly dancing with Jon Batise." Who? Isn't that two guys? Don't ask Jake, it's Hollywood.

Jeff Bezos and Lauren Sánchez "were acting as passionate as a couple of teenagers." Jeff, get a room to keep the honeymoon from being over with your overstuffed pool toy. (My daughter's description of Lauren.)

"Timothée and Kylie Jenner were holding court across the bar from Kendall Jenner and Jacob Elordi.[Wuthering Heights] A gorgeous Jane Fonda [83, a reworked visage], was naturally, literally getting her  feelings off her chest, sporting a "BLOCK THE MERGER" button on her deep-brown sequin gown—referring to the depressing marriage of Paramount and Warner Bros. Discovery." Nothing new here. Jane is always beseeching the government to do something

"The party was a euphoric vibe." At least until Jeremy O Harris, a young playwright who shot to fame with "Slave Girl and Sam Altman, "the sly C.E.O. of OpenAI" got into a protracted grudge match over the use of AI by the Pentagon for classified work. Harris accused Altman of being "Goebbels of the Trump Administration."

Harris later said he misspoke after too many martinis.  You think? He meant to compare Altman to Friedrich Flick, a prominent Jewish businessman who made a fortune working with the Nazis. Frick was found guilty of war crimes at Nuremberg and sent to prison." Altman's people are mad at Harris for being antisemitic.

And there you have it. The Washington reporter is the Hollywood reporter. Mark that expense report PAID. After all, Maureen did win a Pulitzer decades ago.

Gee whiz Maureen. You ruined all the fun! We find out more about a tipsy playwright than where Jeff Bezos's hands might have been headed in that "dimly lit" little corner.

http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com

Florida

There may not be many people who are more protective of Florida than the journalist and novelist Carl Hiaasen. In highly comical ways his characters wade through a state that is gaining population faster than raging flood waters. Carl shows no mercy toward developers and politicians. They are the enemy.

Carl has famously created a character named Sink, who now only has one eye, lives under a bridge, and is a former governor of the Sunshine State. Carl's books are hilariously funny, while trying to make a point.

In one of his books, 1987's Double Whammy, Carl gives us R.J. Decker, a disgraced newspaper photographer turned private investigator. Decker is hired to investigate cheating in a Florida bass-fishing tournaments, which draws him into a dangerous, chaotic plot involving murder and a memorable character, the vigilante former governor Skink, who has one eye and lives under a bridge.

RJ Decker has been turned into a recurring ABC broadcast show based on Mr. Hiaasen's P.I. character who was once a news photographer for a Miami newspaper, played by Scott Speedman. Mr. Hiaasen is himself a journalist for  the Miami Herald. Many of Mr. Hiaasen's hilarious books have newspaper backdrops, and great South Beach colored pastel covers

 RJ is quite likeable with emerging facial growth that might some day be a better beard. He's a railroaded ex-con, who wears colorful floral shirts with no T-shirt, and was married to a woman who divorced hum to live with her lesbian detective wife. RJ tell us he always knew his wife was "bi".

While spending 18 months in jail protecting his manhood, RJ took courses and passed the test to become a licensed private investigator. However, being a convicted felon for beating up a robber breaking into his car to steal his cameras, who happened to be the troublesome son of a corrupt state senator with aspirations for the Governor's mansion, RJ cannot carry a handgun. But his brain works fine, and he helps solve some cases that his journalist wife's lesbian  detective is having trouble solving. RJ gets in the way quite often. But with good results. His ex graciously (there is no animosity between them) lets him live in the pool house since his trailer home fell into the sinkhole. in the trailer park. Home sweet home for Hiaasen's people.

We are first introduced to RJ as he sits on the courthouse steps admiring a wrapped candy bar. An attractive lithesome woman plops down next to him and with some suggestive talk we next see RJ in the back of his car in an empty, indoor parking garage having sex, steaming up the windows, with her emerging adjusting her dress, and RJ at least naked from the waist up, wondering what the hell just happened. If only it were that simple.

Turns out she's the step-sister of the youth RJ took out when he caught him trying to break into his car. It didn't matter that the kid "threw the first punch." RJ is found guilty, a verdict heavily sealed when the lithesome young woman testifies in court that RJ is the man who beat up her young step-brother. She felt sorry for him in the parking lot, since she knew where he'd be going after she left the witness stand.

It's great to finally see the imagination of Mr. Hiaasen come to the little box. The Florida settings are authentic, and not where the tourists are. Carl is listed as one of the many executive producers. What do all those executive producers do? Get paid, I guess.

I've been reading Mr. Hiaasen's books for years, and even re-reading them. I even read the YA books. Right now I'm re-reading Tourist Season where Brian Keyes, a former reporter for the Miami Sun tries to investigate the series of deaths being perpetuated on Florida residents and tourists by a wacko columnist for the paper, Skip Wiley. Skip leads a four member squad of nut jobs who are the Las Noches de Diciembre and have plans to disrupt the Orange Bowl parade and cause harm to the beauty queen.

Ship Wiley believes if he causes enough damage to the reputation of Florida, all the people who moved there in the past decades will leave and the state will revert to what he remembers it was like when he was a kid. The good old days. Everyone wants the good old days.

There are advantages to re-reading a book I have no memory of how it turns out. I don't have to buy another book. And, there is no addition to be made to the towering stack of books shown in my nightstand photo that approaches the ceiling.

The photo was taken in 2009, and still would be representative of the height, which means I have subtracted book as I've added. The stack drives my wife nuts, but we do not actually have room for another bookcase. I've love to have a stack of books frame a doorway and walls, but I'm not going to get away with that in this lifetime.

In one of many prior postings, I've remarked how Mr. Hiaasen uses what for me are to die for phrases. I'll try memorialize a few more here.

Viceroy Winston, a former running back for the Miami Dolphins, and a member of Las Noches de Diciembra crew, when happy, flashes his "touch down smile."

As he another member of the wacko brigade are casing out the beauty pageant as security guards, they come across some rehearsals of the contestants for the pageant.

"Viceroy Wilson had never seen such large bright teeth on a white person. You could tile swimming pool with teeth like that."

With a metaphor that, I'd like to go back add the swimming pool tile to the description of Good Day New York's  Tina Cervasio who can't stop preening and tossing her head and showing off her choppers.

The latest episode of RJ's encounters to solving a crime, are to interview people connected with being a high school's mascot dressed as a green sea cumber. Pure Florida. I don't know what the reviews are for RJ Decker, but it is an appealing show. With Mr. Hiaasen somewhere near the helm, it should get renewed. I'll be disappointed if it isn't

http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com


That Was The Week That Was

The above title was the name of a show in the early 1960s that satirized the weekly news. Long before John Olivcr and Saturday Night Live there was TW3. Get it? Saturday Night Live might be in its 50th year, but I'm older. David Frost was one of the presenters.

We can also have news that is in itself satire, if unintentionally. Last week saw a wiseguy, Baby Boomer real estate developer from Queens, New York, President Donald J. Trump, sit in his house in front of a gold leaf fireplace, next to the new Japanese Prime Minster, Sanae Takaichi, a diminutive female that if she was sitting on a long bench NYC subway seat in a North Face puff coat there could easily be 7 more of her comfortably seated next to her, even if a pocket book or two were wedged between them.

An exchange between the president and the Japanese prime minister became news. The NYT carried the story on Page 9 in Friday's paper, led in from a teaser on the front page: Trump Makes Joke About Pearl Harbor as Japan's Leader Sits Next to Him. The online NYT is even better. There is a short video of the exchange so you can her it.

It was Sauae's first visit to the White House and The Donald made it a memorable one when fed a cue that contained the word "surprise" in it, when a member of the press asked why Japan and other allies had no advance notice of the U.S.-Israeli assault on Iran. The president responded, "we didn't tell anybody about it because we wanted surprise."

That could have answered the question, but the Donald kept talking. He could have said we didn't tell Germany we were coming to Normandy beach on June 6th, 1944 not to sun ourselves, but to invade,  but he didn't. He, being a wiseguy real estate developer from Queens, New York, tilts his head toward Ms. Sanae Takaichi and says:  "who knows better about surprise than Japan, OK? Why didn't you tell me about Pearl Harbor, OK? Right?

There was audible laughter from the off camera people, but not belly laughs. Seated sext to Ms. Takaichi appears to be an interpreter who no doubt was instantly translating the president's remarks. Ms. Takaichi appears a bit uneasy, catches her breath and says nothing to be translated.

The president was of course was not letting the opportunity get past him to enlighten the press what the word "surprise" really meant and provide an example. This of course was news, and was typical of the unfiltered president. Quite honestly, I being a wiseguy from Queens, New York (not a real estate developer but a onetime homeowner in my birth borough) would have said the same thing. But then again, I wasn't elected president.

The Donald was criticized for breaking diplomatic protocol. He was considered rude. The encounter reminded me of the long ago  utterance of the advertising executive Jerry Della Femina who umpteen years ago pitched the idea that the advertising agency use the tagline for the emerging Japanese companies' goods coming to the States: "From those wonderful folks who brought you Pearl Harbor," for the new Panasonic account. Jerry turned it into a book.  Being a wiseguy from Queens, I bought it.

I'm sure there are Japanese comedians. The prime minister is not one of them. What I would have loved to have seen was Sanae Takaichi gently take hold of President Trump's right arm and tell him, "Well, the atomic bomb was a surprise too, no?" The room would have erupted.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Much is being made of ChapGPT and all the other AI powered platforms and how they are going to change the world, do everything for humans, and basically replace us. Puhleeeze.

Can AI create a response to President Trump, that would knock him off his chair? The answer is no. AI is not a wiseguy real estate developer from Queens, NY. I asked ChatGPT:

"What could the Japanese Prime Minister, Sanae Takaichi have said to President Trump when he talked of Pearl Harbor being a surprise too."

Here is the response verbatim.

Based on reporting of the exchange, Sanae Takaichi actually didn’t say anything sharp back to Donald Trump—she stayed composed and largely silent, which is typical of high-stakes diplomacy.

But if you're asking what she could have said, there are a few realistic responses ranging from diplomatic to subtly firm:


1. Diplomatic (most realistic)

“History teaches us the importance of trust and communication between allies.”

This would gently redirect the conversation without escalating tension.


2. Calm but pointed

“That is precisely why transparency among allies matters today.”

This acknowledges the history while turning it into a modern criticism—without sounding confrontational.


3. Historically grounded

“Japan and the United States have worked hard to move beyond that history and build a partnership based on openness.”

This reinforces the alliance and avoids getting pulled into the remark.


4. Firmer pushback (less likely in that setting)

“Pearl Harbor is a tragic chapter in history—one we treat with seriousness, not comparison.”

That would signal discomfort more clearly, but risks creating a public diplomatic clash.


Why she likely stayed silent

In situations like this, leaders often avoid reacting because:

  • Public disagreement can damage alliances
  • Japan–U.S. relations are strategically critical
  • Letting the comment pass prevents it from escalating further

In fact, reports say her restrained reaction drew mixed reactions at home—some praised her professionalism, others wished she had pushed back.

All this proves is that ChatGpt is boring.

http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com


Friday, March 20, 2026

Unsolved

Rembrandt's "Christ in the Storm
on the Sea of Galiilee"
Who could have predicted that a mid-week NYT Arts section would contain two stories about festering mysteries. About art, of course.

One story is about the heist 36 years ago in 1990 from the Isabel Gardner Museum in Boston where 13 pieces of art were made off with: Vermeers, Rembrandts. The good stuff.

The story is touched off no doubt because the heist was perpetrated in the early morning hours after St. Patrick's Day. Thirty-six years is not a milestone anniversary, but the heist is remembered because this past Tuesday was St. Patrick's Day. I'm not sure anyone raised a glass of Guinness on Tuesday hoping to solve the crime. If the case had a temperature, it would be considered so cold it would be measured at Absolute Zero, -460° F.

The Luckless FBI agent, Geoffrey Kelly, who handled the case has now produced a book, "Thirteen Perfect Fugitives," outlining the cases made against 13 figures. No spoiler alert here. He doesn't know who did it either, but spins the tale of all the colorful possibilities that start with a Corsican gang, Whitey Bulger and the I.R.A. and some Boston career criminals

There was recently an obituary for one of the guards who opened the door and let the two thieves in who were dressed as Boston police. He was a suspect his entire life as being the inside man, but nothing ever came of it. Just like all the suspicions about the potential suspects, many of whom are now dead.

The article closes with a quote from Kelly who challenges all the armchair detectives who think they could have found the artworks: "If you think it's so easy, you go find them." The reward is now $10 million.

But who would come forward and produce the pieces to collect $10 million who wouldn't themselves be forever a suspect in the theft? A reward is almost meaningless. 

As for myself, I like to think someone sits in our of those vaults in Amsterdam or Antwerp where rich people stow their original art while displaying good copies in their penthouses, and are enjoying themselves.

We eventually found out who Deep Throat was and a mystery was solved.

Bansky's Girl With Balloon...
Love is in the Bin
The other story involves Bansky and the Effort to Unmask His Identity.

This one to me lacks the charm of a heist. According to Reuters news service, the identity is confirmed as being someone named Robin Gunningham.

The identification is said to have been made possible by consulting a police report on a court filing associated with Bansky's arrest when he used a billboard in New York in 2000 to show off his art.

Ever since the 1990s and 2000s there have been attempts to identify the artist who has been leaving his work on public streets and buildings. The value for Bansky art has soared.

The identification of Bansky through a police report can be compared to identifying the 1977 New York City serial killer Son of Sam to be David Berkowitz, through researching a parking ticket issued to his car parked on Shore Road in Brooklyn, near his last killing and maiming.  Why was a guy from Yonkers parked in Brooklyn? The rest is history.

The summer of 1977 was consumed by trying to find this guy after it became known that a series of shootings were emerging as the work of a killer wielding a .44 caliber pistol. Mr. Berkowitz is still in jail.

Those with a good memory will remember that the Bansky painting, "Girl with a Balloon" was put up for auction in 2018 at swanky Sotheby's auction house in London. Someone paid £1.04 million for it (with fees) to then see the artwork be driven by a hidden mechanical device to slide down through the frame, pass through the teeth of an unseen shredder, to emerge now as "Love is in the Bin."

Surely someone was in on it, because how did a bulky. heavier than usual frame that contained a shredder go undetected? No matter. The "Love is in the Bin" has recently sold for £18,582.000. 

Speaking to the press after the shredding sale, Sotheby's Senior Director Alex Branczik famously commented. "It appears we just got Bansky-ed". The auction house proceeded to describe the shredded Bansky as "the first artwork in history to have been created during a live auction." Whatever. They made lemonade from a lemon.

Years ago in NYC, in the 60s, there was a precursor to what became the graffiti movement, when all over the place you could see someone had written "Taki 183."

The tag was written with a black indelible marker, with nothing else with it. I first saw it on a street light pole outside the family flower shop on 3rd Avenue and 18th Street. It was scrawled everywhere, in all 5 boroughs.

Turns out the "tag" 183 meant 183rd Street in Washington Heights where a Greek teenager named Demetrios lived. Taki was his nickname.

Mysteries remain mysteries until they are no longer mysteries. They all have a life span. A magician's trick is still a trick until you know how it was done. A secret is not a secret if two people know it.

It was 76 days before the kidnapped Lindbergh baby was found in the woods near the house. The remains were disturbed by animals. An autopsy established the baby died the night of the kidnapping.

Before the Unabomber Ted Kaczynski there was George Metesky, the Mad Bomber in NYC who went undetected for 16 years before his arrest in Waterbury, Ct. in 1957.

In the 1940s and 1950s, George had taken to leaving bombs in all sorts of public places in New York City, 33 in fact. They exploded, but did not kill anyone. He was a major nuisance. A forensic psychiatrist James A . Brussel described a man who nearly exactly matched Mr. Metesky, who was finally brought to justice after Con Edison's records were painfully researched in a cellar by Alice Kelly, who found a case of a former Con Edison worker who was disgruntled by a workplace injury..

When the police arrested Metesky in Waterbury living with his sisters they found his bomb workshop. George, who was an electrician and mechanic, even made his own screws for his devices, He was meticulous. He was incarcerated in a psychiatric prison and released in his old age. He died in 1994.

Of more recent memory is the Unabomber, Ted Kaczynski, who went undetected for 17 years before his arrest in a cabin in Montana.

Ted's specialty were letter bombs that did kill and maim several academics that he mailed them to. Kaczynski was a mathematical genius who no one remembered in class when it became known who he was.

He was found after his brother recognized the published paper that Ted had written to the newspapers as to his motives and how technology was warping the human race.. His brother recognized the writing, and the rest is history. Kaczynski died in prison in 2023.

Of course the current elephant in the room these days is the disappearance of Nancy Guthrie, the 84-year-old mother of Savanah Guthrie, a host on NBC's Today Show who was snatched form her Tucson-area home on the evening of January 31, and reported missing on February 1.

Door bell camera footage shows the heavily masked intruder. But that still left clues which have not yet closed the case. A lot of smart people and technology has been thrown at this case, and so far it's still a dead end. Daily reports have disappeared from the news as the case gets frosty.

Is the kidnapper(s) that smart, or just lucky? Has something obvious has been overlooked? It's obvious that if something were to crack the case it's going to come from a source not yet considered or known about. Or will it be something overlooked?

Stay tuned. We might be alive when this one gets solved.

http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com


Friday, March 13, 2026

Alan Trustman

It seems like it's longer, but it's only about a week since I've posted a substantial piece about anything.

If I have any alert readers, none came forward to ask me "what's up." Until now, I just didn't react enough to any news item, or an obituary, (they can be the same thing), until reading the New York Times obit on Alan Trustman by Alex Williams in Wednesday's paper.

The headline for Mr. Trustman goes: Alan Trustman, 95, Onetime Lawyer Who Wrote Scripts for McQueen Hits. He did this so long ago that I'm sure there are those who might wonder who is Steve McQueen, (if not a fashion designer) and what were his hits?

I don't know much about Alex Trustman, but I do know he has a way with words. And he's obviously well aware of Mr. Trustman's screenplays and Mr. McQueen's movies.

Must obituaries start off with the subject's name, then a comma. Nothing wrong with that . Gets right to the point. But I like the obits that start off differently, that lay a bit of the background of the deceased before we get to the required parts. A lede that is a bit improvisational works well.

Thus we get: "It was a sense of disgust as a moviegoer that inspired Alan Trustman, a corporate lawyer at a prestigious law firm, to take a shot as a Hollywood screenwriter in the mid-1980s.

Mr. Trustman knows the screenplays and the two McQueen hits well, when he tells us that opposite Mr. McQueen in the Thomas Crown affair, a heist caper engineered by Thomas Crown, a Boston millionaire (there were no billionaires then) who plans the perfect museum heist for kicks, is Faye Dunaway, playing Vicky Anderson, "an insurance investigator, who swathed in au courant ensembles seemingly plucked from Vogue's September issue, can't seem to decide whither to drag Thomas to justice or the altar." As anyone who has seen the movie knows, Vicky settles for something in between when she and Thomas share a cuddle together in bed. 

And then there's Bullitt, the McQueen film that stars McQueen as an "ice-cool San Francisco police detective," as well as a Highland green 1968 Ford Mustang, that seems to flatten the "ski-slope steep streets" (talk about alliteration) of San Francisco with McQueen at the wheel, chasing a pair of bad guys to what will be their doom, in one of the great car chase scenes in movie history.

As interesting as Mr. Trustman's life might have been as a corporate lawyer, and an A-list Hollywood screenwriter, it was a hardly over when the phone stopped ringing for movie projects. He moved from occupations and pursuits that were:

•An overseer of pari-mutuel gambling operations for World Jai Alai, which his father had served as a founding director.

•Successful trader of currencies and precious metals while living in Switzerland.

•An avid roulette player.

He had a life well lived.

http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com


Tuesday, March 10, 2026

Missed Opportunity

Each day I wonder how much better I'd be living now if I had been able to get the trade mark ™/ copyrights © to the initials AI.


http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com


Tuesday, March 3, 2026

Takes a Holiday

Death takes a holiday. Well, not really. Writing about death seems to be taking a holiday, at least from the New York Times's obituary desk.

One of the first things I generally do when I go online each morning is check which tribute obituaries have rolled in from the NYT obit desk. It is a reliable indicator of how hard those folks have been churning out essays about a freshly departed someone. But, ever since they wrote about the death of Iran's Ayatollah a few days ago, no new obits have emerged from that usually busy conveyor belt of obituaries.

There are usually always more online obits than appear in the print edition. It's like eastbound traffic at the George Washington bridge on a weekday morning: there's a delay is reaching the print edition, sometimes for several days.

I've X'ed (Tweeted) the editor of the obituary desk, William McDonald, and asked if all hands have now been assigned to create copy about the war with Iran. In a few very weak moments, Mr. McDonald actually answered one or two of my inquiries in the past. So far, not this time.

They must really be busy.

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Friday, February 20, 2026

The Last Survivors Remembered

Millvina Dean in 1994 peering through a replica porthole

This blog posting should have been written in 2009, but I was just getting started writing postings and had no idea that this would have been a great entry. The NYT is reprinting certain obituaries of women in celebration of Women's History Month. The obituary that would have been the idea for a posting was published on June 1, 2009.

Years ago I read the following in an edition of USA Today

There were but 11 Triple Crown winners in the last century, only three in the last 54 years.  And with Seattle Slew’s passing the other day, all of them are dead.  This we know because living Triple Crown champions are kept track of like ex-presidents and Titanic survivors.

--Mike Lopresti, USA Today, May 21, 2002

Because of that meticulous record keeping it can now be safely announced that the last survivor of the Titanic has passed away at 97. 

How is that possible you might ask. Well, Millvina Dean was 9 weeks old on the fateful evening of April 14, 1912. She was lowered in a mail sack into a life boat and as now passed away at 97 in a nursing home in Southampton, England, where the Titanic sailed from on its maiden voyage. Talk about completing a circle. Her mother and brother, who was 2 years-old, also survived.

We love record keeping. In the same celebratory view of Women's History Month, the NYT is also reprinting the 2001 obituary for the last survivor of the Triangle Shirtwaist fire, Rose Freedman. The fire took 146 lives in 1911.

When the Trade Center and surrounding buildings fell on September 11, 2001, I eventually started to think, will there come a day when it will be known when the last survivor of this disaster has passed away?

I was 52 at the time and am myself a survivor of 9/11, coming out of 1 World Trade Center from the 29th floor where I worked. Since it was estimated that there might have been 25,000 who escaped from multiple buildings at the site, my eventual passing will hardly make me the last survivor.

The last survivor will likely come from whoever was in the day care center that was run at what I think was 6 World Trade Center. All people from that building survived, so there were certainly some youngsters that would now be in their early 20s. 

But unless there is a great set of records, is it known who were in all the buildings at the site when the planes crashed into the two towers? Probably not.

We know how many survivors from Pearl Harbor might still be alive. And the Japanese probably know who are the survivors from Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Their lives are being tracked, and someone will be the last survivor. 

But the Trade Center? The best guess is that in 2090 or so, there will be survivors who will be old enough to be considered to be the last survivors. But who will they be?

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Monday, February 16, 2026

The Put Down

There are some quotes that should make it into "Bartlett's Familiar Quotations," but sadly won't. I'm here to try and memorialize them as best as I can. The pictured edition is the volume my mother had, and the one I grew up with.

I've written about these bon mots before. Call it utterances you can use on your own in the future when the time is right. People will think you're using a gag writer. You may even get invited to appear on a talk show if you're good at it and get the right exposure.

Since it's now a week since my last posting, I start to wonder what is going to set me off on a writing jag? Obituaries are usually a good muse for blog postings, and this time one came through.

You never know when you're going to encounter a bon mot in an obit. It could be the kicker at the end, a quote from the deceased, or something said about them. In this case it's about a movie they appeared in, a critic's unkind comments.

The movie is "Harold and Maude", described as: "a quirky romantic comedy." No kidding.  

The woman gripping handlebars of the Harley is Ruth Gordon, and the lad on the back in Bud Cort, the subject of the obituary: "Bud Cort, 77, Dies; Star of the Classic 'Harold and Maude.'"

It's a 1971 movie that you might not be old enough to remember, even the title, much less ever having seen it. It was poorly received, but given time, it's become a cult classic and "considered one of the best films of the 1970s." You remember the '70s, right?

For some reason, when I saw the title, I thought it was an Art Carney movie about him with a cat. But that's another movie. I never saw "Harold and Maude," and based on the description of "Ruth Gordon's  79-year-old, happy-go-lucky Holocaust survivor" who lives in an abandoned railroad car who has a romantic relationship with a teenage Bud Cort, it is not likely to ever make it to a list of movies I'd like to see. I'm not sorry I missed when it was first out.

In retrospect, the movie, while initially taken to the cleaners in its reviews, has emerged as a cult classic, and one of the best films of the '70s. This is no doubt to a critical review of the movies of Hal Ashby, the director. Have enough pompous words written about you in a Sunday section, or a magazine, and eventually you're famous again, I guess. And an artistic genius. Whatever.

A good obit writer, and The New York Times's Clay Risen, having joined the obit desk fairly recently, is a good obit writer. It is the obit writer's job to set the backdrop of the era the deceased lived in. Additionally, Mr. Risen does a good job of excavating a review of the movie—in this case from Variety—that tells you all you need to know about he movie if you were considering on seeing it.

"It has all the fun and gaiety of a burning orphanage."

With or without the children inside?

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Tuesday, February 10, 2026

LXXXVIII

Quick, what number is that? Well, it's a Super Bowl coming to you 28 years from now. Based on actuarial tables I'm not likely to be around when it does. My viewing streak will be broken by then. Halftime won't be on mute. Death has its advantages. I won't be watching.

But I watched last night's game My streak is at 60. I started to watch a bit of halftime, but the music is not my music. Reminds me of being on the C train as soon as we got to Brooklyn. Not even a raft of shaking female behinds could sway me. So I left TV on and did something else.

I guess Bad Bunny was trying to give us the impression of cutting sugar cane in Puerto Rico. I have nothing against a guy who wants to dress like a rabbit. In fact, I got a kick of him when he reminded Trevor Howard, host of the recent Grammys, that when Trevor asked if he could come live with him in Puerto Rico since things are so bad here in the States, Bunny didn't miss a hop, and reminded Trevor that Puerto Rico is part of the United States. One woke drone shot down.

I get a kick out of telling people that once upon a time a white, singer-songwriter, woman, Mary Chapin Carpenter, stood on a stage at halftime with her band and sang, "Down at the Twist and Shout." Once upon a time things really were simpler.

I remember Springsteen almost sliding into a cameraman; Shakira and J-Lo spinning on poles: Madonna climbing up and down on blocks while singing and seemingly putting her life in danger.

Of course the most memorable halftime award has to go to Janet Jackson and Justin Timberlake who while singing "Rock Your Baby" got to the end of the song with the lyric, "bet I'll have your body by the end of this song," and quick as you can, pulled on a Velcro piece of fabric and exposed Janet Jackson's left breast.

My wife came into the living room and I told her I've just seen Janet Jackson's left breast. She thought I was mistaken.

No, the earthquake that followed that 2004 halftime show took a long time to stop registering on the Richter Scale.

The Super Bowl commercials that have become a hallmark of creativity were hardly cutting edge this year. Sophia Vergara stepped into a pair of Skechers, and I think appeared in some other commercial where she's in a plane. Like a lot of commercials I couldn't tell you what they were selling. I wonder how many people have ever appeared in more than one commercial in any one year.

Lots of A.I. themed ads, with one fellow putting his foot up on a desk relaxing because his work for the day was done: he got A.I. to do it. Who the "f'" are they kidding? If  A.I. is doing his work, who needs him?  His free time will be spent, unshaven, at the unemployment office. Tell it like it is.

I wasn't taking notes, but one produce/service? was using Justin Timberlake's song "Rock Your Baby" as its backdrop. I wonder if anyone realized that.

Moronic commercial? I'll nominate Will Shat (William Shatner) telling America we need more fiber in our diets. He's pitching Kellogg's Raisin Bran cereal. "Shat," how cute. What the hell is that, the past tense of "shit" as a verb? Yep,  the OED tells me: verb pa. t. & pple: see shit verb. The "p" stands for past; the "t' stands for tense; "pple" stands for participle. Does anyone realize that they finally zipped a form of "shit" to be said on mainstream television?  I never liked Shatner anyway.

Come to think of it, the right amount of fiber in your system and you might be able to tell anyone who will listen that you just "shat" and now feel better. Maybe they were going for that all along. Just saying.

But of course there was a game in between all this. Thank goodness.  Perhaps not exciting with a defensive show being put on by the Seahawks, but certainly enjoyable, if that's where your allegiance (or money) was headed.

Mike Tirico and Chris Collinsworth were good as the announcers. Chris, because he played the game couldn't help remarking that what was being displayed was a defensive gem by the Seahawks. It was.

The only slight charge of electricity came at the end, when there was hope that the Patriots would surge in the final moments and tie the game. Nope. 

All week long I checked the points spread and the over/under. I do not bet on sports, but I told my wife that if I did, I would take Seattle and give the 4½ points and take the under in the over/under set at 45½ points. With a 29-13 score for a total of 42 points the under looked in danger as the Patriots seemed to come to life. Didn't happen. The under stood.

Sixty. I never thought about it, but 60 in 2026 is the number of Super Bowls played, as well as the 60th anniversary of my high school graduation. 

I got an email from the Alumni people informing its members that in October they were scheduling several class reunions, and that 1966, was the featured class. If interested, answer the short survey as to desired format (buffet, sit-down dinner, etc.) if you were to attend. I thought why not, and filled it out. It's just a short trip into the city.

I emailed the only classmate I've kept in touch with and asked him if he would attend as well. He lives in Lancaster, Pa, but still has several family members in the New York City area. He said it might be nice to see some other old fossils.

I distinctly remember getting a haircut the Monday after the first championship game in 1967, when it was the showdown between the N.F.L. and the A.F.L., and bragging rights as to which was the better league.

The barber near the flower shop had the radio on, and it must have been one of those talk shows when whoever was talking was trying to give Kansas City some credit for only being behind 14-10 at the half. The sports talk of that era was filled with viewing the upstart A.F.L. as playing inferior football to the N.F.L. 

That first game ended with Green Bay winning 35-10; it was called a Championship game, as was the second meeting the following year between the Green Bay Packers and the Oakland Raiders, with Green Bay winning, 33-14. The A.F.L. was still considered inferior.

But the leagues were merging and the third meeting was really the first Super Bowl. But Pete Rozelle, the N.F.L. commissioner that all football owners should pay homage to, called that championship  game between the Jets and the Baltimore Colts the Super Bowl, and labeled it III, Roman numerals, to portray it as a historic clash fit for the Roman Coliseum. Thus, Roman numerals have forever followed, reaching undecipherable, and impractical lengths.

Sitting in that barber chair in 1967 I was not thinking ahead as to what I, or the rest of world would look like in 60 years. I was making no projections. Sixty years hence was not even a thought. One year hence wasn't either.

Now I've got 60 years to look back on, and will perhaps get to share some memories with classmates in October. What can I say now 60 years hence? 

It's been a surprise.

http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com

Wednesday, February 4, 2026

On the Waterfront

It was a good while ago when I read it, but I never forgot Anthony DePalma's valentine to his father about his working as a longshoreman on the Hoboken Docks.

It was in the New York Times Sunday Magazine section that I used to read religiously. Not so much anymore. Never mind why. The reason I'm thinking of it again is because I saw a book review in the Wall Street Journal yesterday, "On This Ground," by Anthony DePalma, reviewed by Naomi Schaefer Riley.

Even since the Sunday magazine story, which was in 1988, I always looked for Mr. DePalma's byline in the NYT. Generally his stories were about the waterfront, its changes, its organized crime side, the latest corruption cases against organized crime. He wrote what he knew best.

I always wondered by I was no longer reading Mr. DePalma's byline. Simple. He left the Times in 2008 and devoted his time to teaching and writing several books. On the lively Google page his name takes you to  you see a wiry man of 73, who looks hale and hearty. He's only a few years younger than myself, so we've been alive for the same presidents.

His current book is about a Newark Catholic prep school that came back from the abyss of the riots and is thriving quite nicely under Father Edwin Leahy. Mr. DePalma is himself a product of New Jersey Catholic school education, graduating Seton Hall University. 

His current book tells of the year he spent at St. Benedict's Prep interviewing students, faculty and administrators. The reviewer is a fellow of the American Enterprise Institute who is the author of "No Way to Treat a Child." Mr. DePalma's book gets a resounding thumbs up.

It was nice to learn that Mr. DePalma is still with us. In his Sunday magazine piece titled, "From Fathers to Sons on the Waterfront," Mr. DePalma writes of growing up in Hoboken with 5 siblings, with a mother who controlled the house and a father who worked as a longshoreman on the Hoboken docks, until one day in 1971 he went to work and the gates were closed. Locked. For good. Basically, containerization changed everything.

His father was 60 when the gates were locked. He had been on the docks for 32 years. Eventually, his father is an A-Man, the most senior of the longshoremen which guarantees him work, or pay even if there is no work.

When they were making the movie "On the Waterfront" Anthony's father tells of the time the movie people wanted to use "his legs" on camera for the scene when Terry Malloy, played by Marlon Brando, staggers back to the shack after his fight with Johnny Friendly, played by Lee J. Cobb. His father declined. He wanted to work. (As to whose legs might have been used, if anyone's, it is left to those who research movies.)

Mr. DePalma never worked on the docks. His grandfather and uncles did. His father enjoyed his work and took pride in the accomplishment of unloading a ship and neatly stacking sacks of cargo for their next journey. His son, Anthony. works with palettes of words.

But here's the sentence in Mr. DePalma's article that I've dined on. so to speak.

"Legend has it that in the old days, an Italian shoe manufacturer used to send his goods to New York in two shipments in insure they weren't stolen: first the left shoes, then the right. Containers effectively ended that kind of pilferage."

I love anecdotes. All my life I seem to insert them into a conversation with someone. I'm always telling a story. I have a cousin who told me that when he and his family visited us in Flushing, coming in from Illinois to see my mother, I kept him laughing so hard with stories. I have no memory of this, but I do know I could have only been maybe 7 when the family visited.

I once had a cluster of salesmen at Saks in the men's department in hysterics when I told them the left/right shoe tale. I of course inserted a bit of imaginary  dialog about the guys opening up the crates and finding only shoes for one foot.

There was once a New Yorker cartoon of hippies holding up a Fink bread truck. One of the hippies tells his accomplices, "Hey man, it really is bread."

I see a cartoon of wise guys opening a crate of Italian designer shoes and seeing that there are only shoes for the left foot: "Hey, where we gonna find de people wid two left feet?"

My work life eventually morphed into the detection of fraud in health insurance. I once closed a meeting with the tale of the left and right shoes being separately shipped. People who commit fraud are clever, and I love it when there is a clever way to thwart it.

Here's to the Italian shoe manufacturer.

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Sunday, February 1, 2026

I Dropped Something

Ever drop something on the floor? Sure you have. Have you quickly found it? Not very likely. Where did it go?

I'm not talking of dropping something big, like a dollar bill. No, something small, like a screw, a nut, a pill.  Einstein said matter can disappear by converting it into energy. 

When you drop something on the floor and can't find it, the disappearing matter has been converted into the energy of your trying to find it. Good Luck. The object has disappeared into some wide abyss, probably never to be found no matter how hard you look on your hands and knees. It's gone. Your floor has made something disappear.

Right now I'm still looking at sections of the kitchen floor where I heard a pill drop. I didn't see it drop. I heard it, and as such, I know it landed somewhere. Ha! Come and find me.

I cleaned the same kitchen floor a few days ago and came across a pill I dropped from some other day. A different pill; a different size and color. I didn't notice what part of the floor it came from, but there it was, the missing pill from last week. Or two weeks ago. I threw it out. 

I scan the kitchen floor pretending I'm in a helicopter dispatched from sea and rescue unit to look for survivors. I mentally stare at the floor as if there are quadrants. I slowly sweep my vision over all parts. I make believe I'm searching for important people like Amelia Earhardt, John F. Kenedy Jr. and the Bessette sisters. I report back into my imaginary headset: "Negative."


I report back into my imaginary headset.

Anyone who might have crashed in a plane, or been in a ship wreck. I imagine it's urgent, like looking for John Kennedy Jr. It doesn't help. No matter how much I concentrate on what is really not a large kitchen floor, even after imagining I'm searching in quadrants, I come up empty. It's disappeared.


Amerlia Earhardt...The Bessette sisters...Judge Crater.




Thursday, January 29, 2026

She Married Up

When you're 92 and you pass away and "Socialite" is part of your obit headline, you know you lived in a different era than one would be in today.

The above photo smacks of so much of what wealth and celebrity used to look like: someone smiling, bejeweled, furred, and looking gorgeous with their clothes on with male eye candy on their arm.

Ms. Pat Montandon didn't have to pose with her bra and panties on covered with an open coat to gain attention to wind up on a TMZ segment, or a New York Post Page 6 spread of babes with their tits and asses hanging out. This was someone who looked every part of the word elegant.  

And the NYT obituary writer, Penelope Green, who gives Ms. Montandon a 6-column, 19-gun sendoff with photos that nearly covers a full inside page, seems to be at her best when her subject has made the rounds of galas and fund raisers and sat in those distinctive chairs with the finial knot at the tops of each back that all those affairs have.

I don't know how obits get assigned at the NYT. I detect some are written by reporters who have been covering the subjects' lifetime endeavors, say classical music, or dance, but for the most part they seem to be randomly assigned. Maybe.

I once heard that in the Manhattan DA's office there is a wheel that is spun to see you will be the next prosecutor on the next incoming case.  Somehow, I just don't see a wheel being spun at the NYT.

Obits can be of the pre-written kind, obits that have been sketched out with all the salient details of the person's life, waiting to be released into the world when the subject passes away, with the few additions that might be necessary to bring it fully up-to-date.

Or, obits can be written on deadline, assigned and expected to be completed for the next edition. I have no way of knowing which kind Pat Montandon's obit is, but if it's one on deadline, then Penelope Green should be eligible for an obit Pulitzer, if one exists. (I don't think there is one, but there's always room to expand the categories.)

Ms. Green takes us on a near cradle to grave breathless account of Ms. Montandon's life that makes me  wish I had met her, or at least had my picture taken with her. That of course would mean I would have been invited to one of the many galas and fund raisers she appeared at, or chaired. That would be moving on up

The print headline for Ms. Montandon goes: Pat Montandon, Who Focused on Partying, Then Peace, Dies at 96. The online headline goes:  Pat Montandon, Socialite Who Sought Publicity, Then World Peace, Dies at 96.

Talk about a hard scrabble childhood. Ms. Montandon was the seventh of eight children of "itinerant evangelical preachers whose tent revival ministry took the family throughout West Texas, New Mexico, and Oklahoma. During childhood she picked cotton for pennies. At 19, she survived heart surgery." Talk about material for Ms. Montandon's memoirs. And of course there's more.

There were men, Numerous men that are described as being part of a chaste summer courtship with Frank Sinatra, [Frank, chaste?] a 12-year marriage with an abusive rancher, a six-month marriage to a gay man, and an improbable marriage to Melvin Belli, the lawyer who defended Jack Ruby, in a Shinto Temple in Tokyo that was voided after being declared "not legally binding." Her last husband was one who made his fortune in real estate and wineries. She was married to James Borton for 12 years.

The trail of hookups that it took to get to her divorce from Mr. Borton are a dizzying tale of musical matrimony that should be a mini-series. Ms. Green has it all down pat. (If all the names are arranged  just so, they likely adhere to the Six Degrees of Separation leading back to Kevin Bacon.)

Ms. Montandon was a west Coast person, having a radio show and a gossip column in the San Francisco Examiner.  The legendary, acerbic columnist for the Examiner, Herb Caen, constantly poked jabs at Ms. Montandon, calling her Pushy Galore, and the Dumb Bombshell. He called Ms. Montandon's short marriage to Mr. Belli, "30 Seconds Over Tokyo." You get the picture of the animosity.

To those who may not get the jab at being called Pushy Galore, you have to have seen the James Bond, 1964 movie Goldfinger, where James meets a female in airplane management who owns a fleet of small planes all piloted by young women. Honor Blackman, a British actress, plays Pussy Galore, (I kid you not.) an attractive, substantially well-figured woman who James has a wrestling match with in a barn. You haven't heard "pussy" sound the way it does until you hear it said with Sean Connery's Scottish accent.

Herb Caen was known for holding up two fingers in a symbol of V, but said it meant vodka. He lasted a long time, and I'm sure there were those who weren't unhappy about his demise in 1997.

Surely tired of men, or at least marrying them, Ms. Montandon and her son set out on a campaign for World Peace. Talk about a Sisyphean task. No matter.  She met with more heads of state than the U.N. Secretary General. Who wouldn't want to meet her and talk about World Peace?

Ms. Montandon wrote her memoirs after her son, her only child, apparently wrote a somewhat "tell-all" that attracted a lot of attention from those who follow those things, the memoir first being serialized in the San Francisco Chronicle and The New Yorker to rave reviews Definite cred there.

Pat wrote her own memoir after, but remained on good terms with her son, who some might have assumed threw Mom under the bus.

Live long enough, and you get the last word over those who ridiculed you. When she was being dumped by John Borton for a much younger woman, the columnist Herb Caen "did a forensic" reporting on the divorce filing, holding up to the light the requested $57,000 a month requested in the settlement that lead the National Enquirer. to call her "The Most Expensive Wife." [More than Liz Taylor?]

But when Herb was getting a divorce, Ms. Montandon listed his assets in her column: a family home, a '69 Mercedes and a '77 Honda Civic. She wrote: "Life ain't easy honey, ask one who knows."

No word if she attended his funeral.

Note:

Other links to blog postings about obituaries Ms. Green has written lately. 

https://onofframp.blogspot.com/2025/11/no-detail-escapes-obituary-writer.html

https://onofframp.blogspot.com/2025/07/jane-stanton-hitchcock.html

https://onofframp.blogspot.com/2025/04/reinaldo-herrera.html

http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com


Monday, January 26, 2026

In Memoriam

Judge Joseph Force Crater
Ever since the murder of my two colleagues on September 16, 2002 at work, and my placement of In Memoriam tributes to them in the New York Times on milestone anniversaries, I always look at the In Memoriams placed by others to read the sentiments If I'm still able, the next milestone to place is 25 years; I plan to place another listing. It's not closure. It's remembrance.

Last week there were two rather unusual In Memoriams, one for Vilmos Langfelder and the other for Raoul Wallenberg. They each got the same narrative "Disappeared in Soviet Captivity January 17, 1945. Gone but not forgotten" 

The 80th anniversary of that disappearance was being acknowledged. That set these In Memoriams far apart from others. Also unusual, the same pair of In Memoriams appeared the next day, almost as if someone was allowing for a time zone difference.

The Wallenberg name was familiar. A Swedish diplomat who helped Jews escape the Nazis was the extent of my knowledge without going to the usual Google/Wikipedia source to find out more. 

The disappearance of the two, Vilmos was Raoul's driver, became the stuff of legend and conspiracy theories.

Why did the Soviets detain and likely murder the two when at the time Sweden and Russia were part of the Allies fighting the Germans? Why didn't the Swedes get angrier at the affair? Many unanswered questions still remain.

Seeing an In Memoriam for some people who likely died in 1945 got me thinking. What if there was someone out there who was missing Judge Joseph Force Crater so much that they were willing to spend some bucks and alert the world to an anniversary of his disappearance? And who would that person be?

Most In Memoriams are either signed by someone not giving their full name, or there is nothing at all. In my case, I choose not to use an attribution.

Judge Crater might be the oldest missing person case on the New York Police Department's books. He was a municipal judge who was likely ethically compromised, and who was thought to be a stain on the Democratic party when FDR was New York State governor. Crater was due to give testimony in a corruption trial. 

On August 6, 1930 Crater had come back from a vacation home in Maine, and attended a show and had dinner with friends in a restaurant on West  45th Street in the theater district, and supposedly got into a cab and was never seen again.

The investigation didn't result in any explanation for the Judge's disappearance. The coroner's report came down on the side of every possibility, including that the judge might still be alive. Judge Crater was declared legally dead in August 1939.

As the case disappeared from the front pages, the memory of  his disappearance didn't. He was joked about by Johnny Carson, and others, on The Tonight Show. Numerous books were written and theories advanced.

In 2005 when Stella Ferruci-Good died, the authorities received notes she had written that alluded that her husband,  Robert Good, a NYPD detective, had learned that Crater was killed by another NYPD officer, Frank Burns, who did freelance killings for Murder Inc., Lucky Luciano's mob family. Frank Burns drove the cab that Crater is said to have gotten into leaving dinner.

The truthfulness of the notes was challenged by those who long studied Crater's disappearance. But then again, they might be true.

All theories aside, wouldn't it be a hoot if there was someone left who put an In Memoriam piece to acknowledge the centennial disappearance of Judge Crater in 2030? 

After all, someone is always missed.

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