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.

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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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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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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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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.

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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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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.