A Downhill Life

I'm getting a good feeling about an obituary writer named Michael S. Rosenwald, who tells us that Sylvain Saudan, a Swiss "steep" skier has just passed away at 87 from a heart attack after spending his life "defying gravity, avalanches and obituary writers."

Mr. Rosenwald tells us Mr. Saudan helped create an entirely new sport: "extreme skiing, now known as 'steep' skiing," whose enthusiasts travel to remote peaks, often by helicopter, and "try to have positive thoughts when looking down." Positive thoughts definitely help.

When I read Mr. Rosenwald's line about a long life doing dangerous things and avoiding obituary writers, I had to look up and see who wrote it. Didn't this guy just write about somebody else and use an elegant turn of phrase to describe the man's occupation? Yes. It was his recent obit on the "Concierge of Incarceration,"  Herbert Hoelter that I did a posting on.

Aside from being a ski instructor and being the subject of a biography and a documentary, Mr Saudan doesn't seem to have had a job in the sense that we would know it—salaried, and getting a regular paycheck. Perhaps he always found willing takers of bets on his making it downhill alive. If so, he never lost.

Mr. Rosenwald gives us a small recounting of the mountains and peaks Mr. Saudan skied down, one of which had no snow, Mr. Fuji in Japan. It was a celebration of his 50th birthday and it was September. He skied down on the rocks and never fell.

Easier slopes had snow, and sometimes a 50 degree slope. He came down Mt. Denali (Mt. McKinley) in Alaska, Mount Hood in Oregon, Monte Rosa in Italy, and Eiger in Switzerland.

Usually he was deposited at the top by helicopter, but when it came to the 26,500' summit of Gasherbrum I in Pakistan, Mr. Saudan went up the old fashioned way. He climbed for 25 days to reach the top. Coming down was much faster. It only took 9 hours and was recognized as a Guinness World Record.

If there was an advance obit for Mr. Saudan, it took decades for it to appear. Proving no matter what, there is an obituary writer waiting for you at the bottom of the hill.

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Bob Newhart

My friends and I wouldn't leave their mother's place on 55th Street on Saturday night to go play pool and have several at the nearby Spotlight Bar until we watched Bob Newhart, Mary Tyler Moore and Archie Bunker. I forget the order. After viewing that trio of shows, I think that released us to set out at about 10 o'clock, which was perfect to be out and about in Manhattan on a Saturday night.

I never watched the show where Bob was an inn keeper in Vermont. Although, it was good to know Tom Poston was doing something after being one of the three "Man in the Street" people Steve Allen made part of his show as he "interviewed" Tom, Don Knotts and Louie Nye in the alleyway outside the Hudson Theater. TV always has a Golden Age of Television for someone, and that was my Golden Age.

Newhart was drier than Sahara sand, but incredible funny as he paused, stammered slightly, blinked his eyes a few times (Morse code?) and made a reply to something. 

There was one episode that I so distinctly remember that I've tried to invoke its humor when it fits. Bob is in his Lake Shore high rise living room with wife Suzanne Pleshette, maybe a few others, and Saul Rubinek, perhaps playing his lawyer. 

The subject of how much does Bob make a year comes up, and Bob gracefully declines to provide an answer. Saul, takes out a pocket calculator and starts to waltz around the living room, entering numbers based on how much he thinks the place is worth overlooking Lake Michigan from such a height; how much the carpeting, drapes, TV, sound system and furniture cost. He finishes his inventory and shows it to Bob as to what he believes the income number to be.

Bob looks at the number displayed on the calculator, blinks a few times and just barely gets out, "that is the number." Pure Newhart.

I remember reading that they named the street outside Bob's house in Beverley Hills Newhart Drive, or something Newhart.

I never did buy his comedy albums, but the telephone and one-sided conversations were a favorite vehicle for comedians to use in their bits. Bill Cosby, whose albums I did buy, famously as Noah, talks to God about building the ark and how to stock it with the right mix of animals.

Bob's imagined conversation with Lincoln about the Gettsyburg address gets mentioned in several of the Newhart obituaries.

I had forgotten he played Mayor Major in the movie Catch-22, a perfect character for Bob. Joseph Heller's Major Major could only be seen in his office when he wasn't there. If anyone came to see him, he jumped out the window. It was a great metaphor for the irony and the insanity of war that prevailed. 

Bob is missed, as is his type of humor that never had to be bleeped.

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Concierge of Incarceration

It is no secret that I love to read newspapers. Even a casual reader of these postings will have read that before. I still miss the Herald Tribune: news, sports, comics, and especially Our Miss Peach and B.C.

I was reading Dick Schaap and Jimmy Breslin in high school. When the Tribune finally folded after the great newspaper strike of 1963 in New York City, I moved on to The New York Times.

The Times of that era was a different paper. Eight column across, tightly packed. Never a comic in sight, except in the Sunday paper when in Section 4 they reprinted some of the editorial cartoons of the week from other publications.

The Sunday paper was a doorstopper. You needed a crane to life it and carry it home. The corner candy store set up temporary boards on Saturday night to collate the sections as the late arriving newspaper sections needed to be blended with the previously printed ones. People left Siegal's candy store with their trophy tucked under their arms.

I've been reading The New York Times ever since. Not for its editorial stances, but rather for the sports when it was a real sports section—not some outsourced department to The Athletic that can't report on local teams and standings—but for the conciseness of the reporting. If I can be considered a writer of sorts, it is because I've read a lot.

Mt wife raised, by a 1950s father who expressed his disdain for The Times by calling it a Pinko Commie rag is always constantly teasing me that I'm reading that Pinko Commie rag. I prevail.

My friend's Jewish father was so anti-New York Times that when his son was sent home by the grammar school teacher to bring in an example of current events from The New York Times he went ballistic! He was a Herald Tribune man, and also thought The Times was a left-leaning rag. Be all that as it may, I still rely on the paper for well written stories. I'm immune to its opinions. 

I can't exactly remember when I came to realize that there was a lot to learn from reading obituaries. I distinctly remember when I arrived at work on November 23, 1998 having read Robert McG.Thomas Jr.'s obituary on Charles McCartney, the Goat Man, that I had to share the obituary with the co-worker who sat next to me.

I said, "You got to read this." Even in 1998 not many people came to work having read the paper on the way in, and Vincent was no exception. He couldn't quite understand why I was asking him to read an obituary, of all things. Did I know the person? No.

McG Thomas of course became immortal for writing off-beat obituaries on people who hadn't won a Nobel prize, didn't hold public office, didn't command troops during war, didn't hit home runs, score touchdowns, sink baskets, or put pucks in a net, didn't write books, produce plays, act in plays or movies, create art or sculptures of all types.

The obituary's headline went: Charles McCartney, Known for Travels with Goats, Dies at 97.

The lede is as famous as Melville's "Call me Ishmael": You take a fellow who looks like a goat, travels around with goats, eats with goats, lies down with goats and smells like a goat and it won't be long before people will be calling him the Goat Man."

If you passed up that headline and that lede, you were never going to read a tribute obituary. And pretty much, I've never stopped reading them.

When several days pass and I haven't been inspired to post something I start to wonder if there will ever be another something to comment on. Has the well gone dry? Not as long as someone passes away who to me had a profession unlike anyone else's: Concierge to the incarcerated. That's right. It's a thing, and Herbert Hoelter, 73 Is Dead; Prison Consultant to the Wealthy is an obit headline that if you pass it up, you're still never going to read a tribute obituary. 

Thursday's obit by Michael S. Rosenwald in the NYT doesn't have the normal lede of the deceased's name, then a comma. It doesn't have the sing-song melody of the Goat Man, but it does start with might have been the public's first awareness of a person who wrote detailed autobiographical profiles for those who could pay for it to present to a judge at a sentencing—pretty much for white-collar crime—in the hopes that the profile piece will give the judge pause, reflection on the person's overall character and potential for do-good efforts, that they will consider a favorable prison venue, and possibly a lighter sentence. If it didn't work, then Herbert Hoelter wouldn't have an income. It did work. And he made a living at it.

Mr. Rosenwald introduces us to Mr. Hoelter's vocation, a sentencing reform advocate, who appeared in an interview with Anderson Cooper on CNN discussing Martha Stewart's sentence for lying to the FBI.

Martha faced insider trading charges, but they were drooped. She was convicted of lying to federal law enforcement, a felony conviction for which she served five months in a low security federal prison.

Mr. Hoelter had many clients like Martha. He prepared highly detailed accounts of the subject's life in order to present a benevolent picture to the judge. He represented Mike Milken Ivan Boesky, Leona Helmsley, Bernie Madoff, household names of major financial frauds. Numerous lesser knowns were clients as well.

When I worked at Empire Blue Cross and Blue Shield I attended a sentencing of a subject we were instrumental in gaining evidence on of health care insurance fraud, Dr. Lauersen, a well-known fertility doctor in Manhattan. He got seven years in federal prison.

I have no way of knowing if he was a client of Mr. Hoelter's, but I distinctly remember the judge sending one of the AUSA attorneys on an errand during the proceedings to bring back the answer to what was the difference between a low security and a minimum security facility. I don't remember what the answer came back as, but I was dumbfounded why the judge didn't know the difference himself. Whatever it was, Dr. Lauersen served the full seven years somewhere.

It wasn't all that long ago that a read a piece in the NYT about Otisville prison in New York, as being where the Jewish convicted felons were sent to do time because the prison has a Kosher kitchen and a Hasidic chaplain. 

I know the New York State Assembly Speaker Sheldon Silver was sent there in order to allow for consumption of Kosher prepared meals. We had a CFO at Empire, Jerry Weissman, who was convicted of obstructing justice and perjury, who I suspect did his time in similar fashion because of being an Orthodox Jew.

Mr. Hoelter explained to Anderson Cooper, "our philosophy isn't that punishment should not occur, it's that it should occur in different ways."

Well written obituaries always try to close with a "kicker," an anecdote or final quote from the subject. Mr. Rosenwald doesn't have one for Mr. Hoelter, but he does relate a story that when his daughter of 7 answered the phone in 1992 on Christmas Day and accepted the charges from Leona Helmsley, who was calling from prison and gave her her well wishes to have a "Merry Christmas," Leona, not feeling festive, or caring that it wasn't her holiday, told the little girl, "I don't care what day it is, let me talk to your father."

Prison can make you grumpy.

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Baseball

What makes it appealing to pay what can be significant money to go and see professional ballplayers on a major league team play a game you once played as a kid?

Maybe it's the grass? No one's lawn in any neighborhood looks that good, mowed in stripes and squares. Even the dirt is not dirty. And the chalk/lime lines have been put down by a surveyor. Only the batter's box gets obliterated, often quickly. The home plate ump takes care of keeping home plate clean and something you could eat off.

Is it hot dogs, peanuts, crackerjacks and beer? Not for me. It's seeing professional ball players throw a ball in a trolley line to the bases. It's seeing the arc of a hit ball that cracks off the bat and seeing if the fielder will catch it. TV is two dimensional, so when the ball is hit in the air you lose it until it comes down.

TV does have the advantage of a framed strike zone square superimposed on the screen in front of the catcher. At the ball park there really isn't any viewpoint for calling balls and strikes other than the umpire's.

At the ball park you get a view of the whole field and the sky. I've often felt the sky is part of the game. I've never been in a domed stadium, and I know why they're built, but they're not for me.

The other aspect of being at the game is that it is LOUD. Very loud. Rock Concert loud. The main scoreboard never stops blinking, showing images in very good detail, It is explosively kinetic.

And what are the loud sounds? Music for one. Lots of batters have designated "walk-up" music played as they enter the batter's box. Francisco Lindor of the Mets  is immediately identified by "My Girl" at a volume you'll never have in your living room.

You didn't just buy a ticket to the game, but to how the game is presented when you're there in person. There are trivia games, puzzles, photos, replays, shots of people in the stands who as soon as they realizes they are on camera cannot resist jumping up and down, pointing, shaking their body to their own beat, mouthing words, and otherwise gesturing in a "I am here" sign language. It is not 15 minutes of fame; it is not even 15 seconds of fame; but if you look fast, it is fame. 

The Mets home, CitiField is a memorial shrine to Ebbets Field, the storied home of the Brooklyn Dodgers. But they left Brooklyn after the 1957 season. There are those who are still around who consider that to be part of Original Sin.

Certainly Fred Wilpon, an owner of the Mets when they built CitiField next to the old Shea Stadium, had the money and the memory to build a ball park that resembled Ebbets Field from the outside. Wilpon no doubt is old enough to remember the old Penn Station, demolished in 1964 and also considered part of Original Sin. His money—and no one else's—could never replace the old Penn Station. But Moynihan Train Hall does a decent job of it now.

Old Penn Station

CitiField is a great place to see a game from. The sightlines are superb, and the fan amenities are many. There are several dedicated food courts and lounge areas associated with certain priced tickets that offer decent food and beverages at not astronomical prices. When I lived in Flushing I often walked to Shea Stadium, but it's design had reached its stale date.

For the past several years now I go to game with a former co-worker, who comes with his current co-workers and his son. He gets the tickets in a decent section. It's a bit pricey, but it turns out to be worth it.

On Thursday afternoon we saw the Mets play the hapless Washington National, a team the Mets have been beating up on all year. Thursday was no exception, with the Mets gaining their first shutout of the season, winning 7-0 and taking three games of the three game series.

Our seats on Thursday were in the 300 section, hovering over home plate, in what I would call the second tier. Behind us there was a glass enclosure with maybe 20 people all sitting with laptops in front of them. They couldn't have all been reporters, but they were attentive to the game. Analytic people?

The game kicked off with a bang up performance by a Broadway soprano, Soto something I think, singing the anthem. She knocked it out of the park, which was the only thing that got knocked out of the park that afternoon. The Nationals didn't score, and the Mets didn't hit a homer. The big red apple stayed in its socket.

Anyone who has been following the Mets all season will know they've barely been at 500 all year. Mostly under 500. Only lately you might say they've been winning consistently. Thursday's win put them 2 games over 500, but way back of first place. But if the season ended now they'd have a wild  card berth. Keep hoping.

Their bullpen has been abysmal. When the door is opened to bullpen and someone emerges, prayer and reflection is needed. Even with a 7 run lead, Met fans know that still might not  be enough.

Thursday's game was no exception. After an explosive two-out 5th inning and a very decent six inning pitching performance by David Peterson, who threw 102 pitches and got out of several jams, it was bullpen time. God help us.

A newly acquired Phil Maton pitched one inning, throwing strikes right from the start. He retired three batters, striking out two.

Then Dedniel Núžez and Danny Young and the shutout is still holding. And the fans' breath is still holding. 

Then Adam Ottavino enters to close out the 9th, and the drama begins. The New York Post sportswriter, Peter Botte, describes O's performance:

Carlos Mendoza had to get closer Edwin Diaz up in the bullpen as Ottavino allowed a single, hit a batter and walked one— with two wild pitches—in the veteran reliever's second straight adventurous appearance. 

When Ottavino was wild, I started to think of the New York Yankee Ryne Duran, a relief pitcher with a blazing fast ball coupled with truly poor vision, who would scare the life out of you when he missed the plate. (That's how old I am.) But Ottavino cleaned up his mess, and the shutout held.

Whew! We went home happy.

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Y2K in 2024

We've come a long way on the calendar from the concerns of Y2K, when the calendar went from 1999 to the aughts of 2000. There may even be people who get on Jeopardy who may not get a clue framed with Y2K in it. And some might work at programming for an airline.

It was a HUGE computer deal back at the end of the 1900s. You see, calculating age always worked when you were subtracting the last two digits of years in the 1900s to determine age; it wasn't going to work and yield the right answer when you got to the last two digits of the aughts; 00 minus 99 would not make one, etc. You needed to require a full four digits to denote years.

This set off a TON of computer concerns when it came to having to expand the year fields to four digits from the traditional two that always worked fine. Savvy consultants pointed this out years before we got to 1999. After all, what's more predictable than the advancement of years?

Savvy consultants were ignored, but were paid well when the reality of the jump after 1999 hit the  IT people who work with the world's computers. Computer  people hate to make changes. Changes mean more testing, and that takes planning and effort. But finally they concluded, hey, we got to do something.

And they did. Two years of planning, meetings, changes and testing, and the world's computers didn't come tumbling down when we went from the 1900s to the aughts. We survived.

Well, someone missed the memo at an airline when they calculated that a form filled out by a woman who stated her birth year was 23. She wrote 23 because only two digits were allowed on the form. Of course a one-year-old didn't write 23, but a woman who was born in 1923 did.

So, when the form was processed by the airline they felt they were dealing with a one-year-old passenger, a passenger who at that age couldn't be allowed to travel alone. They sent a chaperone to accompany Mildred. Kirschenbaum to the airplane because she got classified an "unescorted minor." You see, 24 minus 23 is one. Too young to fly alone. No shit. How did a one year old get there to begin with? Questions not asked.

This is not the first instance of an airline not realizing they were dealing with a centenarian. It's happened before.

Well, Mildred, born in 1923, is a hale and hearty centenarian who used to be a travel agent. She likes to travel, except when the airlines think she's still in a stroller.

The encounter would be worthy of a Saturday Night Live skit. Mrs. Kirschenbaum had to explain the obvious: she wasn't a one-year-old.

It is not a "glitch" in the airline's computer system as described by the People magazine story. It's the airline's stupidity and non-Y2K compliance in designing their computer's program.

So, should Mildred sue? She should at least get an upgrade.

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