I Bumped Into Myself

Myron Cohen had a famous joke about the guy who was discovered by the husband who came home unexpectedly to find the guy and his wife in the bedroom together with little on but smiles. The guy was caught hiding in the closet and tells the husband as he flings the hiding place door open: "Well, everybody's got to be someplace."

It's an old joke that I still get a kick out of the tag line. Likewise I always remember the Bill Gallo cartoon about the passing of the middleweight boxer Tony Janiro who passed away in 1985.

Bill drew a picture of Tony in heaven with the caption: "They're calling my class," acknowledging the passing of a contemporary of Bill's.

I've been a bit fond of that phrase, just like everybody's got to be some place. So, when I wrote the posting for the passing of George Foreman I again felt close to, "They're calling class," because Foreman was a true contemporary, born the same year as myself, and someone I had watched, read about, and knew of. As George got older, so did I, year by year.

I like to try and place a photo in a blog that relates to the narrative. So, I went looking and hoping against hope that somehow I'd find an image on the Web of Bill Gallo's Tony Janiro cartoon. Talk about being optimistic!

Janiro passed away in 1985. Bill Gallo passed away in 2011. Expecting his entire output of cartoons to be digitized and available via a link would have been too good to be true. But I tried anyway.

Say this about search engines. They can deliver. I got a hit on my query, "Bill Gallo, Tony Janiro cartoon." Top of the heap, a link back to myself when I wrote a posting about the passing of a high school classmate on May 7, 2020.

Imagine my surprise when I was linked back to myself, a posting I had forgotten that made the reference back to the Bill Gallo cartoon. 

I always held onto the sentiment of that Gallo cartoon—the passage of time and the passing of contemporaries.

Since the 2020 posting about the passing of Heyward Dotson, I've heard through the alumni news that one home room classmate and another student I knew of have passed away.

How does something I write get a link on the Web? What algorithm plucks a posting to be found by a search engine?

I went searching under George Foreman, a recent posting, and nothing within a few pages linked back to the posting on March xx, 2025. I queried under  Bill Veeck and Eddie Gaedel, and Willie Nelson, all names I've recently referred to my recent postings.  No links.

So, how does the Internet work when it chooses, or doesn't choose to link to something? I have no idea. I do know that my class is beginning to get called.

http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com

having lost a duel to Aaron Burr in Weehawken, New Jersey in 1804. 

The two men were bitter political rivals. Burr was Thomas Jefferson's vice president at the time. Hamilton died of his injuries the following day, and Burr fled the country after being indicted for murder.

Alexander Hamilton was the Secretary of the Treasury, and is perpetually honored by being on the $10 bill. A wallet full of Hamiltons in your wallet is a welcome sight, as is a wallet full of Jacksons, Grants, and of course Benjamins—so long as they're not counterfeit.

But back to The New Yorker. In a front page article in the March 15, 2025 print edition of  the NYT, the reporter Callie Holtermann and her editor proclaim in a four-column headline: The New Yorker Reëxamines Style Guide and Those Dots Stay. This is big news for some.

Those two dots over the second e in the word reëxamines, or reëlection are called "dieresis." The word is not to be confused with a medication hawked on the evening news to treat watery lungs. 

While most editors would do without those two dots, the head of the copy department at the magazine, Andrew Boynton, tells us, "for every person who hates the dieresis and feels like it's precious and pretentious and ridiculous, there's another person who finds it's charming." Obviously only found riding in an elevator in the building that houses The New Yorker. Probably alone.

Consulting the OED you find there are two acceptable spellings of the word. Figures. This is going beyond my highest level of education.

Look up "dieresis" and the OED tells you to go to diaeresis where you will find three definitions, the third of which leaves me completely out to sea, thinking fuhgeddaboudit!

1. The division of one syllable into two, esp. by the resolution of a diphthong into two simple vowels.

2. The sign placed over a vowel to indicate that it is pronounced separately as, in Brontë, naïve.

3. PROSODY. A break in the line where the end of a foot coincides with the end of a word.

(Best I can tell prosody refers to poetry, and foot refers to a metrical unit with a varying number of syllables. Like I said...see above.)

Lest you think The New Yorker is unwilling to change anything, Ms. Holtermann tells us they have approved some changes to their style guide. "The magazine will abandon 'Web site,' 'in-box,' and 'Internet' in favor of the more familiar 'website.' 'inbox' and 'internet.' 'Cellphone' will be one word, rather than two." 

I keep what might be a slightly outdated NYT Manual of Style and Usage guide next to my two-volume Shorter Oxford English Dictionary. Inside this edition there is no suggested way to spell reexamine other than to spell it without the diacritical mark diaeresis. And there also no need to spell reelection other than to spell it also without the diacritical mark. Cellphone is already one word; website is website; inbox is inbox, and internet is the Internet. Bronte is not to be found at all, but naïve is with the diaeresis mark. I might not really need a new edition that badly.

The New Yorker has outlived early everyone on Earth, and sustained publication will keep it that way.  Whatever its age, it will continue to not look a day over it.

http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com

The New Yorker

If you're 100, and someone says you don't look a day over a 100, is that a compliment?

ChatGPT said:

It depends on the tone and context! If they say it with a positive, lighthearted tone, they might just be joking or acknowledging your age in a fun way. However, if it’s said in a flat or serious tone, it could imply you look exactly as old as you are, which might not feel like the most flattering compliment.

So, in short, it can be a compliment, but it really depends on how it's said and the vibe behind it! What do you think — does it come off as a compliment to you?

I think someone slid a slider past the editor when in the recent story about changes to The New Yorker's Style Guide, the NYT reporter, Callie Holtermann, acknowledges that the magazine is celebrating 100 years of publishing and that, "it doesn't look a day over 100." 

I think that's an ouch. When your celebratory logo is a picture of a monocled Eustace Tilley wearing a top hat, I think she's right. The image of Eustace appeared on the cover of their first edition in 1925, and they've been proud of it ever since, annually putting it on their cover every anniversary. That's called tradition. Or something else.

The New York Post used to brag that is was a paper started by Alexander Hamilton, but probably since Rupert Murdoch took over they pulled back on that boast. After all, Alexander Hamilton's long dead, having lost a duel to Aaron Burr in Weehawken, New Jersey in 1804. 

The two men were bitter political rivals. Burr was Thomas Jefferson's vice president at the time. Hamilton died of his injuries the following day, and Burr fled the country after being indicted for murder.

Alexander Hamilton was the Secretary of the Treasury, and is perpetually honored by being on the $10 bill. A wallet full of Hamiltons in your wallet is a welcome sight, as is a wallet full of Jacksons, Grants, and of course Benjamins—so long as they're not counterfeit.

But back to The New Yorker. In a front page article in the March 15, 2025 print edition of  the NYT, the reporter Callie Holtermann and her editor proclaim in a four-column headline: The New Yorker Reëxamines Style Guide and Those Dots Stay. This is big news for some.

Those two dots over the second e in the word reëxamines, or reëlection are called "dieresis." The word is not to be confused with a medication hawked on the evening news to treat watery lungs. 

While most editors would do without those two dots, the head of the copy department at the magazine, Andrew Boynton, tells us, "for every person who hates the dieresis and feels like it's precious and pretentious and ridiculous, there's another person who finds it's charming." Obviously only found riding in an elevator in the building that houses The New Yorker. Probably alone.

Consulting the OED you find there are two acceptable spellings of the word. Figures. This is going beyond my highest level of education.

Look up "dieresis" and the OED tells you to go to diaeresis where you will find three definitions, the third of which leaves me completely out to sea, thinking fuhgeddaboudit!

1. The division of one syllable into two, esp. by the resolution of a diphthong into two simple vowels.

2. The sign placed over a vowel to indicate that it is pronounced separately as, in Brontë, naïve.

3. PROSODY. A break in the line where the end of a foot coincides with the end of a word.

(Best I can tell prosody refers to poetry, and foot refers to a metrical unit with a varying number of syllables. Like I said...see above.)

Lest you think The New Yorker is unwilling to change anything, Ms. Holtermann tells us they have approved some changes to their style guide. "The magazine will abandon 'Web site,' 'in-box,' and 'Internet' in favor of the more familiar 'website.' 'inbox' and 'internet.' 'Cellphone' will be one word, rather than two." 

I keep what might be a slightly outdated NYT Manual of Style and Usage guide next to my two-volume Shorter Oxford English Dictionary. Inside this edition there is no suggested way to spell reexamine other than to spell it without the diacritical mark diaeresis. And there also no need to spell reelection other than to spell it also without the diacritical mark. Cellphone is already one word; website is website; inbox is inbox, and internet is the Internet. Bronte is not to be found at all, but naïve is with the diaeresis mark. I might not really need a new edition that badly.

The New Yorker has outlived early everyone on Earth, and sustained publication will keep it that way.  Whatever its age, it will continue to not look a day over it.

http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com

They're Calling My Class

The late, great sports cartoonist for the New York Daily News, Bill Gallo, once drew a panel that was captioned, "They're Calling My Class". It showed an image of the fighter Tony Janiro, a Youngstown, Ohio middleweight who fought Jake LaMotta, Rocky Graziano, and Kid Gavilan and was a crowd favorite. His good looks earned him the title "Pretty Boy." He was a capable fighter, before my time, and it's the only tittle he earned in a boxing career that spanned 1943-1952, and ended with an 83-11-2 record with 26 KOs.  He passed away in 1985.

The cartoon showed Janiro rising to heaven because he had just passed away, and obviously he was part of Bill Gallo's golden age of boxing memories.

I had the same reaction Bill Gallo had when I saw that the former two-time heavyweight champion George Foreman had passed away this past Friday in Houston Texas. Foreman was born in the same year as myself, 1949.

George of course stamped his presence in the world when he won the a gold medal in boxing at the 1968 Olympics as a heavyweight for the United States. The continuance into a pro career was seen as inevitable, as it was when Joe Frazier and Cassius Clay (Muhammad Ali) won gold medals in their respective Olympic appearances. 

George was I believe the first to wave a small American flag after his victory over the Russian Ionas Chepulis with a second-round knockout in Mexico City. Waving flags, and being draped in flags is now a long-standing tradition on for podium winners of all nations in many sports in international competition. It's to be expected.

George's flag waving came just days after the USA track athletes Tommie Smith and John Carlos had raised clenched fists in a Black power salute during the playing of the national anthem to protest the country's treatment of Black people.

George's gesture was a welcome sight for many Americans. George was unapologetic about it. "I was just glad to be an American," Foreman said afterward. "Some people have tried to make something of it, calling me an Uncle Tom, but I'm not. I just believe people should live together in peace."

George's stamina was always a bit suspect, and that shortcoming was no more on display than when Ali made Foreman tire himself out by leaning back into the ropes in a title fight in Zaire, Africa in 1974, absorbing harmless punches, leaving Foreman arm weary, then knocking him out in the eighth round. It was a stunning upset.

My wife and I were on vacation in Toronto at the time and watched the fight on a closed circuit feed at Maple Leaf Gardens—the old Maple Leaf Gardens on Cabbage Street. It was the first time my wife ever really saw Ali, and she was impressed at how handsome he was.

During that vacation we saw three events at Maple Leaf Gardens. The Foreman-Ali fight, an NHL hockey game between the Maple Leafs and the Chicago Black Hawks, and a WHA hockey game with the hometown Toronto Toros playing someone. I only remember the result of one event. The fight.

I loved Maple Leaf Gardens. The lobby was filled with photos of famous Canadian athletes. Bill Carothers, the pharmacist track and field star, Bruce Kidd the long-distance runner, and many others.

The New York Times obituary writer, Victor Mather, gives George a complete sendoff. He correctly evokes what the 1970s was to many boxing fans of that era. "With his fellow heavyweights Joe Frazier and Muhammad Ali, Foreman embodied a golden era when boxing was still a natural force in America. The three great champions thrilled fans with one classic bout after another. Foreman was the last living member of the trio."

The 1970s and 1980s were my golden era of being a boxing fan. I had three $20, last row Blue Seat tickets to the Ali-Frazier 1971 fight at Madison Square Garden, tickets I got by writing to MSG and getting them in the mail. My father and a friend from work attended the fight that no one could get a ticket to.

One Foreman bout, if not a style classic, and not with either Ali or Frazier, was Foreman's 1974 slugfest with Ron Lyle, a muscled heavyweight that saw each fighter get knocked to the canvas so many times that you thought that they were going to knock each other out simultaneously and the referee would count both of them out at the same time. Foreman won with a fifth round knockout, because a knockout was the only way that fight was going to end.

After improbably regaining the heavyweight crown at 45 years-old form Michael Moorer with a 10th-round knockout in 1994, Foremen had a few more fights, but was ducking opponents that the boxing associations were mandating he take to defend the title. 

He defended his title against Lou Savarese in 1997, earning a split decision in 12 rounds. It was his next to last fight. His final fight was to Shannon Briggs in 1997, losing a unanimous decision. He announced his 2nd retirement from boxing now at 48, and remained retired. Foreman finished with a 76-5 record, with 68 KOs.

But not out of sight. Foremen became maybe the most well known spokesperson ever when he took on the human face behind Salton's George Foreman Grill, a portable, electric grill that sold millions. We even bought one. However, I don't think we ever used it. It wound up in the appliance graveyard for us, eventually being given to a friend who lived in a furnished room.

George made millions from his grill. Salton Inc. eventually paid $137.4 million for the worldwide rights to use his name, with Foreman getting 75%. Now a clean shaven head, affable, soft-voiced pitchman, he made personal appearances and was in countless ads for the grill. He ran a youth center in his hometown of Houston, and was a non-denominational Christian minister.

The obit closes with what might be a key to achieving any marketing success. George said his willingness to make personal appearances was, "bigger than any endorsements. I don't care who you are, they want to touch you: they want to know you. Then, they buy you."

George Foreman will be missed.

http://www.onofframp.blodspot.com

The Pinch-Hitter

I had a friend who once said a real trivia question is not to know the name of the midget pinch-hitter batter who Bill Veeck inserted into a St Louis Browns lineup in 1951, who by virtue of a strike zone that could be measured with a 12" ruler that forced the Detroit Tigers pitcher, Bob Cain, to walk the batter with four straight pitches, but to know who was the pinch-runner to replace Eddie Gaedel when he reached first base?

Embedded within the event are multiple true trivia questions that I doubt even Jeopardy has landed on. In addition to who was the pinch-runner, what was the name of  batter that Eddie Gaedel replaced, and what was the name of the poor pitcher for Detroit who couldn't really be blamed for not being able to find the strike zone of a midget standing at home plate who was holding a tiny bat, who was surely told not to swing at anything?

The answer to these multiple trivia questions appear in an obit, not for Eddie Gaedel, who unfortunately passed away in 1961 after suffering a heart attack at 36 after being mugged in Chicago, but in the obit for Frank Saucier, 98, who Gaedel pinch-hit for.

Frank's claim to be part of an extended trivia question was as a major leaguer someone who only ever had 18 appearances in the major leagues over three years. He had won three minor league batting titles, but a lingering shoulder injury and service in the U.S. Navy during the Korean War stunted his major league career.

Bill Veeck was a legendary baseball owner who tried to inject fun and humor into the teams be owned. As part of celebrating the 50th anniversary of the American League between games of the August 19 doubleheader, Veeck arranged for a vintage car parade, a performance by baseball's clown prince Max Patkin and Eddie Gaedel, a circus performer, to pop out of cake wearing a St. Louis Browns uniform with the number 1/8. It didn't stop there.

Saucier was penciled in to lead off at-bat in the bottom of the first inning, but was called back to the dugout by the manager Zack Taylor who inserted Eddie Gaedel into the lineup.

The home plate ump Ed Hurley went nuts, and said Eddie couldn't bat. Veeck of course anticipated this and had Taylor produce the one-year contract that Eddie had signed. Eddie walked, took his time getting to first base after waving to the crowd and was replaced by a pinch-runner Jim Delsing, who then took Saucier's spot in the outfield.

Aside from all the novelty of the event, the obit points out the American League President Will Harridge didn't hear of the stunt for two days! before voiding Eddie Gaedel's contract.

Okay, it's 1951, but was Harridge out of the country not to hear of the stunt as soon as it happened?

Seems some news doesn't travel very fast when it's generated by a bottom division club like the St. Louis Browns. Maybe that's why they became the Baltimore Orioles in 1953.

http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com

Ash Can to Garbage Can

I am not nostalgic over what garbage cans used to look like, but I was reminded of what they did look like when I took in the obituary for Flo Fox, an accomplished photographer who captured NYC street scenes while only having vision in one eye. Ms. Fox eventually totally lost her vision due to multiple sclerosis.

The trash can that Ms. Fox captured in the above 1978 photo was obviously of a discarded mannequin, and not the remains of a headless body found in a topless bar that a New York Post front page headline gave us the news of on April 15, 1983.

Trash cans of the era before becoming rubber and plastic mounted on wheels! were made from reinforced galvanized steel, and were heavy as hell, even when empty. Their lids were steel as well, and depending on how the garbage men (sanitation workers) treated them on their route, would eventually sustain enough dents and dings that the lids no longer fit snugly on the top. They could look like crumbled aluminum foil. If they were cars, tow trucks would be towing them away to the junk yard.

In the era when coal was burned in city furnaces, trash cans were often referred to as ash cans. The homeowners and building superintendents would fill the cans with the ash from the furnaces. Our house in Flushing, built in 1923, was originally heated by coal. My parents shoveled coal into the furnace, and later removed the ash into those cans.

The dumpsters behind the stores in the nearby shopping center are owned and emptied by a company called Jamaica Ash, a name leftover from the days when it really was ash that was hauled away. Now it's basically foodstuff and cardboard (separate dumpsters).

I worked with a fellow who remembers going by his old apartment house in Brooklyn and seeing his old super still dragging the heavy metal cans out to the curb, now holding household waste, not ashes.  The guy must have been in his 70s or 80s.

The NYC Sanitation strike that I remember most was in February 1968 when John V. Lindsay was mayor. There were no many strikes by municipal workers during Lindsay's time as mayor that NYC was nicknamed "Strike City." The rough and tumble union leadership of these unions did not like the patrician guy from Yale. Firemen even went on strike.

When the sanitation workers in February 1968 went out, the garbage was not picked up. Period. It piled up in cans and paper bags on all the curbs. The strike lasted 9 days and the smells were ripe. The cold weather kept the garbage somewhat refrigerated, and a public health crisis was never called.

Governor Nelson Rockefeller would not call out the National Guard to remove the garbage. No one really understood why he didn't. I formed my own theory that he probably felt Guardsmen were not up to spending days lifting heavy garbage into trucks. I think the nickname for Sanitation workers has become "New York's Strongest" to match the firemen who are "New York's Bravest," and the police who are "New York's Finest."

While the print edition of the obit for Flo Fox reprints some of her photos, the online edition really puts on a show. I always love cityscape photos, and black and white always seems to suit them best.

I seem to remember the discarded mannequin one, probably from an anthology of NYC streetscape photos. 28 Perry is the address of where the cans come from, a West Village street, likely near where she might have been living at the time.

I follow the  X/Twitter feed of Corey Kilgannon, (@coreykilgannon), a NYT reporter who will occasionally post a NYC streetscape scene, probably taken with his cellphone, therefore in color. Despite Mr. Kilgannon's X/Twitter home page telling us he has 5,993followers, I seem to be the only one who posts a reply. 

To his latest posting I replied, "I don't know if I'd sit on that stoop. No privacy."

NYC will never disappoint anyone who works a camera.

http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com

Thumper

One of the joys of reading is coming across words or phrases that I never heard of. Being of a certain age, this usually means I head for one of the two hard copy dictionaries I keep handy: The Shorter OED, Volumes 1 and 2, and a Webster's II New College Dictionary. And sometimes I'm just lazy at first and look for a definition from Google. After this, I then usually still head for one of the dictionaries to see their take on the word.

When I came across the hyphenated word "tub-thumber" in an obituary for Joan Dye Gussow, Who Planted the Seed on Eating Locally, who just passed away at 96, I first tried to divine the meaning from the context. "Ms. Gussow, an indefatigable gardener and a tub-thumper for community gardens..."

I first thought 'tub-thumper" might be a style of gardening, like growing plants out of discarded bathtubs. If you're stuck with a discarded bathtub that has proved hard to remove from the yard (how it got there is certainly another story), perhaps filling it with soil and planting some posies will create a focal point for the garden. Perhaps.

I fairly quickly dismissed this thought and headed for Google. Getting to the appropriate volume of the OED is a bit of a chore since I have to get up and reach for it, as well as move the framed picture of the grandson that sits on top of it.

Google, Tub-Thumper:

Taken from the OED, so I don't have to get up..."A speaker or preacher who for emphasis thumps the pulpit; a violent or declamatory preacher or orator; a ranter."

Where the tub comes it, I don't know, but obviously someone who feels and speaks passionately about something, which is what comes through in the obituary for Ms. Gussow.

Now, going to the OED: "Orig., a preacher who thumps the pulpit for emphasis. Now usu. (gen), a violent or declamatory preacher or orator, ranter. M17" 

Translation: Originally...Now usually, generally...came into use in the mid 17th century.

No tub in sight, until ChatGPT is consulted.

The term "tub-thumper" refers to someone who passionately advocates for something, often in a public or noisy manner. It originates from the practice of political or religious speakers in the past standing on a tub or barrel (sometimes called a "soapbox") and using it as a platform to gain attention and give speeches.

The image is now complete.

Tangentially to all this, I came across the image of Thumper, one of the animals in the Disney movie Bambi that created an entire generation of people who abhor deer hunting.

I remember Thumper, the cute rabbit, but never thought about (or forgot) how he got the name Thumper.

Turns out Thumper got the moniker because he was always tapping, or thumping his left rear leg. He must have had a nervous tic, or was getting set to run.

There is always an education in reading obituaries.

http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com

You're Asking Me?

There is a certain type of newspaper headline that is always posing a question. They're easy to spot because they always end with a question mark. If it's a Spanish newspaper, these headlines will always start with an upside down question mark. Get ready. Keep going and somebody's going to ask you something.

The question-ending heading is called a Betteridge, a nod to Ian Betteridge, a British technology journalist who in 2009 said that any headline that ended in a question should be answered with the reply, "no."

Editors use it as a cheeky nod to use the headline as "clickbait." Draw the reader into the article in search of the answer. Since clicks can translate to advertising revenue, there is an ulterior motive to its use. It's not really used to lead you to the following narrative that will answer the question. At the end of the article you will likely not be left with a definitive answer to the question. There is no answer. Only an opinion. But if reading online, you will have advanced the "click" count by one. And you won't be the only one to do so.

I don't have a background in journalism other than reading newspapers most of my 70+ years. I got credit for working on the high school newspaper, The Spectator at Stuyvesant by virtue of a Greek friend in the office of the paper who recorded me as being present and doing work for service credits, when in fact I just scooted out of school and headed to the family flower shop after the final bell.

I try and read three newspapers a day: The New York Post, The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal. I don't read every word, but I do read every headline and sub-headline, and I will admit I do sometimes read on to see if there's an answer to the posed question. But for the most part, I mentally answer the posed question myself: "You're asking me? If you don't know, I certainly don't know." Next.

Here is a sampling of Betteridge headlines gleaned from some recent editions of the NYT and the WSJ. You may have read the following articles. I didn't.

If Trump Defies the Courts, Then What? This is the hypothetical headline. It's great for making stuff up. About anything.

Stock Always Rise in the Long Run, Right? Well, Not Necessarily. This is the headline that might lead to an answer. But don't count on it.

How's Trump Doing? There is an out quote that gives us an answer. Maybe. He's transactional and trolling but so far aspires to be transformational. If you say so.

How Soon Could Ukraine's Forces 'Start to Buckle' Without U.S. Weapons? Make what you will from the graphs that follow.   

Jobs Report Looks Fine, But Is Pain On the Way? That's easy. Pain is always on the way. Especially when taxes are due.

Voters Like Tariffs. Why Don't the Democrats? The assumption is all Democrats don't like tariffs. You're just going to have to ask them why. 

OK, hit me: What's the top style rule for men? I have a feeling you're going to try and tell me. But I'm not interested. 

Is an Appliance That Last Decades Really More Economical? The answer must be, "no" or they wouldn't ask.

Is NYC Really Ready for Cuomo? I have a question of my own. If they're not, who is?

Read enough newspapers and you'll always come away with more questions than answers.

http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com

I'm Happy Enough

It is very easy to get down on yourself. Especially when you read of the dazzling accomplishments of others.

Lately I've been reading a Gay Talese collection of essays and stories, freshly packaged in a recently published book, A Town Without Time, Gay Talese's New York.   

Anyone who knows anything about writers knows that Mr. Talese has been writing and being published since the Eisenhower administration. He has a shelf full of books, having started as a copy boy for The New York Times.

He is now 93, living in brownstone he owns in Manhattan with his wife Nan on the East Side. He is the son of a tailor from Ocean City, New Jersey, and is impeccably dressed. One of his most famous pieces is an essay he did for Esquire in 1966, Sinatra Has a Cold. It is always trotted out as a masterpiece of writing. Fuhgeddaboudit! 

Much more interesting, especially to a native New Yorker, is the saga of the brownstone that Dr. Nicholas Bartha blew himself up in and thoroughly destroyed in 2006 that created a gap between buildings that only added to the tale of how a 20 x100-foot rectangle of land on Manhattan's Upper East Side, hard by Central Park, can continuously spawn so many stories.

Dr. Bartha was upset about a divorce settlement which would have resulted in his losing ownership of the property. His recourse was much more violent than the fellow in New Jersey who decades ago after getting the decree that his wife would get half the house, climbed up to the peak, after probably drinking waaaay too much, and with a chain saw started to cleave the house in half. He was stopped before he accomplished what he set out to do.

Mr. Talese takes us on a chronological journey of what has occupied what is now 34 East 62nd Street and who has owned the townhouse and the land it sits on. He goes back to the time of the Revolutionary War. The story is a masterpiece of real estate research.

But as we progress with the story, we get to the point where an architect is finally hired who is going to design and build on what has been a cleared empty lot for many years, a new town house that will blend in with the other buildings on the block in this historically designated part of Manhattan. No mean feat. 

We meet Henry Jessup who grew up in Greenwich, Connecticut painting houses as a kid, and doing other handyman-type jobs for people who lived in the area.

Not having a clue what to do after high school, he set out touring Europe on a bright yellow motorcycle be bought in London for $600, and rode it as far as Turkey and Greece, all the while absorbing the architectural styles of everything he saw.

He learned to master the skills of carpentry and started a construction company at 19 that would eventually pay for his four-years of tuition at Brown University in Providence, Rhode island where he emerged with a degree as an art-history major.

Encouraged by an architect client for whom he had built a house in Katonah, New York, Mr. Jessup enrolled in the Columbia Graduate School of Architecture, graduating in 1978.

Forty years after graduation his firm on Lower Broadway had completed nearly 500 projects of varying sizes all over the world. He was becoming well known, and was eventually hired by the latest developers to own the empty plot of land created by Dr. Bartha's anger (The press had referred to Dr. Bartha as Dr. Boom.) to build a five-story townhouse—with an elevator.

Mr. Jessup is still with us, but when he passes away my guess is he will have earned a tribute obituary in the New York Times. Any man who can navigate and conquer all the regulatory boards it takes to pass muster with to get something built in NYC is surely deserving of a bylined obit.

Reading tribute obits, or even anticipating tribute obits, it can be easy to get down on oneself for never having achieved as much as the departed subject.

And even though I started as a kid painting every inch of my family's two-story clapboard house built in 1923, inside and out, along with the detached two-car garage in Flushing, I didn't go on to tour Europe on a yellow motorcycle, or graduate from prestigious universities (or any universities for that matter), or run an architectural firm that produced a French limestone masterpiece on Manhattan's elegant Upper East Side, I'm happy enough.

You just won't read about me in the paper.

http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com