The Florida special counsel, charged with the investigation of the Trayvon Martin case, has declined to convene a Grand Jury. This means two things: (1) under Florida law, the alleged suspect, George Zimmerman, cannot be tried for first degree murder and (2) the decision as to what charge, if any, will be brought against him is in the exclusive hands of special prosecutor Angela Corey. She is expected to announce her decision on Friday.
Meanwhile, the federal investigation of the case is ongoing, its apparent goal being to determine whether a hate crime has been committed, effectuating federal jurisdiction, sounding in a violation of the victim's civil rights.
Interesting.
Practicality would suggest a coordination of effort between state and federal authorities, pooling their investigative information, thereby achieving maximum credible results. Technically, each sovereign could bring independent charges without violating the protection against double jeopardy. It seems improbable that the feds would fold up their cards merely because the state has first crossed the decision line. Too much investigatory effort has been expended. But this case is not the norm. It has become a national thermometer.
I opine that the special prosecutor shall promulgate an information charging Zimmerman with voluntary manslaughter.
The lack of specific evidentiary clarity shall be deemed insufficient to sustain a charge of second degree murder, which is a murder not premeditated or planned in advance, but does require the element of malice aforethought. This may be considered a legal reach too far. Voluntary manslaughter, sometimes called a "heat of passion" murder, is any intentional killing that involved no prior intent to kill. Both voluntary manslaughter and second degree murder are committed on the spot, but the two differ in the circumstances surrounding the crime. The evidence at hand could be more consistent with the former, alleviating the state's burden of proof.
The country waits and watches.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Thursday, April 5, 2012
WALK SLOWLY THROUGH THE TRAYVON MARTIN CASE
At the moment, it's in the hands of the Justice Department. That's a good thing. Were the case to be handled by Florida officials, 'twould be a cause for concern, with alarm antennae at the ready. Fertile ground for race to substitute for justice. Let's take note of a few things.
The "stand your ground' law simply means that when faced with a reasonable apprehension of a threat of death or serious bodily harm, you don't have to use available avenues of escape and may stand your ground and use deadly force to defend yourself. But that apprehension must pass the "reasonable man" test, and not be based upon whim or fancy. The Florida obviation of the necessity to retreat does not dismiss the the necessity that George Zimmerman's belief that he was being threatened with deadly force was reasonable. That's an objective test which requires that the eyes of the beholder be reasonable, what Zimmerman himself thought, notwithstanding.
The F.B.I. is all over the place. It's primary purpose is to ascertain whether Martin's civil rights were violated, thereby giving rise to Federal jurisdiction. That's as close to a level playing field as one can get. The ongoing federal investigation appears to be ultra thorough and should summarize the available evidence while determining at what level the case should be handled.
It is difficult to formulate a legal theory of just what happened, based upon conflicting accounts reported by the media. The issue, as I see it, is "who was the aggressor and at what point in time was this role justifiably assumed?"
The temptation to emotionally rush to judgement is understandably great. But, this must be avoided now that the Justice Department, under a nation's watch, is trying to determine just what the facts are. This could prove to be the prototype of how to resolve a matter, with racial overtones, in an orderly and just fashion. The federal investigation's focus is on whether a "hate crime" was committed, thereby establishing federal jurisdiction of a civil rights violation. It should also tell us what happened and the most effective avenue of dealing with it.
My bottom line: Zimmerman has a significantly heavy laboring oar to justify this killing on the ground of self defense. His use of deadly force does not seem viable.
The divisive problem will arise if the Feds don't take the case and this responsibility befalls the state of Florida.
That's when, like a bell sounding the final round, the nation will tensely lean forward in its seat and focus on the racially charged outcome.
For now, there's reason for patient optimism that justice will be served.
The F.BI. is thoroughly investigating.
They are accountable to the Attorney General. He is accountable to the President of the United States.
Both are African Americans.
Nothing to be implied.
Just a fact-----which should not provoke any skepticism, but rather assure an investigatory compass of fairness.
I believe its burden of responsibility shall be successfully borne.
The "stand your ground' law simply means that when faced with a reasonable apprehension of a threat of death or serious bodily harm, you don't have to use available avenues of escape and may stand your ground and use deadly force to defend yourself. But that apprehension must pass the "reasonable man" test, and not be based upon whim or fancy. The Florida obviation of the necessity to retreat does not dismiss the the necessity that George Zimmerman's belief that he was being threatened with deadly force was reasonable. That's an objective test which requires that the eyes of the beholder be reasonable, what Zimmerman himself thought, notwithstanding.
The F.B.I. is all over the place. It's primary purpose is to ascertain whether Martin's civil rights were violated, thereby giving rise to Federal jurisdiction. That's as close to a level playing field as one can get. The ongoing federal investigation appears to be ultra thorough and should summarize the available evidence while determining at what level the case should be handled.
It is difficult to formulate a legal theory of just what happened, based upon conflicting accounts reported by the media. The issue, as I see it, is "who was the aggressor and at what point in time was this role justifiably assumed?"
The temptation to emotionally rush to judgement is understandably great. But, this must be avoided now that the Justice Department, under a nation's watch, is trying to determine just what the facts are. This could prove to be the prototype of how to resolve a matter, with racial overtones, in an orderly and just fashion. The federal investigation's focus is on whether a "hate crime" was committed, thereby establishing federal jurisdiction of a civil rights violation. It should also tell us what happened and the most effective avenue of dealing with it.
My bottom line: Zimmerman has a significantly heavy laboring oar to justify this killing on the ground of self defense. His use of deadly force does not seem viable.
The divisive problem will arise if the Feds don't take the case and this responsibility befalls the state of Florida.
That's when, like a bell sounding the final round, the nation will tensely lean forward in its seat and focus on the racially charged outcome.
For now, there's reason for patient optimism that justice will be served.
The F.BI. is thoroughly investigating.
They are accountable to the Attorney General. He is accountable to the President of the United States.
Both are African Americans.
Nothing to be implied.
Just a fact-----which should not provoke any skepticism, but rather assure an investigatory compass of fairness.
I believe its burden of responsibility shall be successfully borne.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
WHADDAYANO? THEY DON'T WALK ON WATER
Gone is the myth that they don their pants two legs at a time.
The four (five?) conservative U.S, Supreme Court Justices pretend to wear the intellectual mantel of legal theoreticians, deeply furrowing their brows, as they descend from the Mount to solemnly deliver the constitutional word.
But, they're merely politicians, moved by the party whose elected President appointed them.
That's the way it is with this court, so there should be no surprise in their attitude towards the health care law. The challenge of the conservitive members was not to decide whether Obamacare was unconstitutional--that was a pre-conceived given. The question was the grounds upon which to rely in striking it down. They chose a tortuous reasoning of the Commerce Clause. If the gloves don't fit, make 'em fit.
Justice Scalia and company assume the rolls of the founding fathers and, like Lamont Cranston ("The Shadow", to you young'uns), trumpet their ability to read men's minds. The fact that the constitution was signed two hundred and twenty-five years ago, and that things have mightily changed in our society, is arrogantly dismissed.They promulgate in accordance with their own beliefs and in the spirit of "you don't like what we say? Then appeal."
They champion staes' rights but conveniently ignore this principle when it is inconsistent with their political end-game. They grabbed center stage, in a 5-4 ultimate overreach decision, and decided the outcome of the 2000 presidential election, with the final vote tally yet to be determined.
The liberal Court members are also politically aligned, but there's a difference. They identify with the national social agenda. They care about the welfare of society. If an uninsured man lay bleeding in the street, they believe that helping him is preferable to letting him die as a punishment for not paying premiums.
This subject has, by now, been vented ad nauseam. Please see my prior post re the applicability of the congressional power to tax in the interest of the general welfare, as the legal validation of the the health care reform act. To fine those who don't obtain insurance is, of course a "tax", within the meaning of that authority, but the word is a political plague and was avoided by the Solicitor General in his argument before the Court. But it walks and talks like a duck. (See Social Security)
The infallible interpretation of history shall drape the "Conservative Five" with a cloak of shame.
But don't exhale just yet. There are other social issues which they breathlessly await to decimate.
In the words of Justice Austin Powers, "Yeah Baby! They're just politicians."
And this is an election year. 'Nuff said.
The four (five?) conservative U.S, Supreme Court Justices pretend to wear the intellectual mantel of legal theoreticians, deeply furrowing their brows, as they descend from the Mount to solemnly deliver the constitutional word.
But, they're merely politicians, moved by the party whose elected President appointed them.
That's the way it is with this court, so there should be no surprise in their attitude towards the health care law. The challenge of the conservitive members was not to decide whether Obamacare was unconstitutional--that was a pre-conceived given. The question was the grounds upon which to rely in striking it down. They chose a tortuous reasoning of the Commerce Clause. If the gloves don't fit, make 'em fit.
Justice Scalia and company assume the rolls of the founding fathers and, like Lamont Cranston ("The Shadow", to you young'uns), trumpet their ability to read men's minds. The fact that the constitution was signed two hundred and twenty-five years ago, and that things have mightily changed in our society, is arrogantly dismissed.They promulgate in accordance with their own beliefs and in the spirit of "you don't like what we say? Then appeal."
They champion staes' rights but conveniently ignore this principle when it is inconsistent with their political end-game. They grabbed center stage, in a 5-4 ultimate overreach decision, and decided the outcome of the 2000 presidential election, with the final vote tally yet to be determined.
The liberal Court members are also politically aligned, but there's a difference. They identify with the national social agenda. They care about the welfare of society. If an uninsured man lay bleeding in the street, they believe that helping him is preferable to letting him die as a punishment for not paying premiums.
This subject has, by now, been vented ad nauseam. Please see my prior post re the applicability of the congressional power to tax in the interest of the general welfare, as the legal validation of the the health care reform act. To fine those who don't obtain insurance is, of course a "tax", within the meaning of that authority, but the word is a political plague and was avoided by the Solicitor General in his argument before the Court. But it walks and talks like a duck. (See Social Security)
The infallible interpretation of history shall drape the "Conservative Five" with a cloak of shame.
But don't exhale just yet. There are other social issues which they breathlessly await to decimate.
In the words of Justice Austin Powers, "Yeah Baby! They're just politicians."
And this is an election year. 'Nuff said.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
MY TAKE ON THE HEALTH CARE LAW
First the disclaimer: I am not an authority on constitutional law. In my years on the bench, I, whenever possible, substituted my version of practical common sense in lieu of theories of expertise. My definition of justice was "to what was right." Of course, that brought into play my life's experiences and qualified me as the most activist judge in the land. But, I digress, except to note that I shall never shed that mantle, for it is self-defining.
Section 8 of the U.S. Constitution declares that"THE CONGRESS SHALL HAVE POWER TO LAY AND COLLECT TAXES, DUTIES, IMPORTS AND EXCISES,TO PAY FOR DEBTS AND PROVIDE FOR THE COMMON DEFENCE AND GENERAL WELFARE OF THE UNITED STATES......"
Historically, the core belief of the Democratic party is that government should address problems embraced by the arena of public social agenda. The Republican theory would have government refrain from such action, except in dire national emergency, and, even then, look to the role of the states rather than invite the federal authorities to play the evil Big Daddy.
I, however, believe that in matters of sweeping social agendas, on a national scale, Congress has the right, and indeed, the duty to step in and do the right thing. (See Social Security)
Where do they get this power? Not from the Commerce Clause of the Constitution (which led to the ridiculous analogy , offered by the conservative Supreme Court Justices, of being ordered to buy broccoli) but from the legislative taxing authority to provide for the national general welfare.
For, is not the individual mandate provision of the health care law, with a financial penalty for non-adherence, akin to a tax? Of course it is. And this should be the basis for affirming its constitutionality.
On what is this proposition grounded?
The practical, common sense, desire to do the right thing.
Who dares deny that this was not the original intent of the constitutional framers?
Too simplistic an approach? Consider the difference between being "intelligent" and "smart."
Come down to earth. It's a great vantage point for reasonable practicality.
Section 8 of the U.S. Constitution declares that"THE CONGRESS SHALL HAVE POWER TO LAY AND COLLECT TAXES, DUTIES, IMPORTS AND EXCISES,TO PAY FOR DEBTS AND PROVIDE FOR THE COMMON DEFENCE AND GENERAL WELFARE OF THE UNITED STATES......"
Historically, the core belief of the Democratic party is that government should address problems embraced by the arena of public social agenda. The Republican theory would have government refrain from such action, except in dire national emergency, and, even then, look to the role of the states rather than invite the federal authorities to play the evil Big Daddy.
I, however, believe that in matters of sweeping social agendas, on a national scale, Congress has the right, and indeed, the duty to step in and do the right thing. (See Social Security)
Where do they get this power? Not from the Commerce Clause of the Constitution (which led to the ridiculous analogy , offered by the conservative Supreme Court Justices, of being ordered to buy broccoli) but from the legislative taxing authority to provide for the national general welfare.
For, is not the individual mandate provision of the health care law, with a financial penalty for non-adherence, akin to a tax? Of course it is. And this should be the basis for affirming its constitutionality.
On what is this proposition grounded?
The practical, common sense, desire to do the right thing.
Who dares deny that this was not the original intent of the constitutional framers?
Too simplistic an approach? Consider the difference between being "intelligent" and "smart."
Come down to earth. It's a great vantage point for reasonable practicality.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
BEING FRANK SINATRA
I was in my third year of high school and an ardent Celtics fan. Cousy, Sharman, Russell, Heinsohn and Luscitoff. With a bench of Havlicek, Sam Jones, K.C. Jones, Frank Ramsey etc. The ultimate Dream Team. Lord, they were good. Their home was the Boston Garden, with an always-filled seating capacity of 13,909.
Occasionally, there would be hockey-basketball double-headers. Hockey first. Back then, the Bruins had a farm team, the Olympics, and they would precede the Celtics, after which there would be an extended intermission during which the famous parquet floor would be set down for basketball. While this was going on, entertainment, of sorts, would take place for the capacity crowd. Organist John Kiley would provide music and accompany anyone volunteering to sing. It was on such a night that I indulged my showbiz bug-bite and challenged the Gods of Probability. Believe it. There were 13,909 witnesses.
My friends and I were in our usual, kiss the sky, top balcony seats. Mr. Kiley was playing with vigor and a line of vocal aspirants had formed and was lengthening. I turned to my buddies and bursted,"I've got an idea!" and bolted for the steps. In no time, I was in queue, anxiously awaiting my turn. Those before me were the usual karaoke types, having their own good time, with absolutely no-one paying attention. Kiley's patience appeared strained at having to share the spotlight with such rank amateurs. Then, my turn came. The guy before me had just finished "Sweet Rosie O'grady", severely testing Kiley's sanity and sobriety.
He looked at me and barked,"Whatsyaname!" This was where the genes of go-for-it took over.
"FRANK OX", I replied. Where did I get the name? I have no idea.
"Whaddayagonna sing, Ox?"
"It Had To Be You."
He went into the intro. Please try to imagine the constant low-level-but-consistent din of murmuring conversation coming from the increasingly impatient multitude. There was no backing out now, lest I be labeled a "chicken" on the corner and in the poolroom. I served it up.
"IT HAD TO BE YOU, IT HAD TO BE YOU, IT HAD TO BE YOU, IT HAD TO BE YOU, IT HAD TO BE YOU........."
That's right. I sang the song with just that repeating phrase. And an unanticipated, unique phenomenon occurred. An audio transition. Ever so slowly, the crowd noise began to dim, fade to silence, change to a sound of inquiry and understanding, then to a laughter of realization which quickly morphed into pure, unadulterated applause----and then a ROAR of approval.
These sounds reflected a picture of "stop--listen--do you hear what I hear?--that guy is singing just the song title, over and over--what a hot ticket--that's funny--let's give him a hand."
Kiley caught on almost immediately but he, too, picked up on the crowd reaction and, although truly pissed, held back on the hook and followed me right to the end.
I finished with a swaggering, old-time, Ethel Merman-type sign-off and raised my right arm in triumph. The crowd went nuts.
Kiley yelled,"Get the hell off!" The ovation had not diminished.
I began to leave the platform-stage and suddenly turned around and went back on, again extending my arm as a boxer after the final bell. Impossibly, the roar of the 13,909 crowd increased all the more.
I milked that moment for as long as I could, and then, finally, left the stage. People swear that it took a full minute for the cheering to subside.
'Tis an indelible page in my memory book.
The why of it all lies in my personal proclivities.
But, hey. Ain't youth a hell of a thing?
Life is an adventure.
Go for it.
Occasionally, there would be hockey-basketball double-headers. Hockey first. Back then, the Bruins had a farm team, the Olympics, and they would precede the Celtics, after which there would be an extended intermission during which the famous parquet floor would be set down for basketball. While this was going on, entertainment, of sorts, would take place for the capacity crowd. Organist John Kiley would provide music and accompany anyone volunteering to sing. It was on such a night that I indulged my showbiz bug-bite and challenged the Gods of Probability. Believe it. There were 13,909 witnesses.
My friends and I were in our usual, kiss the sky, top balcony seats. Mr. Kiley was playing with vigor and a line of vocal aspirants had formed and was lengthening. I turned to my buddies and bursted,"I've got an idea!" and bolted for the steps. In no time, I was in queue, anxiously awaiting my turn. Those before me were the usual karaoke types, having their own good time, with absolutely no-one paying attention. Kiley's patience appeared strained at having to share the spotlight with such rank amateurs. Then, my turn came. The guy before me had just finished "Sweet Rosie O'grady", severely testing Kiley's sanity and sobriety.
He looked at me and barked,"Whatsyaname!" This was where the genes of go-for-it took over.
"FRANK OX", I replied. Where did I get the name? I have no idea.
"Whaddayagonna sing, Ox?"
"It Had To Be You."
He went into the intro. Please try to imagine the constant low-level-but-consistent din of murmuring conversation coming from the increasingly impatient multitude. There was no backing out now, lest I be labeled a "chicken" on the corner and in the poolroom. I served it up.
"IT HAD TO BE YOU, IT HAD TO BE YOU, IT HAD TO BE YOU, IT HAD TO BE YOU, IT HAD TO BE YOU........."
That's right. I sang the song with just that repeating phrase. And an unanticipated, unique phenomenon occurred. An audio transition. Ever so slowly, the crowd noise began to dim, fade to silence, change to a sound of inquiry and understanding, then to a laughter of realization which quickly morphed into pure, unadulterated applause----and then a ROAR of approval.
These sounds reflected a picture of "stop--listen--do you hear what I hear?--that guy is singing just the song title, over and over--what a hot ticket--that's funny--let's give him a hand."
Kiley caught on almost immediately but he, too, picked up on the crowd reaction and, although truly pissed, held back on the hook and followed me right to the end.
I finished with a swaggering, old-time, Ethel Merman-type sign-off and raised my right arm in triumph. The crowd went nuts.
Kiley yelled,"Get the hell off!" The ovation had not diminished.
I began to leave the platform-stage and suddenly turned around and went back on, again extending my arm as a boxer after the final bell. Impossibly, the roar of the 13,909 crowd increased all the more.
I milked that moment for as long as I could, and then, finally, left the stage. People swear that it took a full minute for the cheering to subside.
'Tis an indelible page in my memory book.
The why of it all lies in my personal proclivities.
But, hey. Ain't youth a hell of a thing?
Life is an adventure.
Go for it.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
SCARY BUSINESS
"I wish you a healthy and happy life", I said to an acquaintance.
"How dare you be so arrogant as to presume my future?", he angrily shot back.
Sounds ridiculous, no? But, that's the type of lunacy which attends Republican hopeful Rick Santorum. President Obama wishes that every youth has the opportunity for a college education and he, therefor, is brandished a snob, wishing to impose the liberal philosophies of professors on young people.
Before you laugh too hard, realize that there are many out there who agree with this insane twist of illogical interpretation. Match that with his condemnation of the bedrock separation of church and state in politics, and you, hopefully, begin to understand that Santorum is the essence of the most extreme right-wing zealot. In other words, he is dangerously nuts.
Why, then, is he apparently enjoying such a surge in voter sentiment? The answer is that the Tea Party minority has the lungs of a silent, reasonable majority.
Can Santorum ultimately prevail? The mere posing of the question constitutes grounds for apprehension. Political momentum is not subject to precise prognosis. What if his virus becomes viral?
If Romney was endowed with common-sense gonads, he would break ranks with nonsense and denounce Santorom's rantings in a loud and clear voice. O.K.---Santorum is sincere in his dementia, but an absence of malice is perfectly consistent with an absence of mental stability.
Redemption lies in the yet-to-be-heard voice of reasonable people. Comets attract temporary attention but soon fall from the sky.
There is a close connection between reason and emotion.
The final vote tally will reflect the power of the mind to think, understand, and form judgements by a process of logic.
In the meantime, however, there is much cause for anxious concern.
"How dare you be so arrogant as to presume my future?", he angrily shot back.
Sounds ridiculous, no? But, that's the type of lunacy which attends Republican hopeful Rick Santorum. President Obama wishes that every youth has the opportunity for a college education and he, therefor, is brandished a snob, wishing to impose the liberal philosophies of professors on young people.
Before you laugh too hard, realize that there are many out there who agree with this insane twist of illogical interpretation. Match that with his condemnation of the bedrock separation of church and state in politics, and you, hopefully, begin to understand that Santorum is the essence of the most extreme right-wing zealot. In other words, he is dangerously nuts.
Why, then, is he apparently enjoying such a surge in voter sentiment? The answer is that the Tea Party minority has the lungs of a silent, reasonable majority.
Can Santorum ultimately prevail? The mere posing of the question constitutes grounds for apprehension. Political momentum is not subject to precise prognosis. What if his virus becomes viral?
If Romney was endowed with common-sense gonads, he would break ranks with nonsense and denounce Santorom's rantings in a loud and clear voice. O.K.---Santorum is sincere in his dementia, but an absence of malice is perfectly consistent with an absence of mental stability.
Redemption lies in the yet-to-be-heard voice of reasonable people. Comets attract temporary attention but soon fall from the sky.
There is a close connection between reason and emotion.
The final vote tally will reflect the power of the mind to think, understand, and form judgements by a process of logic.
In the meantime, however, there is much cause for anxious concern.
Friday, February 10, 2012
THE YOUTHFUL PURSUIT OF GLORY
I've always looked upon life as as an adventure book, with each new chapter marking another step towards another positive moment in the sun.
From the charge of being a magical thinker, I do not run and, indeed, unabashedly embrace this proclivity as a virtue, not a frailty. I suppose that, in this sense, I shall always resemble a boy with wannabe aspirations, and the never-ending feeling that the best is still yet to come. Kill me, shoot me, I'm a card carrying romanticist. So it was, in the fall of 1950.
I was a freshman at Harvard, a commuter, hanging with the Jamaica Plain Townies who rode the rails with me each day as we were deposited at the kiosk Harvard Square "T" station. The grand-daddy of all culture shocks. Our command post was the Commuter's Center which adjoined the now defunct but then legendary "Cronins", the watering hole of the entire college. Ten cent beers--"dimeys"--need I say more?
One of the many historical traditions embraced by all was the Harvard Freshman Smoker, an annual event attended by, and limited to, the new freshman class. There were no definitive ground rules other than its reputation for duplicating the atmosphere of a bachelor party. A hell-raiser. I began panting as soon as I learned of it.
Somehow, someway, (I feel like breaking into song) I met with and swiftly seduced the Faculty Professor in charge of the program, resulting in his proclaiming me producer, director, star and casting director of the whole damned show. I quickly set to work.
I blocked out a few skits and personally, and with great selectivity, wrote a closing scene which called for me to passionately embrace and bend-back kiss six beautiful women. The largest Boston model agency was, at that time, the Ford Agency to whom I made an in-person pitch, equating Harvard's Sanders Theatre with Hollywood's M.G.M. studios. Presto! I had recruited six gorgeous ladies who were willing not only to participate, but to arduously rehearse as well---many, many times. Nothing like preparation to quell opening night jitters. Heh, heh, heh.
But, I still needed a boffo something to bring out the Hellmann's and bring out the best. I was an ardent Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis fan and, lo-and-behold, they were playing, in person, at the Metropolitan Movie Theatre, which became the Wang Center, and then something else. My adrenaline surge was unstoppable and my ambition for the project was boundless. Another mountain top to conquer, enjoy and use as a buffer against the valleys which all-too- patiently await their turn in one's journey through
life.
Dean Martin was a charter member of Sinatra's Rat Pack which secured my support for his election to anything. His records outsold Sinatra's and his national tour with Jerry Lewis was the hottest ticket in any town. Appearing on the same bill with them was a lovely and talented songstress named Helen O'Connell. A lesser star but definitely more accessible. I put in a call to her at the Met, leaving a titled call back of "Chairman of the Harvard Freshman Smoker." Her manager returned the call and I raved about his client and how proud Harvard would be to feature her as the star of the Smoker. The planets must have been properly aligned, for he invited me backstage, the next day to speak with Ms. O'Connell, personally. Hold on world! Here I come!
At the appointed hour, there I was, in the wings of the stage, as Martin and Lewis were finishing their act. Off they came, trailed by thunderous applause, and walked past me, just inches away. Their bow ties were undone, hanging down their tuxedo lapels. I could not take my eyes off Martin. He was the handsomest man I had ever seen. Black tan, black curly hair, cuffs shot and showing a good two inches of collar accentuating his 6'3'' frame. I am secure enough in my masculinity to proclaim that he was gorgeous. There were several Boston philanthropists waiting to greet the duo but Martin literally barged through them without saying a word. They flocked to Lewis with quizzical eyes, who tried to alleviate the situation with an explanation of how tired Martin was, and the damage seemed to be curtailed. On Lewis' dressing room door was a sign reading "The Jolly Jew." Martin's said "The Gorgeous Guinea." His manager told me that Dean was truly the guy who didn't give a damn about anything, against whom Bing Crosby was a nervous wreck. In any event, he was Apollo. Helen O'Connell said yes so the show was set, except I wanted still more.
One of the most famous burlesque dancers in the country was Ms. Sally Rand. She was playing at the the Old Howard burlesque house in the legendary Scollay Square district. I went after her with the same tenacity employed with the others. She was a stripper with class, far removed from the pole dancers of today. She was a charming lady. I explained why I was seeking her out and she immediately said, "I'm in!" The show was now ready for prime time.
Sanders Theatre was packed with howling, beer-soaked wolves. They didn't applaud, they just screamed, non-stop. Word had gotten around The Yard as to the show's content and what had been a ritual of rowdy behavior was now a coliseum screaming for blood as the gladiators fought to the death. Gasoline waiting for the drop of an errant match. A riot ready to happen. The ultimate tumult. The Frankenstein monster and I was its creator.
Sally Rand was the opening act and it was like tempting Hannibal Lecter with blood. She was scantily dressed in see-through fans. I had written a few lines but it was useless trying to follow them. At one point, the fresh-animals began throwing pennies onto the stage. Bellowing beasts. Rand, ever the classy pro, picked one up, looked straight into the dark void and said, with a sneer somehow managing to be heard,"I only know of one animal that throws a scent." In that one instance, the crowd was hers. In her profession, hecklers were routine, reducing the taunts of college freshman to EZ putty. The veteran stood tall and conquered all. A masterpiece of tone limit-setting. She saved the show. At least for Helen O'Connell's appearance.
Another polished performer, she was demure and enchanting. She answered my questions with grace and aplomb. She was lovely. She even sang, a cappella, a few lines from her all-time hit,"Green Eyes." An epiphany was experienced by all: the mature sound of applause. Her years of band-singing with the likes of Jimmy Dorsey had the quality of experience that schools can never teach. She wow'ed 'em.
And then, the return of the animal kingdom. My self-authored skit with the Ford models. The scripted lines, such as they were, served only as a build to me embracing and kissing them all. In some situations a kiss is a ritual, a formal or symbolic gesture indicating devotion, respect or greeting. In this instance, it served as a call to the wild. The dormancy created by Ms. O'Connell was overcome by the primal instincts of drunken zoo-residents. The degree of ferocity increased with each model joining the congo line l'amour. At one point, these fine Harvardians began tearing out the seat cushions of the benches and hurling them onstage. All hell broke out. As difficult as it may be to believe, I was experiencing no carnality whatsoever. I just wanted to end the thing and avoid a riot. You never in your life saw such hurried kisses of beautiful women. Finally, it was over. But not without repercussions.
From that night on, and because, in part, of that night, Harvard Freshman Smokers have drastically changed. "Sex, beer and a riot" used to be a comfortable definition of this revered tradition, but no longer. If they are held at all, they are much more subdued and frequently held in a House dining room. That's cool. But, oh, what it used to be.
For my then freshman peers, it was a night to remember. For me, it was an indelible episode of life.
To put it succinctly, we all had a ball.
The ambition, the drive of youth. All challenges gingerly accepted with confidence.
If not then, when?
From the charge of being a magical thinker, I do not run and, indeed, unabashedly embrace this proclivity as a virtue, not a frailty. I suppose that, in this sense, I shall always resemble a boy with wannabe aspirations, and the never-ending feeling that the best is still yet to come. Kill me, shoot me, I'm a card carrying romanticist. So it was, in the fall of 1950.
I was a freshman at Harvard, a commuter, hanging with the Jamaica Plain Townies who rode the rails with me each day as we were deposited at the kiosk Harvard Square "T" station. The grand-daddy of all culture shocks. Our command post was the Commuter's Center which adjoined the now defunct but then legendary "Cronins", the watering hole of the entire college. Ten cent beers--"dimeys"--need I say more?
One of the many historical traditions embraced by all was the Harvard Freshman Smoker, an annual event attended by, and limited to, the new freshman class. There were no definitive ground rules other than its reputation for duplicating the atmosphere of a bachelor party. A hell-raiser. I began panting as soon as I learned of it.
Somehow, someway, (I feel like breaking into song) I met with and swiftly seduced the Faculty Professor in charge of the program, resulting in his proclaiming me producer, director, star and casting director of the whole damned show. I quickly set to work.
I blocked out a few skits and personally, and with great selectivity, wrote a closing scene which called for me to passionately embrace and bend-back kiss six beautiful women. The largest Boston model agency was, at that time, the Ford Agency to whom I made an in-person pitch, equating Harvard's Sanders Theatre with Hollywood's M.G.M. studios. Presto! I had recruited six gorgeous ladies who were willing not only to participate, but to arduously rehearse as well---many, many times. Nothing like preparation to quell opening night jitters. Heh, heh, heh.
But, I still needed a boffo something to bring out the Hellmann's and bring out the best. I was an ardent Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis fan and, lo-and-behold, they were playing, in person, at the Metropolitan Movie Theatre, which became the Wang Center, and then something else. My adrenaline surge was unstoppable and my ambition for the project was boundless. Another mountain top to conquer, enjoy and use as a buffer against the valleys which all-too- patiently await their turn in one's journey through
life.
Dean Martin was a charter member of Sinatra's Rat Pack which secured my support for his election to anything. His records outsold Sinatra's and his national tour with Jerry Lewis was the hottest ticket in any town. Appearing on the same bill with them was a lovely and talented songstress named Helen O'Connell. A lesser star but definitely more accessible. I put in a call to her at the Met, leaving a titled call back of "Chairman of the Harvard Freshman Smoker." Her manager returned the call and I raved about his client and how proud Harvard would be to feature her as the star of the Smoker. The planets must have been properly aligned, for he invited me backstage, the next day to speak with Ms. O'Connell, personally. Hold on world! Here I come!
At the appointed hour, there I was, in the wings of the stage, as Martin and Lewis were finishing their act. Off they came, trailed by thunderous applause, and walked past me, just inches away. Their bow ties were undone, hanging down their tuxedo lapels. I could not take my eyes off Martin. He was the handsomest man I had ever seen. Black tan, black curly hair, cuffs shot and showing a good two inches of collar accentuating his 6'3'' frame. I am secure enough in my masculinity to proclaim that he was gorgeous. There were several Boston philanthropists waiting to greet the duo but Martin literally barged through them without saying a word. They flocked to Lewis with quizzical eyes, who tried to alleviate the situation with an explanation of how tired Martin was, and the damage seemed to be curtailed. On Lewis' dressing room door was a sign reading "The Jolly Jew." Martin's said "The Gorgeous Guinea." His manager told me that Dean was truly the guy who didn't give a damn about anything, against whom Bing Crosby was a nervous wreck. In any event, he was Apollo. Helen O'Connell said yes so the show was set, except I wanted still more.
One of the most famous burlesque dancers in the country was Ms. Sally Rand. She was playing at the the Old Howard burlesque house in the legendary Scollay Square district. I went after her with the same tenacity employed with the others. She was a stripper with class, far removed from the pole dancers of today. She was a charming lady. I explained why I was seeking her out and she immediately said, "I'm in!" The show was now ready for prime time.
Sanders Theatre was packed with howling, beer-soaked wolves. They didn't applaud, they just screamed, non-stop. Word had gotten around The Yard as to the show's content and what had been a ritual of rowdy behavior was now a coliseum screaming for blood as the gladiators fought to the death. Gasoline waiting for the drop of an errant match. A riot ready to happen. The ultimate tumult. The Frankenstein monster and I was its creator.
Sally Rand was the opening act and it was like tempting Hannibal Lecter with blood. She was scantily dressed in see-through fans. I had written a few lines but it was useless trying to follow them. At one point, the fresh-animals began throwing pennies onto the stage. Bellowing beasts. Rand, ever the classy pro, picked one up, looked straight into the dark void and said, with a sneer somehow managing to be heard,"I only know of one animal that throws a scent." In that one instance, the crowd was hers. In her profession, hecklers were routine, reducing the taunts of college freshman to EZ putty. The veteran stood tall and conquered all. A masterpiece of tone limit-setting. She saved the show. At least for Helen O'Connell's appearance.
Another polished performer, she was demure and enchanting. She answered my questions with grace and aplomb. She was lovely. She even sang, a cappella, a few lines from her all-time hit,"Green Eyes." An epiphany was experienced by all: the mature sound of applause. Her years of band-singing with the likes of Jimmy Dorsey had the quality of experience that schools can never teach. She wow'ed 'em.
And then, the return of the animal kingdom. My self-authored skit with the Ford models. The scripted lines, such as they were, served only as a build to me embracing and kissing them all. In some situations a kiss is a ritual, a formal or symbolic gesture indicating devotion, respect or greeting. In this instance, it served as a call to the wild. The dormancy created by Ms. O'Connell was overcome by the primal instincts of drunken zoo-residents. The degree of ferocity increased with each model joining the congo line l'amour. At one point, these fine Harvardians began tearing out the seat cushions of the benches and hurling them onstage. All hell broke out. As difficult as it may be to believe, I was experiencing no carnality whatsoever. I just wanted to end the thing and avoid a riot. You never in your life saw such hurried kisses of beautiful women. Finally, it was over. But not without repercussions.
From that night on, and because, in part, of that night, Harvard Freshman Smokers have drastically changed. "Sex, beer and a riot" used to be a comfortable definition of this revered tradition, but no longer. If they are held at all, they are much more subdued and frequently held in a House dining room. That's cool. But, oh, what it used to be.
For my then freshman peers, it was a night to remember. For me, it was an indelible episode of life.
To put it succinctly, we all had a ball.
The ambition, the drive of youth. All challenges gingerly accepted with confidence.
If not then, when?
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