An article appeared in the New York Times on March 1, 2013, dealing with the Holocaust and the German people's knowledge thereof. Its bottom-line result is to belie, once and for all, the defensive response to relative inquiries of "we didn't know."
Researchers have cataloged some 42,500 ghettos and camps throughout Europe, including Germany itself, during Hitler's reign of brutality from 1933 to 1945. These numbers are staggering and much higher than originally thought. One co-researcher said the findings left no doubt in his mind that many German citizens, despite the frequent claims of ignorance after the war, must have known about the widespread existence of the Nazi camps at the time.
"You literally could not go anywhere in Germany without running into forced labor camps, P.O.W. camps, concentration camps," said Martin Dean, one of the two lead editors on the research project. "They were everywhere."
Being a revisionist or a discriminate rememberer is not peculiar to the German World War II population. Indeed, and unfortunately, many individuals wrap themselves in this protective cocoon when confronted with missteps of the past.
Professionals will tell you that this is a subconscious reaction to confrontation of prior bad acts and that, therefore, such a response is mitigated accordingly.
Hogwash. It is, pure and simple, a cop-out, designed to dodge rather than face the music.
The passage of time does not necessarily erase the hurt of having been the target or victim of misconduct. Circumstances of life have a way of conjuring up opportunities to confront the individual with his inappropriate or unacceptable behavior. More often than not, the perpetrator denies or refuses to remember the past, thus aggravating the damage occasioned thereby.
The result is an emotional stalemate.
It can be argued that to lie is preferable to not remembering, for the latter obviates closure.
Love is about feel and therefore as elusive as it is beautiful.
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Friday, March 8, 2013
THE ERA OF DRONES
Drone critics lump them with snipers and condemn both as "death out of nowhere".
Welcome to 21st-century warfare, where the nation is constantly threatened by suicide bombers who would more than fit the same description of surprise attack.
The naysayers offer no alternative as to how to combat terrorists.
This is not World War II, where the Japanese use of kamikaze pilots was a desperate combat tool as the war was winding down. For Islamic terrorists, this type of attack is their weapon of choice. We are not acting, we are reacting to an enemy fanatically sworn to wipe us out. They chose the means of warfare and we are responding in kind.
A person willing to blow himself up in order to kill Americans should not be afforded any immunity by virtue of the technical circumstance of US citizenship. Someone who is planning or has executed an attack on Americans are fair game for drone strikes. Targets are not chosen indiscriminately.
Until and unless convinced otherwise, I have complete faith in my government's ability to distinguish between a threat to our national security and an innocent bystander.
If America has become a "sniper nation", it is because that is the most effective means to effectuate the justified end of striking the enemy at hand.
And lest we forget, drones obviate putting our attack troops on the ground, in the immediate path of harm's way.
A reasonable jihadist is an oxymoron.
Welcome to 21st-century warfare, where the nation is constantly threatened by suicide bombers who would more than fit the same description of surprise attack.
The naysayers offer no alternative as to how to combat terrorists.
This is not World War II, where the Japanese use of kamikaze pilots was a desperate combat tool as the war was winding down. For Islamic terrorists, this type of attack is their weapon of choice. We are not acting, we are reacting to an enemy fanatically sworn to wipe us out. They chose the means of warfare and we are responding in kind.
A person willing to blow himself up in order to kill Americans should not be afforded any immunity by virtue of the technical circumstance of US citizenship. Someone who is planning or has executed an attack on Americans are fair game for drone strikes. Targets are not chosen indiscriminately.
Until and unless convinced otherwise, I have complete faith in my government's ability to distinguish between a threat to our national security and an innocent bystander.
If America has become a "sniper nation", it is because that is the most effective means to effectuate the justified end of striking the enemy at hand.
And lest we forget, drones obviate putting our attack troops on the ground, in the immediate path of harm's way.
A reasonable jihadist is an oxymoron.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
MAGIC SUNDAY MORNINGS
It's quarter to four and my sleep sensors advise me to pack it in before sunrise. And I will, regretfully, because I've always dug these early morning hours when, in all probability, most of evrybody else is asleep.
It's a peaceful time. The pressure of life isn't off, but it's in the tolerable stage, as if it, too, sometimes needs a break. Except for a heaven-forbid emergency, the phone won't ring and I'm just jellin' and enjoying the solitude. I'm indulging in my favorite mode of relaxation, watching a movie that is so romantic as to mess with my heart or so thrilling that it provides another way to temporarily diminish the weight of troubles. Almost like going to church, so cool it is to reason with yourself.
And the best part is that you've got thirty-six hours to pull yourself together, reset your body and brain clocks so as to make them in sync with the return to everything that comprises the pressure of rejoining society, enabling you to be ready to handle the weight of functioning. And that requires retirement at nine or ten Sunday night so as to replenish the sleep receptors and awake ready to deal with Monday morning.
But what a vacation you gave to yourself. You sat back on the most comfortable chair on the planet, activated the legs support and allowed--no, invited--the magic of movies to give you a shore pass.
And you find yourself remembering things from the past. Quite vividly in HDTV flashbacks which provide the ability to judge yourself, retrospectively, and ask the inevitable question, "Did I do the right thing?" or should I have handled it differently? How did my decisions come to effect my life and the fates of those who were, at one time or another, passing through for various periods of time.
You are your own King Solomon, resolving those issues which were the significant game changers of your story. The fog of emotion has receeded. There's more room to analyze things and it's therefore easier to distinguish the good guys from the not-so-goods. Some flunk your exam while others stand tall, smelling like roses.
You realize that everybody makes their own mistakes. Therefore the key to the code of goodness is the presence or absence of an intent to hurt others. That's the litmus test of life which enables you to differentiate the wheat from the chaff.
People don't change. They get old. Some can adapt by properly rearranging their priorities; by understanding who is bound to you by solid love, as distinguished from the counterfeits.
And if you can identify at least one such person upon whom you can always depend to love you and be there for you, luck has touched your life.
For me, that person is my blood.
My lids are getting heavy now--it's a quarter to five --and I always beat the sun.
Early Sunday mornings are magic time.
An atmosphere for remembering, reviewing, analyzing and turning the hourglass over.
And the beauty of it is that you can reconsider your thoughts and modify or even reverse your decisions.
For, after all, am I not talking about matters of the heart?
It's a peaceful time. The pressure of life isn't off, but it's in the tolerable stage, as if it, too, sometimes needs a break. Except for a heaven-forbid emergency, the phone won't ring and I'm just jellin' and enjoying the solitude. I'm indulging in my favorite mode of relaxation, watching a movie that is so romantic as to mess with my heart or so thrilling that it provides another way to temporarily diminish the weight of troubles. Almost like going to church, so cool it is to reason with yourself.
And the best part is that you've got thirty-six hours to pull yourself together, reset your body and brain clocks so as to make them in sync with the return to everything that comprises the pressure of rejoining society, enabling you to be ready to handle the weight of functioning. And that requires retirement at nine or ten Sunday night so as to replenish the sleep receptors and awake ready to deal with Monday morning.
But what a vacation you gave to yourself. You sat back on the most comfortable chair on the planet, activated the legs support and allowed--no, invited--the magic of movies to give you a shore pass.
And you find yourself remembering things from the past. Quite vividly in HDTV flashbacks which provide the ability to judge yourself, retrospectively, and ask the inevitable question, "Did I do the right thing?" or should I have handled it differently? How did my decisions come to effect my life and the fates of those who were, at one time or another, passing through for various periods of time.
You are your own King Solomon, resolving those issues which were the significant game changers of your story. The fog of emotion has receeded. There's more room to analyze things and it's therefore easier to distinguish the good guys from the not-so-goods. Some flunk your exam while others stand tall, smelling like roses.
You realize that everybody makes their own mistakes. Therefore the key to the code of goodness is the presence or absence of an intent to hurt others. That's the litmus test of life which enables you to differentiate the wheat from the chaff.
People don't change. They get old. Some can adapt by properly rearranging their priorities; by understanding who is bound to you by solid love, as distinguished from the counterfeits.
And if you can identify at least one such person upon whom you can always depend to love you and be there for you, luck has touched your life.
For me, that person is my blood.
My lids are getting heavy now--it's a quarter to five --and I always beat the sun.
Early Sunday mornings are magic time.
An atmosphere for remembering, reviewing, analyzing and turning the hourglass over.
And the beauty of it is that you can reconsider your thoughts and modify or even reverse your decisions.
For, after all, am I not talking about matters of the heart?
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
TRIAL SCARS
They are permanent. They do not go away. Forgetting is impossible. You can only learn and avoid.
I was practicing in Tucson, Arizona. The papers were ablaze with the indictment of a man for allegedly murdering his wife. First degree type.
The factual claim was that he shot her with a shotgun in the living room of their home. I was still a rope-climber, getting known bit by bit, with two homicide trials already on my resume. This one had the unequivocal scent of of a publicity ride, start to finish. I was young, hungry and brave. I was living in a warm place, surrounded by mountains with all aspects of life sounding in romance.
I, a Pisces, wanted the case. Ain't no mountain high enough.
I visited him it the jail on the night of his arrest. He was to appear in court the next day. "Indigent" was the kindest adjective to be attributed. The poor guy was lost, unable to comprehend what was happening to him. He lived on the outskirts of town, at the end of an unpaved road which met the desert. He explained that he had been cleaning his gun when it accidentally discharged, hitting his wife who was sitting across the room. You couldn't exactly get a patent on that one.
I would deal with the facts later. My Billy-The-Kid mentality was focused on the juice which would emanate from being his attorney. He would certainly qualify for a court appointed lawyer, but everyone on that list would be drooling for the case, same as me. The situation called for creativity.
During this initial meeting, it was obvious that he was impressed with me and would be thrilled to have me represent him. Playing to this sentiment, I proposed a scenario for his arraignment the following morning. I instructed him that, when the Judge asked him if he could afford his own counsel, he was to respond, "I'd like you to appoint Gerald Alch to represent me. I want to put my life in his hands."
He did as he was told and I was court-appointed to defend him. You can only imagine the voracious appetite with which the press devoured that one. Front page headlines. The reporters, whom I had befriended as a member of the Tucson Press Club, inwardly chuckled as they fanned the flames of my ambition and desire for maximum public illumination.
This was back in 1962, when Tucson had not yet been transformed by metropolitanism and the pipeline of societal gossip was fast and furious. The combination of my testosterone and view of life as a challenging adventure made for a perfect storm of exciting ambition. My conscience was clean for, above all, I was determined to go all out, to devote all of my energy and dedication in my client's defense. The paltry sum derived from court-appointed fees was immaterial. I was doing what I loved and what I was damn good at. I have personal knowledge of famous, outstanding attorneys taking cases for little or no money, the lure of daily coverage being so seductive. No conflict here, please understand, for the investment of heart and soul emotion effectuates the lawyers best effort. He wants to win, quite feverishly, which, ultimately, is good for the client. Criminal defense attorneys will most easily understand this insatiable appetite for media coverage. Like the spots of a leopard. Goes with the territory. Juice.
I prepared, covering every aspect.. I went to the scene of the crime and mentally choreographed my client's version as to how the gun was discharged. I spent two full days at the Pima County Courthouse library immersing myself into a case-law review of everything in any way related to the elements of the varying degrees of homicide. An overkill to be sure, but completely consistent with my fanaticism for proper preparation. I had sought this one, recognized the inherent craved-for media attention it would inure and wanted to be ready, for my sake as well as my client's.
The trial commenced to a packed courtroom, which was to be a constant throughout. Tucson was still a relatively small town and this case was, as correctly presumed, an attention grabber. No ambushes took me by surprise. I was scoring my points. Preparation was paying off.
The papers afforded daily coverage and even the legal community was stopping in to catch a glimpse. I have always preached that closing arguments were the moment of truth. The lawyer meeting the challenge of persuading the jury to see things his way. A captive audience. The merchant of endorphins. Lord, was I ready.
SRO. Even wall space was taken. And I went to town.
Bullet notes were ignored. No need. I was soaring. Unplanned phrases presented themselves, straight from heaven. It happens sometimes, like that. And this was the ultimate litigator's high. I ended, as planned, standing behind my client's chair, with my hands on his shoulders, a tangible demonstration of my support.
I looked at the Judge and, with confident determination, proclaimed, "That's all I have, Your Honor."
Silence. I mean not a sound. The moment was frozen. After several seconds, it was the Judge who reset the play button.
"The Court will stand in recess for ten minutes."
Everyone filed out with nary a sound. I stepped into the lobby, receiving congratulations which I politely dismissed as premature. I was beginning to settle down when the Court Officer advised me that counsel were wanted in the Judge's lobby. He spoke to me, directly.
"Gerry, I would, at this juncture, be willing to accept a guilty plea to involuntary manslaughter and I have reason to believe that the prosecutor will not object."
The D.A.'s face was white, drained of color. He nodded affirmatively.
My mind went into overdrive trying to figure out just what was happening here. Was this the Judge's initiative and, if so, why? Had the D.A. somehow made this suggestion through the clerk?
And now, we come back to me. A kid, really, as I look back at it now. Adventuresome, living life as a movie with a background orchestra permeating every scene. My adrenalin was still roaring from the final argument high. I glanced at my watch. It was noon. There was plenty of time for the prosecutor to give his final argument, the Judge instruct the jury and give it to them with the effect of my closing still in their minds.
Reason was outweighed by the exhilaration of winning, which was so close, I could touch it.
"Let me discuss it with my client, Your Honor, and I'll get right back to you." But my mind was already made up. I was going for it. I wanted an acquittal.
I explained the situation to my client and his response was no surprise.
"What whatever you say, Mr. Alch, what ever you say."
The trial proceeded. The D.A.'s closing was professorial in tone. He used a blackboard and a pointer to present, in lecture form, the elements of the offense charged and how he had successfully met his burden of proof. Nothing dramatic or bombastic, in complete contrast to my presentation. When he finished, the Judge charged the jury but decided that it was too late in the day for them to begin deliberations and Court was adjourned until the following morning.
That night, my thought process was osmotically pulverized. My opponents closing had made sense, analyzing it without emotion. Was the overnight hiatus going to dissipate the effect of my emotional presentation? I began to experience the symptoms of a panic attack, but I indulged in heavy self-therapy and finally sleep got me through the night.
The jury deliberated for seven hours and returned a verdict of murder in the second degree.
To this day, I have not the slightest difficulty in remembering my reaction. "Guilt" doesn't do it justice. My conscience ravaged me. I had to deal with it subjectively and not let on as to my internal chaos. A trial lawyer is always on stage and must conduct himself consistent with his persona being constantly scrutinized. My discussion with my client was very, very difficult. But as I explained it to him, I was explaining it to myself. After all, the parole eligibility date between manslaughter and second degree was not necessarily substantially different, depending on what the sentence would have been on the former, and who can really figure a jury anyway, etc, etc. But it was a long time before I could fully rationalize what had happened.
It had been a tough call. Had I taken the deal, I would undoubtedly have second guessed myself for letting a not guilty get away. The overnight factor between closings and deliberations will forever be the unknown factor and that uncertainty is indelible.
Till this day, I wonder what if.....
One saving grace: I did what I thought was best for the client and had given it my all.
His factual guilt or innocence had not been in play.
You're supposed to take your best shot and not look back.
Easier said.
You live and learn.
I was practicing in Tucson, Arizona. The papers were ablaze with the indictment of a man for allegedly murdering his wife. First degree type.
The factual claim was that he shot her with a shotgun in the living room of their home. I was still a rope-climber, getting known bit by bit, with two homicide trials already on my resume. This one had the unequivocal scent of of a publicity ride, start to finish. I was young, hungry and brave. I was living in a warm place, surrounded by mountains with all aspects of life sounding in romance.
I, a Pisces, wanted the case. Ain't no mountain high enough.
I visited him it the jail on the night of his arrest. He was to appear in court the next day. "Indigent" was the kindest adjective to be attributed. The poor guy was lost, unable to comprehend what was happening to him. He lived on the outskirts of town, at the end of an unpaved road which met the desert. He explained that he had been cleaning his gun when it accidentally discharged, hitting his wife who was sitting across the room. You couldn't exactly get a patent on that one.
I would deal with the facts later. My Billy-The-Kid mentality was focused on the juice which would emanate from being his attorney. He would certainly qualify for a court appointed lawyer, but everyone on that list would be drooling for the case, same as me. The situation called for creativity.
During this initial meeting, it was obvious that he was impressed with me and would be thrilled to have me represent him. Playing to this sentiment, I proposed a scenario for his arraignment the following morning. I instructed him that, when the Judge asked him if he could afford his own counsel, he was to respond, "I'd like you to appoint Gerald Alch to represent me. I want to put my life in his hands."
He did as he was told and I was court-appointed to defend him. You can only imagine the voracious appetite with which the press devoured that one. Front page headlines. The reporters, whom I had befriended as a member of the Tucson Press Club, inwardly chuckled as they fanned the flames of my ambition and desire for maximum public illumination.
This was back in 1962, when Tucson had not yet been transformed by metropolitanism and the pipeline of societal gossip was fast and furious. The combination of my testosterone and view of life as a challenging adventure made for a perfect storm of exciting ambition. My conscience was clean for, above all, I was determined to go all out, to devote all of my energy and dedication in my client's defense. The paltry sum derived from court-appointed fees was immaterial. I was doing what I loved and what I was damn good at. I have personal knowledge of famous, outstanding attorneys taking cases for little or no money, the lure of daily coverage being so seductive. No conflict here, please understand, for the investment of heart and soul emotion effectuates the lawyers best effort. He wants to win, quite feverishly, which, ultimately, is good for the client. Criminal defense attorneys will most easily understand this insatiable appetite for media coverage. Like the spots of a leopard. Goes with the territory. Juice.
I prepared, covering every aspect.. I went to the scene of the crime and mentally choreographed my client's version as to how the gun was discharged. I spent two full days at the Pima County Courthouse library immersing myself into a case-law review of everything in any way related to the elements of the varying degrees of homicide. An overkill to be sure, but completely consistent with my fanaticism for proper preparation. I had sought this one, recognized the inherent craved-for media attention it would inure and wanted to be ready, for my sake as well as my client's.
The trial commenced to a packed courtroom, which was to be a constant throughout. Tucson was still a relatively small town and this case was, as correctly presumed, an attention grabber. No ambushes took me by surprise. I was scoring my points. Preparation was paying off.
The papers afforded daily coverage and even the legal community was stopping in to catch a glimpse. I have always preached that closing arguments were the moment of truth. The lawyer meeting the challenge of persuading the jury to see things his way. A captive audience. The merchant of endorphins. Lord, was I ready.
SRO. Even wall space was taken. And I went to town.
Bullet notes were ignored. No need. I was soaring. Unplanned phrases presented themselves, straight from heaven. It happens sometimes, like that. And this was the ultimate litigator's high. I ended, as planned, standing behind my client's chair, with my hands on his shoulders, a tangible demonstration of my support.
I looked at the Judge and, with confident determination, proclaimed, "That's all I have, Your Honor."
Silence. I mean not a sound. The moment was frozen. After several seconds, it was the Judge who reset the play button.
"The Court will stand in recess for ten minutes."
Everyone filed out with nary a sound. I stepped into the lobby, receiving congratulations which I politely dismissed as premature. I was beginning to settle down when the Court Officer advised me that counsel were wanted in the Judge's lobby. He spoke to me, directly.
"Gerry, I would, at this juncture, be willing to accept a guilty plea to involuntary manslaughter and I have reason to believe that the prosecutor will not object."
The D.A.'s face was white, drained of color. He nodded affirmatively.
My mind went into overdrive trying to figure out just what was happening here. Was this the Judge's initiative and, if so, why? Had the D.A. somehow made this suggestion through the clerk?
And now, we come back to me. A kid, really, as I look back at it now. Adventuresome, living life as a movie with a background orchestra permeating every scene. My adrenalin was still roaring from the final argument high. I glanced at my watch. It was noon. There was plenty of time for the prosecutor to give his final argument, the Judge instruct the jury and give it to them with the effect of my closing still in their minds.
Reason was outweighed by the exhilaration of winning, which was so close, I could touch it.
"Let me discuss it with my client, Your Honor, and I'll get right back to you." But my mind was already made up. I was going for it. I wanted an acquittal.
I explained the situation to my client and his response was no surprise.
"What whatever you say, Mr. Alch, what ever you say."
The trial proceeded. The D.A.'s closing was professorial in tone. He used a blackboard and a pointer to present, in lecture form, the elements of the offense charged and how he had successfully met his burden of proof. Nothing dramatic or bombastic, in complete contrast to my presentation. When he finished, the Judge charged the jury but decided that it was too late in the day for them to begin deliberations and Court was adjourned until the following morning.
That night, my thought process was osmotically pulverized. My opponents closing had made sense, analyzing it without emotion. Was the overnight hiatus going to dissipate the effect of my emotional presentation? I began to experience the symptoms of a panic attack, but I indulged in heavy self-therapy and finally sleep got me through the night.
The jury deliberated for seven hours and returned a verdict of murder in the second degree.
To this day, I have not the slightest difficulty in remembering my reaction. "Guilt" doesn't do it justice. My conscience ravaged me. I had to deal with it subjectively and not let on as to my internal chaos. A trial lawyer is always on stage and must conduct himself consistent with his persona being constantly scrutinized. My discussion with my client was very, very difficult. But as I explained it to him, I was explaining it to myself. After all, the parole eligibility date between manslaughter and second degree was not necessarily substantially different, depending on what the sentence would have been on the former, and who can really figure a jury anyway, etc, etc. But it was a long time before I could fully rationalize what had happened.
It had been a tough call. Had I taken the deal, I would undoubtedly have second guessed myself for letting a not guilty get away. The overnight factor between closings and deliberations will forever be the unknown factor and that uncertainty is indelible.
Till this day, I wonder what if.....
One saving grace: I did what I thought was best for the client and had given it my all.
His factual guilt or innocence had not been in play.
You're supposed to take your best shot and not look back.
Easier said.
You live and learn.
Sunday, February 17, 2013
A DAY WITH MY SON
I love him with all of my heart and soul.
It's much more than him being biologically connected. We are so alike, so on each other's frequency, that there are many times I find myself talking to the other half of me. In eleven days, I'll be celebrating my eightieth birthday while he is three months away from turning forty-five. And, yet, there is no age barrier. Just the opposite, in fact. His thought process is so fast that I sometimes have to hang on to maintain the pace, lest he lose me.
He's quicker than me and smarter than me. I spent many years as a stand-up comic and am told was pretty good. He forayed into the business as a rock-and-roller, the lead vocalist of his own bands----THE DUCKTAPE MESSIAHS AND THE STANDING HAMPTONS. They did covers and swung their own songs, as well. Thus, we have both been bitten by the incurable showbiz bug, and although that accounts for some of our homogenization, there's much more involved here.
Yesterday, we went shopping, more in the spirit of a social activity than a chore, and what a wonderful, gloriously unanticipated day it turned out to be. He kept breaking me up-I mean bent over in hysterics- because his humor was so out there, so on the money, so mentally quick that he wowed me over and over again. But it was more than just a laughing experience, it was the opening of a door to past--flashbacks of so many indelible images which permeate my mind in repose.
Watching him perform on stage, all the way from a local drinking pub, to a more significant level of Downtown Boston clubs where he changed his art style to THE GREAT AMERICAN SONGBOOK, backed by a trio of able and hip musicians, hand-picked by him. And, then, when the Wynn Hotel opened in Vegas, he headlined the Parasol Lounge with an even more talented group of players with whom he became so musically tight, that they would read his every next move in advance, to the point where they were having more of a ball than the happy dancers, swinging and singing along. And there I sat, at a front row table, courtesy of him, of course, and just watched, marveled and submersed in pride at how talented he was with a second-to-only Sinatra voice and the ability to charm his audience with inner-soul repartee. These sunshine memories are mine forever, collected as the treasures of life which they so surely are.
They always occupy center stage when I'm with him, for they are integral to understanding the perpetual permeation of my soul with love for him.
Humor is the key, never letting emotions get corny, but rather allowing us to converse in half-completed sentences because we each know where the other is going after the first word or two.
To laugh with someone you love and be invigorated by his quick acuity, is the rejuvenation of all available endorphins.
He gave me an unscripted day of love and kindness.
My younger clone.
It was in the wee small hours of the morning when we said goodnight, after spending three hours sharing love with his darling toy fox terrier (Bridgette), and I fell asleep at the crack of dawn. Woke up early, still psyched, and rushed to get this all down.
My son gave me a wonderful day and it was apparent that he dug it too.
That's something money can't buy.
That smacks of the Hand of God.
I'm a blessed and lucky man.
My love for my son is limitless. Ain't no tape measure long enough.
And when I indulge in too much kvelling, Darin keeps the train on the light, right track by simply replying, "We had fun." And I am reminded that his persona is embedded in the Kingdom of Cool.
Wow.
It's much more than him being biologically connected. We are so alike, so on each other's frequency, that there are many times I find myself talking to the other half of me. In eleven days, I'll be celebrating my eightieth birthday while he is three months away from turning forty-five. And, yet, there is no age barrier. Just the opposite, in fact. His thought process is so fast that I sometimes have to hang on to maintain the pace, lest he lose me.
He's quicker than me and smarter than me. I spent many years as a stand-up comic and am told was pretty good. He forayed into the business as a rock-and-roller, the lead vocalist of his own bands----THE DUCKTAPE MESSIAHS AND THE STANDING HAMPTONS. They did covers and swung their own songs, as well. Thus, we have both been bitten by the incurable showbiz bug, and although that accounts for some of our homogenization, there's much more involved here.
Yesterday, we went shopping, more in the spirit of a social activity than a chore, and what a wonderful, gloriously unanticipated day it turned out to be. He kept breaking me up-I mean bent over in hysterics- because his humor was so out there, so on the money, so mentally quick that he wowed me over and over again. But it was more than just a laughing experience, it was the opening of a door to past--flashbacks of so many indelible images which permeate my mind in repose.
Watching him perform on stage, all the way from a local drinking pub, to a more significant level of Downtown Boston clubs where he changed his art style to THE GREAT AMERICAN SONGBOOK, backed by a trio of able and hip musicians, hand-picked by him. And, then, when the Wynn Hotel opened in Vegas, he headlined the Parasol Lounge with an even more talented group of players with whom he became so musically tight, that they would read his every next move in advance, to the point where they were having more of a ball than the happy dancers, swinging and singing along. And there I sat, at a front row table, courtesy of him, of course, and just watched, marveled and submersed in pride at how talented he was with a second-to-only Sinatra voice and the ability to charm his audience with inner-soul repartee. These sunshine memories are mine forever, collected as the treasures of life which they so surely are.
They always occupy center stage when I'm with him, for they are integral to understanding the perpetual permeation of my soul with love for him.
Humor is the key, never letting emotions get corny, but rather allowing us to converse in half-completed sentences because we each know where the other is going after the first word or two.
To laugh with someone you love and be invigorated by his quick acuity, is the rejuvenation of all available endorphins.
He gave me an unscripted day of love and kindness.
My younger clone.
It was in the wee small hours of the morning when we said goodnight, after spending three hours sharing love with his darling toy fox terrier (Bridgette), and I fell asleep at the crack of dawn. Woke up early, still psyched, and rushed to get this all down.
My son gave me a wonderful day and it was apparent that he dug it too.
That's something money can't buy.
That smacks of the Hand of God.
I'm a blessed and lucky man.
My love for my son is limitless. Ain't no tape measure long enough.
And when I indulge in too much kvelling, Darin keeps the train on the light, right track by simply replying, "We had fun." And I am reminded that his persona is embedded in the Kingdom of Cool.
Wow.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
STOP THE PETRAEUS CRUCIFIXION
The man is, after all, a human being.
When a man and a woman are in constant contact with each other, chemistry often takes over. Especially if one of them is exceptionally physically attractive. The human animal is in us all. The sex drive was born with Adam. Amazingly, adultery, in many states, is still a crime, though criminal prosecutions are rare.
Adultery is and should remain grounds for divorce--but without being a crime. It is a clear violation of the contractual obligation between a married couple and rather obvious evidence of a loss of intimacy and fidelity. It, however, occurs too frequently in our society to be swept under the rug of non-recognition. It is a primal instinct but, inconsistently, carries with it the stigma of the Scarlet Letter. Its frequency brings into play its allure and consequences.
My personal belief is that if you are in love with your spouse, you should remain faithful regardless of the temptations that will surely come your way.
During my 42 years of marriage, trying criminal cases nationwide, many opportunities presented themselves, but I, almost fanatically and religiously, never cheated on my wife. Never. Not even a kiss, a flirtation of any kind--I indulged in none of that, for I strictly adhered to the loyalty of fidelity. I deemed it to be the most important foundation of my marriage, a violation of which, by either partner, would forever and irreparably shatter the union. This was a ground rule in which I was emotionally vested--no exceptions allowed. It was an obsession with me.
But now, looking back, I realize that, although I was not wrong, I was very, very naive. Still am.
When two people find themselves in almost daily contact with each other, it frequently happens that a physical attraction evolves. The question thus posed is do you give into this desire, even once?
I now understand that a person can indulge in extramarital sex and simply walk away from it without any pains of conscience. I can't but others can.
Others find themselves so infatuated with the fire of new sex, the intoxocation with the ilicity of it, that they participate in an affair, as opposed to a one-night-stand (for fidelity purposes, I make no distinction). This may involve the consideration of divorce and remarriage. Blame it on a desire for what was once but no longer is, or the actual blooming of true love, or what ever---but it is a very serious matter with much potential for emotional collateral damage.
I am not that type of person. Even though I might accept the fact that my spouse may have erred in this regard, without the involvment of love and unaccompanied by any lessoning of love for me--the marriage, for me, is over. Kaput. And all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put Humpty Dumpty back together again. But again, that's who I am. I do not impose this personal standard of conduct on others, in a judgemental way. To each his own, for I readilly admit to being obsessive-compulsive in this regard. I'll stay with my own set of rules, thank you very much, yet my astonishment at those who can indulge, walk away and never look back will never diminish. I can understand their outlook on all of this---but it ain't for me. My spouse cheats just one time, with no romance or love involved, and it's divorce time. I'm just not built thst way.
Which brings us back to General Petraeus. He has resigned as head of the CIA because of an extramarital affair he had with his biographer. She is a strikingly beatiful and sexy woman. It is not difficult to understand his attraction to her in the circumstance of long hours working together. His immediate physical appearance does not, at first glance, match hers, but power is an aphrodesiac and he is a most powerful man. It is not difficult to explain the how and why of the mutual attraction.
The General, gallantly, did not name his paramour, although the press revealed her identity, almost instantaneously. He said that he loved his wife of 37 years, and I'm sure he does. Whether he is in love with her is another question altogether.
He misstepped and is accepting the consequences. His infidelity should, in no way, tarnish his iconic status as a hero and patriot. He has not become "disgraced". His type of discretion is too common. It transcends all walks of life. Me and my fanaticism does not, I suggest, a majority view make.
The media shall be inundated with all sorts of conspiracy and covert theories supposedly underlining the "real" circumstances attending the General's resignation. Don't buy it.
The bottom line: he became infatuated with a very attractive woman and succombed. He is paying the price.
The price does not embrace his heroic service to his country. We should have an army of Petraeuses.
Lay off the guy.
If I can, my puritanical views notwithstanding, so can you
All the same, if I were married to the him, I'd walk away and burn the bridge.
But, that's just me.
At least I practice what I preach, at the cost perhaps, of being a romantic fool.
When a man and a woman are in constant contact with each other, chemistry often takes over. Especially if one of them is exceptionally physically attractive. The human animal is in us all. The sex drive was born with Adam. Amazingly, adultery, in many states, is still a crime, though criminal prosecutions are rare.
Adultery is and should remain grounds for divorce--but without being a crime. It is a clear violation of the contractual obligation between a married couple and rather obvious evidence of a loss of intimacy and fidelity. It, however, occurs too frequently in our society to be swept under the rug of non-recognition. It is a primal instinct but, inconsistently, carries with it the stigma of the Scarlet Letter. Its frequency brings into play its allure and consequences.
My personal belief is that if you are in love with your spouse, you should remain faithful regardless of the temptations that will surely come your way.
During my 42 years of marriage, trying criminal cases nationwide, many opportunities presented themselves, but I, almost fanatically and religiously, never cheated on my wife. Never. Not even a kiss, a flirtation of any kind--I indulged in none of that, for I strictly adhered to the loyalty of fidelity. I deemed it to be the most important foundation of my marriage, a violation of which, by either partner, would forever and irreparably shatter the union. This was a ground rule in which I was emotionally vested--no exceptions allowed. It was an obsession with me.
But now, looking back, I realize that, although I was not wrong, I was very, very naive. Still am.
When two people find themselves in almost daily contact with each other, it frequently happens that a physical attraction evolves. The question thus posed is do you give into this desire, even once?
I now understand that a person can indulge in extramarital sex and simply walk away from it without any pains of conscience. I can't but others can.
Others find themselves so infatuated with the fire of new sex, the intoxocation with the ilicity of it, that they participate in an affair, as opposed to a one-night-stand (for fidelity purposes, I make no distinction). This may involve the consideration of divorce and remarriage. Blame it on a desire for what was once but no longer is, or the actual blooming of true love, or what ever---but it is a very serious matter with much potential for emotional collateral damage.
I am not that type of person. Even though I might accept the fact that my spouse may have erred in this regard, without the involvment of love and unaccompanied by any lessoning of love for me--the marriage, for me, is over. Kaput. And all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put Humpty Dumpty back together again. But again, that's who I am. I do not impose this personal standard of conduct on others, in a judgemental way. To each his own, for I readilly admit to being obsessive-compulsive in this regard. I'll stay with my own set of rules, thank you very much, yet my astonishment at those who can indulge, walk away and never look back will never diminish. I can understand their outlook on all of this---but it ain't for me. My spouse cheats just one time, with no romance or love involved, and it's divorce time. I'm just not built thst way.
Which brings us back to General Petraeus. He has resigned as head of the CIA because of an extramarital affair he had with his biographer. She is a strikingly beatiful and sexy woman. It is not difficult to understand his attraction to her in the circumstance of long hours working together. His immediate physical appearance does not, at first glance, match hers, but power is an aphrodesiac and he is a most powerful man. It is not difficult to explain the how and why of the mutual attraction.
The General, gallantly, did not name his paramour, although the press revealed her identity, almost instantaneously. He said that he loved his wife of 37 years, and I'm sure he does. Whether he is in love with her is another question altogether.
He misstepped and is accepting the consequences. His infidelity should, in no way, tarnish his iconic status as a hero and patriot. He has not become "disgraced". His type of discretion is too common. It transcends all walks of life. Me and my fanaticism does not, I suggest, a majority view make.
The media shall be inundated with all sorts of conspiracy and covert theories supposedly underlining the "real" circumstances attending the General's resignation. Don't buy it.
The bottom line: he became infatuated with a very attractive woman and succombed. He is paying the price.
The price does not embrace his heroic service to his country. We should have an army of Petraeuses.
Lay off the guy.
If I can, my puritanical views notwithstanding, so can you
All the same, if I were married to the him, I'd walk away and burn the bridge.
But, that's just me.
At least I practice what I preach, at the cost perhaps, of being a romantic fool.
TOO FEW CAME TO THE PARTY
It was Romney's for the taking but he blew it. Obama's weak spot was the economy. He could not achieve an upturn because the Big Boys wouldn't let him. I'm talking about the movers and shakers who control the money flow and cause stock market fluctuations within a 24 hour period. They sat on their cash (except for political shadowed donations) and froze the economy, the job seekers be damned. If Romney had won, the market would have spiked and euphoria would have permeated public opinion. And that would have been a good thing. So, why did Romney lose?
Harken back to 2011, when Obama and Speaker John Boehner attempted to effectuate a grand bargain which would alleviate the debt ceiling crisis and avoid plummeting over the fiscal cliff. Many Democrats were furious with the President, alleging that he had given away too much. Notwithstanding the failure to close the deal, Obama demonstrated that he is not, by any means, an ultra liberal. He is, first and foremost, a pragmatist. He "gets" the big picture and is prepared to embrace the predicate of politics, to wit, the necessity to compromise. This was an anathema to the radical right wing of the Republican party, a lunatic fringe calling itself the Tea Party.
The notion of reason was scorned and abandoned. These true believers were willing to let the country sink rather than compromise on anything. They were and are the most unreasonable of men. They fashion themselves as patriots but are, instead, lunatics. But, they controlled the House of Representatives and, clinging to their self-annointed mandate, wouldn't yield an inch.
They closely monitored the Republican nomination process and were ready to crucify any candidate who swerved off their course. Romney is not one of them, but was afraid to take any position which might cause alienation. So, he embraced their principles, secured their backing and won the nomination. The general campaign was, however, a different scenario.
Romney, correctly realizing that Tea Party tenets did not represent the electorate majority, held himself out to be a moderate Republican. But he was trapped by his Tea Party utterances during the nomination fight. Inconsistencies sprang up everywhere, providing the Democrats with a plethora of destructive ammunition. Romney responded by "modifying" his stances, effectuating the indelible brand of "flip-flopper."
Further, his positions on womens' rights turned them into ferocious adversaries. His immigration policies cost him the Hispanic and Latino vote. His failure to release more than 2 years of tax returns fed the notion that he was an arrogant rich/fat cat completely out of touch with the middle class. This list of missteps is endless. Blame poor advice or personal misjudgment, he turned off the majority of American voters. This type of political blundering does not bode well for an aspiring President.
Romney is not a demon. He is a good man who failed to eradicate the notion that he is a danger to the middle class. Had he been elected, he would have allocated to the states the supervision and control of those affairs of life in which the federal government should be the primary mover. Save for the economy, he would have led us down some very precarious paths.
When Obama uses the tools of compromise and reason to reach legislative agreements with Republicans--and he will--the economy will favorably respond, accordingly.
The super-rich lost but, worry not, they shall survive. Despite all the money at their disposal, they have presumably learned that elections can't be bought.
The seeds of the Romney failure were sown in Tea Party fields.
History will show Obama to have been a most able president.
The very near future will show that the better man won.
'Tis a good thing that has happened.
Romney is President of White Male America. He wooed them. He won them. And lost the election.
(for cp)
Harken back to 2011, when Obama and Speaker John Boehner attempted to effectuate a grand bargain which would alleviate the debt ceiling crisis and avoid plummeting over the fiscal cliff. Many Democrats were furious with the President, alleging that he had given away too much. Notwithstanding the failure to close the deal, Obama demonstrated that he is not, by any means, an ultra liberal. He is, first and foremost, a pragmatist. He "gets" the big picture and is prepared to embrace the predicate of politics, to wit, the necessity to compromise. This was an anathema to the radical right wing of the Republican party, a lunatic fringe calling itself the Tea Party.
The notion of reason was scorned and abandoned. These true believers were willing to let the country sink rather than compromise on anything. They were and are the most unreasonable of men. They fashion themselves as patriots but are, instead, lunatics. But, they controlled the House of Representatives and, clinging to their self-annointed mandate, wouldn't yield an inch.
They closely monitored the Republican nomination process and were ready to crucify any candidate who swerved off their course. Romney is not one of them, but was afraid to take any position which might cause alienation. So, he embraced their principles, secured their backing and won the nomination. The general campaign was, however, a different scenario.
Romney, correctly realizing that Tea Party tenets did not represent the electorate majority, held himself out to be a moderate Republican. But he was trapped by his Tea Party utterances during the nomination fight. Inconsistencies sprang up everywhere, providing the Democrats with a plethora of destructive ammunition. Romney responded by "modifying" his stances, effectuating the indelible brand of "flip-flopper."
Further, his positions on womens' rights turned them into ferocious adversaries. His immigration policies cost him the Hispanic and Latino vote. His failure to release more than 2 years of tax returns fed the notion that he was an arrogant rich/fat cat completely out of touch with the middle class. This list of missteps is endless. Blame poor advice or personal misjudgment, he turned off the majority of American voters. This type of political blundering does not bode well for an aspiring President.
Romney is not a demon. He is a good man who failed to eradicate the notion that he is a danger to the middle class. Had he been elected, he would have allocated to the states the supervision and control of those affairs of life in which the federal government should be the primary mover. Save for the economy, he would have led us down some very precarious paths.
When Obama uses the tools of compromise and reason to reach legislative agreements with Republicans--and he will--the economy will favorably respond, accordingly.
The super-rich lost but, worry not, they shall survive. Despite all the money at their disposal, they have presumably learned that elections can't be bought.
The seeds of the Romney failure were sown in Tea Party fields.
History will show Obama to have been a most able president.
The very near future will show that the better man won.
'Tis a good thing that has happened.
Romney is President of White Male America. He wooed them. He won them. And lost the election.
(for cp)
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