It was a beautiful sunny afternoon in April and all that separated the doorway between this life and the next was an innocuous, olive green mailbox.  A step either to the left or right and some really important stuff changed.  Death ruined a sweet party with no one having the chance to merely step to safety.  No reason, but plenty of unfairness and hurt.

We are now two weeks into living the Boston terror attacks either first hand or through the barrage of local and national media coverage.  Lives and the way people live them were changed inexorably.  The bomb blasts froze space and time, the killer sociopaths not caring about victims or how many would die.

Business stopped, blood flowed, and evil put some temporary points on the board.  The most horrible and hard fought of points.

A sweet eight-year-old boy took what was his most fateful step without a care in this world, thinking only of walking a few yards from his secure spot into the street to high-five and hug his dad who was nearing the end of his twenty-six mile run.

Serious questions about security, personal freedoms, religious fanaticism and political correctness abound with no direct or easy answers. But there is something we can all agree on.  Life involves a delicate, complex, synergistic series of random steps taken by us, by those who would do us harm, and most critically by those who love and care for us, even those whom we do not know.

The steps of the first responders and ordinary citizens rushing into the blast sites to apply tourniquets, evacuate victims and get them to hospitals opened a path through the darkness.  Steps taken by law enforcement to capture the killers and keep the community safe, the tireless work of doctors and nurses using their skills and determination to save so many, the comfort of clergy, counselors and regular folks from all corners offering prayer, financial help and friendship—all steps that illustrate the essence of goodness that will always triumph over cruelty.

So that’s my takeaway.  We all advance thousands of steps, most of them robotically as we go about our daily routine.  No one knows where an innocent left or right turn will lead us.  What we do know,  and it was so evident in the wake of the marathon attacks, is that with the conscious desire to help others in need and the extension of kindness, good things result and those results multiply.

But for a single step our lives may change in an instant.  For the future, I pray that these steps—yours, mine and those of others—lead us in the only way that makes sense…in the right direction.

Sure the calendar says spring but as of this writing, my ice-dam prevention roof wires (that haven’t stopped ice dams on the ceiling three years running) are still abuzz with current, these hands of mine are sandpaper-rough and there’s nary a thought of venturing out to check the gas stove battered by weather on the backyard deck.  The snow has finally melted enough that if I stare out the back window I can make out the vestiges of my once glorious cooking machine.  Thankfully, the old girl is still standing after the winter of our discontent but it (as is the case with its owner) appears far from burger ready.

Fifty four winters for me now and for some reason this one ranks as one of my least favorite.  We had a real honest to goodness blizzard but we’ve had them before and many have been worse.  It’s been chilling but not the coldest season on record.  So what gives?  It very well could be the fact that the Red Sox stunk so badly last summer that there’s hardly a mention of spring training in the papers or on talk shows.  I say ENOUGH ALREADY with boring details about the football draft or those pesky college brackets that I’ll never understand.  It’s time for baseball, isn’t it?  Or is Fenway forever snow covered?

The other evening I was master of ceremonies for a gala charity auction at a gorgeous spot, The Granite Links Golf Resort high above the expressway overlooking the Boston skyline.  Walking (in tuxedo) the short distance from my car to the lobby felt like a stroll Admiral Perry might have taken.  A biting wind chill factor, snow encrusted golf course and foot long icicles hanging from the glorious eaves of the club.  This would make some sense in mid-February or even the first of March.  But this close to April?  I refuse to let up and cut Mother Nature any slack.

I realize April Fool’s Day is upon us and within weeks the weathermen will be warning of drought, sunburns and oppressive humidity.  But how about a little tease to restore our faith?  A red robin or a high of 50 or so would be awfully nice.

For now I’ve resorted to keeping warm with the help of a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit edition, flannel jammies and dandelion dreams.  I never thought I’d be thrilled to see dandelions.

We had quite a snow event of course last weekend.  Dubbed ‘Nemo’ by the Weather Channel outfit, the blustery blizzard dumped more than two feet of windswept snow on most of the region.  Having assumed it to be an acronym, I spent more time than necessary trying to decipher the Nemo code.  “New England Media Opportunity” and “Now Everyone, Move to Orlando!” were my frontrunners.  How relieved I was to discover Nemo to be nothing more than the name of a Pixar-generated fish.  Apologies are in order to the captain of the Nautilus.

In any event, the storm generated a lot of nastiness and ominous declarations to STAY OFF THE ROAD OR ELSE!  Imagine being the poor wretch tossed in a Massachusetts correctional institution for a full year for not heeding the governor’s driving ban?  “Hey *$%#^#, what the &*#$%@ you in for…murder, car jacking, armed robbery?  Answer me you %$*(@#!”  “Eh, nope sir, I was late leaving CVS after picking up baby formula and kinda lost track of time. (Insert very nervous laughter).  Can you believe my luck?”  (More nervous laughter)

You know the rest of the story of the weekend because you lived it.  As did I broadcasting ten hours on the air talking to dozens of callers who found themselves without power or any open Dunkin’ Donuts establishment.  Yes, we had ourselves a pretty impressive shutdown.

But through it all – the ferocious tides, frigid temperatures, biting winds and obnoxious TV STORM OF THE CENTURY graphics, there were faith restoring moments.  Stories of people stepping up to do the decent thing while supporting others in need.  Kudos to the plow drivers, police, fire, EMT and emergency personnel, the power company crews and hospital teams, the lonely gas station attendants and convenience store owners who stayed at their posts.  Most people were lucky enough to be home or in hotels, snug cozy and out of danger.  Thanks to those who worked their shifts and earned their pay.

Here’s one quick story of support that I wanted to let you know about.  I appreciate my producer and friend Casey O’Donnell who fields calls for my show and runs the tightest board in talk radio.  Shortly before dawn, he put a call from a sweet little lady in Auburn who identified herself as disabled.  She was unable to reach the fellow who normally plowed her driveway.  Understandable given the wild conditions out there.  She expressed frustration and fear over this and who could blame her?  Still the caller was pleasant and accepting of the situation unlike a few callers who were harshly critical that during the height of the massive storm they didn’t plow their streets yet.  My caller remained poised and collected insisting that she was willing to pay whatever it might cost to remove the snow later that morning.  It was obvious that just connecting with us on the air helped her rest easier.  Conversation with another, even a stranger on the radio, so often helps to dial down the stress.  As she and I were about to wrap up the call, my producer asked me through our in-studio intercom to have the lady remain on hold.  Casey lives near Auburn and told me he would work on finding a way to help this woman out.

I promptly put her on hold and went about my business, taking dozens more calls before ending the show to finally head out into the tundra for the long slow trek home.  It took me a while but I made it.  And the pillow never felt as welcoming.

I slept about six hours and awoke to find a text message that had been sent several hours earlier.  It was from Casey informing me that he had made several calls from the station and came up with a solution for the caller.  A friend of a friend who had been plowing non-stop since the snow began heard about the lady’s needs and took action.  The listener’s driveway was cleared soon after sunrise.  The kindhearted gentleman who performed the service refused to take the money she offered.  Nothing like a selfless act of kindness to add a bit of warmth to an otherwise frigid morning.  I don’t yet know the name for our knight with the shining snow plow.  But I’m certain he felt satisfied in helping her and most likely makes this kind of a thing a habit.

During rough times who among us doesn’t need a boost?  And when challenges occur, those who bring help and comfort remind us about the stuff between people that really matters.

So to Casey, his network of caring friends, and the great numbers of you who step up regularly to help out, I salute you.  As does one lovely little lady in Auburn who appreciates the support.

So Attorney Key shows up from the vast beyond and he is a bit ticked off.  Apparently, those heavenly beings on the ethereal plain are subject to the same nonsensical headlines as we mortals.  The shocking lead story everywhere this past week had nothing to do with terrorism, the deficit, or which moronic athlete is spilling his guts to Oprah and/or Katie.   This past week it was all about THE song and the lady who sang or faked a performance of it at the president’s inauguration.

America’s sweetheart Beyoncé, with curves as majestic as them purple mountains, has now been dubbed America’s phony Beyoncé.  All because she apparently, allegedly, appallingly chose to let the recording she made of the Star Spangled Banner do the heavy lifting on that bitterly cold day.  “Frankie-S” as he likes to be called (we bonded having tipped back a few cold ales during the séance, yes ghosts do imbibe) with me that his is one of the toughest songs for anyone to master.  With those chilly temps and a brisk gale wind off the Capitol dome Beyoncé could have easily tumbled over her own fiscal cliff and been scarred for life.  What is the big fuss all about?  She didn’t “Milli-Vanilli” the thing; what we heard was the star herself singing the red, white and blue out of that song.  She merely recorded it as a necessary precaution the day before.  Standard operating procedure at major public events—ask the head of any large venue such as an arena, ball park, or convention center.  Over a billion people were watching on January 21^st; why take any chances?

Sad, isn’t it, that the nation’s media spend days leading with such a non-story when the most important story — Subway Restaurant foot-long sandwiches don’t measure the full twelve inches— is relegated to below the fold.

Before composer Key gathered up his ectoplasm now bloated with ale to head back to the mysterious beyond, he paused a moment to reflect.  “I wrote the lyrics on the bow of some rickety ship surrounded by cannonballs, fire, and a ton of smoke.  Over the centuries The Anthem has stood the test and fought back a lot of attacks.  The song will survive this latest barrage.  I’ll give proof through the night that the Beyoncé story will ultimately not amount to much.”

“I’m glad you’re not taking this as seriously as so many down here on earth are,” I responded as the composer’s form began to fade drifting upwards through the ceiling tiles.

“Hey, if we could live through that terrorist Roseanne Barr and what she pulled a few years back, we can handle anything.”
With that Francis Scott Key evaporated fully but the melody, as they say, lingers on.  I am ready to move on.

Time to break out my ruler to measure a foot-long Subway sandwich for myself.  It’s certainly a more worthy endeavor than asking was Beyoncé live or on Memorex.  Memorex?  As if anyone reading this remembers analog recording tape.

2012 has been a rough year for many.  From natural disaster victims to innocents subjected to senseless violence here at home and abroad, we’ve had our share of horrible moments we would just as soon forget.  We witnessed derisive shallow politicians, corruption, debt and deceit, an economy that has taken it on the chin and struggles to thrive, and the uncomfortable sense that decency has been on the wane as the culture crumbles.

It was a very challenging year for me personally.  A serious health crisis affecting a loved one kept us operating in overdrive for much of the year.  Adrenalin was the elixir that carried us along through much of it.  It’s a gas that will only fill one’s tank for so long.  I’m sure most of you are familiar with feeling.

Enough already, I’m starting to bum myself out, which is easy to do if you just read the morning headlines!

So I choose to check out other sources, such as the book “Abundance: The Future is Better than You Think,” by Peter H. Diamandis the founder and CEO of the X Prize Foundation and co-founder and chairman of Singularity University.  He is a serial entrepreneur turned philanthropist who has started more than a dozen high-tech companies.  He has degrees in molecular biology and aerospace engineering from MIT, and an M.D. from Harvard Medical School.  Mr. Diamandis lays out a convincing case that as a planet things are getting better all the time.  We enjoy better standards of living, we’re better at conquering disease, even better at making peace.  The stats back it all up.  I too am convinced the world is getting better; people’s attitudes that it isn’t heading in the right direction shields us from recognizing it.

So my New Year’s wish for you is to practice a bit of that mindful living that the New Age types rave about.  This very moment is ours, a universal divine right shared among all six billion plus who call this little green and blue spinning ball home.  Our failures and setbacks will never dissolve completely away.  They’ll always be an important part of who we are.  Thankfully, the master programmer who designed our magnificent internal hard drives provided us enough extra space and a pretty cool ‘Resilience APP’ to keep things moving.  These are all free downloads, so make the most of them won’t you?

From the Massachusetts thirty-something female who thought it adorable to flip the bird in front of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier only to then plaster the infamous deed on Facebook (the current place to be for the academically challenged) to the stampeding Black Friday hooligans beating each other silly to save seven bucks on a DVD player to the Middle East Mensa rejects of Hamas who believe religiously that blowing up women and children (including their own) is the most effective way to achieve peace and freedom­­­­­­, things appear bleak.  The Mayan end date can’t come soon enough.  The most technologically advanced civilization in the history of our planet cannot figure out (or refuses to try) how to cut back just a smidgeon on adding to an economy swallowing debt, limit a tiny amount of senseless violence that makes for bloody TV news shows , or feed starving millions while so much viable food is wasted.  But hey, those are big ticket issues and too intense to focus on here.  Instead, let’s gauge the stupidity level of local geniuses’ intent on chugging cinnamon until they asphyxiate, wind surfing during super hurricanes, building homes at the base of volcanoes, wearing Nazi uniforms and Hitler mustaches to holocaust remembrances or rooting for say the New York Jets.  Forget the fiscal cliff.  We’re quickly stumbling head first into brain freeze city and doing so without a net.

In her latest book “The Watchman’s Rattle: A Radical New Theory of Collapse”, sociobiologist Rebecca Costa contends that heretofore surmountable problems in the world are harder than ever to fix.  Why?  Basically, the accelerating technology and overall complexity of things is moving far too quickly for our simple brains to keep up.  What would it take to stop this disturbing trend?  Costa offers many thoughtful suggestions but one of the easier ones to wrap your cerebral cortex around is simple attitude adjustment.  The power lies within as it always has.  If folks stop long enough to ponder the consequences and think about the effects beyond the heady rush achieved when everyone gawks and pays attention to them, we just might pull the reins in enough to slow down the slide.  The young lady who disgraced herself at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier has learned a lesson and has paid dearly.  She was canned.  I wouldn’t have fired her (public humiliation sufficed in my mind) but private employers have every right to expect reasonable, responsible behavior from their workers.

Here’s the key to my concern.  Dumb has been elevated to dumb squared.  We all mess up, it comes with the territory.  But until recently one’s booboos haven’t been the subject of instant virtual inspection.  And kids, be warned that once your misdeed finds its way to the Internet it hangs around forever, like a nagging case of acne or that out of work uncle who clings to your couch and clicker.  Being stupid is tough enough; having billions of eyes watching while you implode because of said stupidity is a whole other matter.

I’m often a dope but I’m lucky to have kept my dopiness to myself.  And that’s the best way to survive.  It’s better for your pocketbook as well as your image.

You get the point.  Any bumper sticker or yard sign is likely to put you on the outs with that wonderful neighbor from whom you borrowed lawn equipment.  Not to mention the blowback received when posting political opinion on Facebook or Twitter.  Sadly, the only safe use of social media might be announcing what you had for breakfast, how much you love your cat or why Justin Bieber matters.  Write that you’re in favor of one guy or find the other guy not to your liking and be ready for a virtual assault.  Warning, you could wind up friendless!

Despite this media driven muck, I offer up two tiny shreds that inspire hope.  If you saw coverage of the Al Smith Charity Dinner in New York City last week featuring President Obama and Governor Romney exchanging witty self-deprecating jokes about themselves and their political agendas, then you probably have a hunch that all will be OK.  Both men delivered lines written for them by crafty writers and they did so with heart as well as pretty good comedic timing.  For one short evening, both candidates set aside their vast disagreements to focus on the fine work done by the Al Smith organization and similar charities.  It was a brief but defining moment that made this old fashioned patriot writing about it rather proud of the president, the governor and all of us lucky enough to be Americans.  A fleeting moment for certain, but reassuring nonetheless.

And the other reason to refrain from despair?  My close friend and spiritual mentor Rabbi Larry Bazer and I got to talk the other night about the tenor of the times and Larry, who recently returned from a year-long tour as a top chaplain for our troops in Afghanistan, mentioned that he always offers a quiet blessing upon entering the voting booth.  His point being that America, despite our shortfalls and challenges, stills sets the standard across the globe in terms of democratic ideals.  She provides her citizenry with rights and opportunities that few nations on earth will ever match.  Voting, for my friend the rabbi, is a sacred act, a precious possession deemed more valuable thanks to the thousands who have sacrificed so much to defend our right to vote, express opinions and make a difference.  Pretty awesome stuff when you stop to think about it.   We need to remember that before, during, and after Election Day, the country will be here and her people will matter.

If I were to invent a bumper sticker for general distribution, it would have a simple message, positively acceptable to all factions and unlikely to cause an argument or risk harming any relationships.  It would read, “Americans—we’re all in this together.”  After all, we most certainly are.

“Killing” a crowd or winning over intoxicated fellow citizens is no easy task.  Standup comedy is in my humble estimation (and I’ve done my share of it) the most challenging, unprotected and fear-inducing of art forms.  You head into battle lightly armed with a microphone, bottled water, a wooden stool if you’re lucky, and jokes you’ve slaved over or paid dearly for, laugh lines that you prey will allow you to curry favor with a room full of strangers.  The consequences of failure are dire although not physically threatening.  Usually.  Rejection by said strangers involves them either sitting on their hands or heckling from their tables in the anonymous darkness of a club.  Not easy work being a standup, but in most cases you will live (following a likely hangover) to fight another day.

The same doesn’t hold true for comics in other lands.  Take Mogadishu, the capital of Somalia.  There, a 43-year-old radio and TV comedian named Abdi Jeylani Malaq didn’t exactly “slay” his crowd, nor will he get the chance to load up on surefire one-liners ever again.  Instead, members of his “audience” (unlikely card-carrying fan club members) blew his brains out.  Two fanatical Islamic militants took serious umbrage with the fact that Malaq mocked their brand of religion that brainwashes children and kills civilians.  So the irate hecklers responded in the only way they know—by blowing away the jester with AK-47’s outside his home.  Tragedy beats the stuffing out of comedy in a land with so very little to laugh about, where religious zealots who don’t find anything funny, let their entertainers know how they feel in a most direct way-removing them from the planet.  Somalia is one of many nations held in the vice grip of fanaticism.  Decent people are routinely subjected to humiliation, torture and death for that which we take for granted—free thought and heaven forbid a bit of a laugh at those who hold the power.

International condemnation was scant, any outrage momentary.

Abdi Jeylani Malaq was quickly forgotten by most, just another victim in an endless parade of innocents.  As far as I’m concerned, Malaq is a martyr for his people and certainly a hero for striving for freedoms that we hold so dear.

The hope is that you’ll remember the sacrifice of Somalia’s former top comedian the next time you read about a protest in this country with groups wanting to destroy an entertainer’s career because something said was offensive.  The world has a ton of problems.  Not laughing at ourselves may be one of the worst of them.  Here’s to the jokesters, risking more than jeers to get us to laugh.

So the other night we settled down like millions of our fellow Americans for some late evening TV fun.  Granted, outside of a few nifty dramas and even fewer comedies, much of the programming across the dial doesn’t get me too excited.  How many times do I need to eavesdrop on Alaskan truckers, pawn shop owners or Gypsy brides to feel the glorious gestalt of it all?  Much of television viewing is fleeting, uninteresting and dull these days.  Amazingly, they were saying the same thing about the tube back in the fifties, sixties, seventies and so on.

Noted, but what we stumbled upon this past week was perhaps the most disturbing, unwatchable program yet seen.  I’ll admit that we found ourselves watching (in horror) for far too long, nearly 20 minutes.  The show in question happens to be the runaway hit for TLC, the aforementioned channel where learning takes place.  The program has a memorable title that doesn’t exactly bespeak sophistication.  Here Comes Honey Boo Boo.  The concept is as high as low lying flooding.  We find ourselves observing (in horror) a family of tried and true red necks (seemingly on steroids) whose smallest member of the litter (and size here in the Boo Boo Brood is relative) competes successfully in toddler beauty pageants.  Toddler pageants, now that ought to be a tip-off.  Snippets of the show we saw featured a discussion of and a contest involving flatulation with their delightful multi-chinned mother squaring off against her adorably unappealing children.  The show presents a generous sampling of junk food, cursing, screaming, crying, embarrassing weigh-ins, and a household that any hoarder worth her trash might admire.  Here Comes Honey Boo Boo (HCHBB) is no mere car wreck.  What we have here, to quote a friend from my chain gang days, is a total failure to communicate.  Gone is any inkling of educational, inspiring television and in its place?  An eighteen-wheeler semi, chemical spilling freight train of an overloaded ferry of a disaster signaling the end of western civilization as we know it. (Hyperbole intended).

It’s programming of the lowest common denominator, which isn’t a knock on any of you out there who know a thing or two about cipherin’ and them thar multiplyin’ tables.

You know you’re in trouble when subtitles are required for this family of fellow Americans speaking in tongues, a bizarre form of mumbled broken English similar at times to Boston City Hall speeches.

TLC lived up to its calling as The Learning Channel when it premiered a few decades ago, a noble venture offering quality programming as an  alternative to the commercial networks and PBS.  Over the years however, it has morphed into a new form of MTV (mindless television) with a lineup of stimulating fare that proves my point.  The program guide has something for everyone who wants to learn about the world around us…  My Strange Addiction, My Crazy Obsession, Tattoo School, Long Island Medium, DC Cupcakes, Hoarding: Buried Alive, Strange Sex, and that which begat Honey Boo Boo, the previously most pain inducing televised moment known as Toddlers and Tiaras.

“We are merely giving the people what they want,” so sayeth the suits at this and other networks.  Ah, bread and circuses and all too many carbohydrates at that.  Sadly, ratings seem to bear the television executives out.  HCHBB has rocketed to the top of the TLC ratings chart.  Maybe I’m just an envious fool.  Nobodies from the Jersey Shore to the Kardashians to the Boo Boo family are now famous, rich and getting richer.  Missing are the Lucy Ricardos, James T. Kirks and Ben Cartwrights.  Where are you Alistair Cook or Charles Kuralt or Rod Serling?  Wait.  They are not gone. They are merely tucked away in their cozy little corner of the video world now known as Netflix.  Thank goodness for the technology and growing archives of tried and true TV shows that keep me from losing it.  Take heed, if you watch too many minutes of Honey Boo Boo you’ll risk losing more than simply your self respect—you could very well lose your faculties.  Learn that lesson well before you venture into a dangerous, mind numbing zone, before you fall prey to the aptly renamed TLC- The Lunatic Channel.

What’s most impressive is that he’s driven to accomplish this physical feat with only one goal in mind — to help fellow soldiers heal from the physical and emotional scars of war.  In doing so he is pushing a well-conditioned body to the extreme.  I urge you to support him as I am in his fundraising drive.  You’ll find a link below telling you how to do so.

This whole inspiring story offers me a chance to chime in about push-ups, the grand-daddy of all calisthenics.  I am not, nor shall I ever be mistaken for, an athlete.  My body fat is quite low and I’m in pretty good shape for a fifty-four year old.  I owe it to being very active, practicing hot yoga regularly and a daily push-up regimen that I have been following since I was a kid.  Unlike Enrique, I’m not averaging thousands per day (it pains me to even think what that feels like).  For me it’s more like twenty-five or so most mornings.  And who’s kidding who?  There are mornings when push-ups take second, third or fourth place to hitting the snooze button and doing the rollover.  Every once in a while I’ll drop down during the work day to peel off another ten or so.  I’ve even been known to initiate a set of twenty during long commercial breaks during the late night show, just to stay sharp.  The push-up, if you really examine it, is one of those perfect exercises, in which you’re pushing into the earth against your own weight and the laws of gravity.  No outside equipment needed save a solid floor.  It’s a routine designed to elevate the heart rate, strengthen the torso, upper back, shoulders and arms.  And for us non-Marines, it can be grueling.  Especially if one practices in the truest sense.  No lazy boy push-ups for this grizzled old timer.  It’s down to the floor for two beats, up for two with back firm looking straight ahead.  That is a push-up.  If a set of ten or more doesn’t leave you with a good burn in the arms, you’re not anywhere close to the real deal.

I’ll toss in a few leg lifts or sit-ups now and then, but the push-up is king always garnering the most respect.  Lately, inspired by Sgt. Trevino, I’ve been researching others who champion and demonstrate push-ups of different varieties.  My latest kick is the push-up clock, going for a set of twelve while rotating on fingertips around an imaginary clock.  You’re down at 1:00 o’clock, up again with a move to the right for a push-up at 2:00 o’clock and so on.  It is fun but tough to clear more than one or two “hour” cycles.  All of which brings me back to how cool the good sergeant is who is poised to reach the million mark by year’s end.  Like all Marines, he is in the finest of shape soldiering on with steely determination despite achy wrists and elbows.  Trevino is THE man.  And I will honor his achievement by going further in my own personal quest.  For now that means breaking through to thirty push-ups a day.  That is not even in the same universe as the 2,732 push-ups per day or nearly 114 every hour Enrique knocks out.  But, hey with me being more than twice his age I’ll take whatever I can get.

Semper Fi Sgt. Trevino.  I salute you by donating.

Please help if you can.  Our wounded heroes thank you.

https://support.woundedwarriorproject.org/individual-fundraising/1year1millionpushup/

I provide said background as I rush to the defense of someone who certainly doesn’t need my help, CNN foreign affairs host and scholar Fareed Zakaria.

Our paper of record The Boston Globe raked him over the literary coals this past week for delivering similar speeches to two graduation ceremonies first at Duke and then at Harvard, two weeks apart.  The paper insinuated strongly that the speaker was lazy, that he took the easy route by repeating sections of one commencement speech at a different ceremony during the same graduation season.  C’mon now, there has to be more news fit to print than that?

Our campaign happy president, like all of his predecessors and challengers, is out on the stump delivering the same hackneyed campaign dribble many times a day for weeks on end.  Poor Fareed has to write scholarly papers, teach classes, host a national talk show and probably adlib internationally pungent Tweets—what’s the sin in recycling a perfectly acceptable speech for another audience just waiting for the whole thing to be over so junior can get his diploma already?  How many graduates of Duke had also taken classes concurrently at Harvard qualifying them to graduate from both schools at the same time?  If it were not for online busybodies who catalogue and fact check everything, who would notice or care?  Fareed wrote a decent speech, likely as forgettable as the rest of them.  He’s a busy dude who managed his time well, wringing the most out of one speech, with new the worse for wear.

Unlike our current Vice president (you may remember the incident in which he liberally borrowed from a British politician’s speech back in the 1980’s), Fareed didn’t plagiarize anyone or anything except his own text.  Last time anyone checked, that wasn’t one of the deadly sins.

I say, let he who is without sin—who hasn’t used Cliff Notes, repeated a killer joke, told the same silly story over and over or stolen a catchphrase or two— cast the first draft.

Search for it, read it and I bet it’ll wash over you as it did me.  Her piece offers a sense of vindication, relief and amusement that we old fashioned types and those before us have a pretty cool thing going and we are not alone; we are certainly in the silent majority.

Ms. Baskin fires back at the leggy breast-feeding blond on the cover of Time Magazine along with a bevy of other know-it-alls who seem to  believe that parenting is akin to and easy as programming a smart phone.  The child rearing manual that we’ve all been using – you know, the one that for a couple hundred thousand years has stood the test of time rather well – is certainly under siege these days.  What worked relatively well over the eons (instilling values, allowing for disappointment and knowing that just being present in the life of a child is critical) is, according to Kara and yours truly, very much worth clinging to.

Thank you Kara for pushing back with a boatload of common sense and a healthy sense of humor.

The journalist-mom’s wish list for her child includes such tried and true favorites as hoping she raises someone who realizes that life is unfair sometimes, a child who loses graciously and wins without boasting, a child who says ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ for the right reasons, one who knows he’s loved and special but not the center of the universe.  There is more terrific stuff here and I urge you to track down the article.  Of course, we all know that millions of us parents since time began have crafted similar wish lists.  Had that not been the case up to now, we’d be in a lot sorrier shape, as tough as that is to believe.

When it comes to raising a family, there’s no app or download guarantee to success and/or happiness.  Bringing kids into this world isn’t easy, never has been nor should it ever be.  Each generation has its Dr. Spock or trendy movement such as breastfeeding four-year-olds or employing nanny armies to sub for workaholic moms and dads.  What solid parenting takes is a combination of responsibility, patience, honesty, setting the best example you can and being there to love, protect and nurture your children.  Even so, as hard as you try, there is no assurance that it will work out.  But is there any task in life worth more effort?

Here’s just one thing I’d like to add to Kara’s wish list.  When my children someday have little ones of their own, I hope they’ll do what I sometimes did and surprise the little buggers.  Yes, it will embarrass them at times, but spontaneity is what keeps life interesting for kids as well as adults.  One of the best parenting tips has to be this—just say “I Love You,” without an agenda once in while.  Why?  Because it feels right.    It’ll work wonders…as we all know.

Thanks for nothing.  After it seemed that I had finally made it to the top of my class in life with a Facebook page consisting of five thousand “friends” (most of whom hail from developing countries, own saloons or appear to be more feline than human), I’ve been slammed, no make that catapulted, back to earth, the social media rug wrenched from beneath me.  I equate what has happened to the disastrous collapse of the September 2011 Red Sox team or the team’s start to this season for that matter—- without a $175,000,000.00 payroll of course.

Now Mark, I by no means blame you directly or anyone on your staff (all of whom are out yacht shopping as I write this) for the fact that I was hacked by some evil cowardly cyberpunk with multiple piercings and unquestionably poor hygiene.  I realize this kind of mischievous stuff happens to hundreds of thousands of your faithful customers every day.  But instead of allowing me to “reset my password,” and go about my day with a clean start– the easy one-step directions e-mailed to me by your crack staff of 1 percent types didn’t take.  I have seen my personal Facebook page scuttled—all of my pictures, messages and contacts eviscerated, blasted into the limbo of cyberspace.  Analysis Mr. Spock?  Scanners indicate no life forms present, Captain.  Five years of careful social-media cultivation down the drain.  I still retain the official Jordan Rich Show page thankfully, not that I am able to currently access it to let my few remaining Facebook loyalists know where I am or how I’m doing.  Granted, everyone knows where I am and how I’m doing—they simply tune to my nationwide radio show or call me on one of those antiquated devices with a receiver.  I know Mark.  Stuff happens and since no blood was spilled during the ordeal I’m not overly concerned.  In fact, lightening the load by letting one of my pages get blasted to smithereens is just what the doctor ordered for my body, soul, and time management practice.  But it would be just so nice to reach someone (anyone with a pulse and/or voice box) at FB headquarters who could talk me through a fix.  Millions are hacked annually, yet after days of research, I’ve yet to speak with anyone else who has a problem akin to mine.  Hopefully this letter will find its way to you and you’ll take pity on this poor hacked up soul.

Postscript…I enjoyed the movie about you by the way.  Do you really think and talk that fast?  I’d suggest switching to decaf.
Onto one more joyous event connected to the recent debacle.  My e-mail account was also disrupted by a hellish hacker.  Folks, don’t make the mistake of contacting the wrong AOL Technical Squad toll free service.  I did and wasted two hours with someone overseas who nearly had me convinced that my computer was laden with the worst security footprint on the planet and that it essentially offered up a beautifully wrapped gift of material to any and all junior Wiki-Leakers out there.  And, that only the purchase of super duper one-of-a-kind protection software offered exclusively by this technical team would do the trick to the tune of $400.00 for just the one computer.  For the second computer networked at home I was told, “A bargain sir.  My manager tells me he will toss the second one in for just $200.00, saving you an incredible $199.00.  It is definitely your lucky day Mr. Jordan.”    Let’s see, for a mere $600.00 I can retrieve my e-mail and enjoy the same firewall of protection as the CIA, eh?

I grew suspicious (can’t put one over on old Sherlock here) when the man with the foreign accent informed me that my neighborhood computer technician who scrubs my machines regularly knows nothing and is a threat to my very existence AND  that none of my addresses, numbers or security questions matched anything on my long running AOL file.  So it was time to graciously bow out after a wasted afternoon and some choice North American parting words that felt very satisfying to say.

I then searched and found what turned out to be the official AOL Fraud hotline – key word FRAUD – and within five minutes I was back online with a highly secretive password that I have promptly forgotten.

The bottom line is that this interlinked world which allows us to connect in so many directions is guaranteed to drive everyone crazy, even more so when those with nefarious aims go hack-happy on us.  It pains me to admit that I’m just another unwitting victim among millions ensnared in this tangled web with few clues to getting out.  So I plan on printing out this letter and mailing it directly to Mr. Zuckerberg’s office, along with a letter to whomever or whatever exists at AOL.  I’ll do it the old fashioned way, using a stamped envelope that I’ll personally pop into an actual mailbox.  Hopefully I won’t be online too long searching for snail mail addresses for these technical gurus.  Assuming such snail mail addresses exist which could be wishful thinking.

Here’s what you can do.  Visit Facebook and my existing page “The Jordan Rich Show.”  Press the “like” button and help lessen the pain.

 
Ed was, in the truest sense, a renaissance man, a lover of film, music and theatre who fostered his career around a passion for the arts.  As the film archivist at the Boston Public Library, a post he held for decades, Ed Peltier was our “go-to” guy for clips, content, connections and of course conversation.  He was a radio guest of mine numerous times, never failing to entertain my audience and me with the most amusing stories from the Hollywood’s golden age.  I’m sorry for  those who never had the chance to know him, to talk about movies and movie stars, opera, jazz or the latest Broadway musical.  Because talking with Ed Peltier was an experience in learning but always fun.

 
Allow me to recount this remarkable friend’s life in words with a bow to that which he loved so much, The Silver Screen.  Lights…camera…action!

 
90 years ago, A Star is Born.  Euclid Joseph Peltier grew up in Worcester, Massachusetts, one of a large family who knew at an early age that for him The Hollywood Canteen would be calling.  Soon, he and millions others were forced to answer another calling.  World War II had arrived and our friend Ed, being a true honest to goodness Yankee Doodle Dandy joined the Navy, signing up to take part in Operation Pacific.  He served in a critical role as a code breaker, dedicated to helping his fellow comrades retake The Sands of Iwo Jima.

 
When Ed returned home to the states, he got the Good News that he would be enrolled at Boston University where he would major in the stuff that he  loved since childhood—film, art, communications.  He was happy enough to be seen Singing in the Rain on Commonwealth Ave on more than one occasion!

 
After Ed became a proud Graduate, he found his place among the books, records and films at the Boston Public Library.  Ed became this city’s number one archivist, collector, promoter and resident expert and remained so for decades.  He was indeed The Godfather to all who loved movies and what made them special.

 
Like The Music Man, he romanced his own Madam Librarian, marrying Felicia and embarking on the most enduring and meaningful production of all, his family.

 
In his 90 plus years, Ed Peltier was so many things to so many.

 
To a daughter and family, he was their Atticus Finch.

 
As a teacher to thousands of students, he was their Mr. Chips.

 
As a loyal and decent friend, he was our George Bailey.

 
We celebrate a man’s energy, humor, wisdom and zest for life, sensing that his spirit will be present for a very long time, that this man’s memory will never be merely Gone with the Wind.  If you Look, Look to the Rainbow, you’ll get the feeling that Somewhere Over the Rainbow, our lovely friend Ed Peltier is settling back to enjoy a classic black and white  film, sharing conversation and laughter with every angel he meets.

 
It was indeed fitting to hold his remembrance on the day the Oscars were presented.  At both the quiet  memorial service and the spectacle that was the 84th Academy Awards Presentation that evening, it was The Artist that we graciously applauded.

The Oscar race and the overdrawn ceremony have lost luster.   The pomp and circumstance has long since given way to the pomposity and schlock.  I began wincing thirty years back when millionaire actors suddenly couldn’t do something as simple as reading the damn cue cards, excruciatingly fumbling their way through shallow acceptance speeches.  It seems that once David Niven headed to that Hollywood mansion in the sky, class and poise disappeared as well.  The film industry’s actors, writers and directors started laying eggs, largely embarrassing ones, engaging in political diatribe or unfunny puerile jokes.  I eventually turned to my trusty VCR and ultimately my DVD’s of classic films on Oscar night to lovingly relieve the pain.

But this Academy Awards season has been playing a tease, to the extent that I might just want to tune back in, at least periodically to catch highlights.  The reason?  Two simple words—-“The Artist.”

Perhaps you’ve caught the buzz.  “The Artist” is the black and white SILENT film about the SILENT film era, written, directed and produced by a Frenchman, starring two endearing French actors with charisma reminiscent of Gable and Colbert, circa 1934.  There is a healthy dose of Americana for us as well (John Goodman turns in his usual superb performance as the blustery studio chief).  “The Artist” is an international hit.  Critics are raving.  And that’s what has had me chuckling from the get go.  Those same critics who decry camp, demanding deep, thoughtful story and character development, who hate anything on film that even hints at sentimentality, those same celluloid mavens who abhor cliché anywhere they find it have taken the bait.  Yes, those same critics, worldwide, have been sucker punched by this low budget little film in which nary a word is spoken.  What a marvelous gag on all of the phonies in and around Hollywood.

“The Artist” is one of the most rehashed tales about the movie biz ever filmed.  A popular silent actor’s fame fades as a young ingénue passes him on the way up.  Tragedy nearly ensues, but love conquers all, the couple dance up a storm ala Astaire and Rogers and everyone lives happily ever after.  (No spoiler here, you get exactly what you hoped for and don’t mind at all being “played.”  I call that cinematic heaven).  Also featured, the cutest, most intelligent spunky little dog since Benji took the country by storm.  The pup in “The Artist” steals every scene he’s in and should win an award paws down if you ask me.

The film is totally predictable, derivative, schmaltzy and done with the kind of devotion that sparkles frame to frame.  Each scene is homage to the Hollywood of old with outstanding attention paid to the musical score, costumes, sets and lighting.  Hark, do I sense something profound?  You bet and it is this.  That sometimes the simplest of displays done right is THE most artistically satisfying.  The number one reason “The Artist” is a fan and critic favorite.  It’s good.  It’s just plain good.  It works.  I didn’t want it to end and as soon as it did I wanted to watch it all over again.  Which I did.  How often does that happen?  We know the answer.

I don’t know about you, but I am tired of reading the predictable four-star reviews for the depressing foreign film of the week, while most of the rest of the movies appealing to flesh and blood audiences out looking for a few hours of entertainment are generally panned.   Just ‘more of the same old thing.’  Sure, many of the movies in theaters right now are mediocre or worse.  But there are some that audiences like despite what the experts say.  “The Artist” features a ton of ‘the same old thing’ but it’s overflowing with heart, a love letter to the magic that is the movies.  I might just tune in on Oscar night with the hope that this little silent movie sweeps the Academy Awards, leaving Scorsese, Pitt, Damon, Clooney, Streep, big Jim Cameron and the rest of the Hollywood crowd decked out in their finest totally speechless.  Don’t you just love a happy ending?

Here is a slightly different take on the story of voices, two of whom we thought would never resonate again.

Nearly a year ago to the day, a young hardworking politician is doing what young hardworking politicians do.  She is in her home district meeting constituents, listening to their concerns, offering an ear, a hug or a handshake.  From all accounts, she is well respected and actually liked by many voters in her district, a rarity today.  It is a warm sunny morning in Tuscan and all seems well, when an insane gunman savagely attacks a small crowd of innocent, well meaning citizens just out greeting a congresswoman, mingling, shopping.  We lose six exquisite souls that day, young and not so young.  None of them deserve their fate.  We nearly lose the congresswoman in question, Gabrielle Giffords.  As the world knows seconds after the incident, she is seriously wounded, shot at point blank range and given a slim chance of survival, let alone any type of reasonable recovery.  Gabby Giffords is adored by her co-workers, family and so many in her community.  Along with the six innocent folks there for the congresswoman’s meet-and-greet, Gabby’s voice is apparently silenced that day, unfairly stolen during an act of pure evil that leaves a nation stunned.

In 2011, we are witness to another expressive voice that sparkles briefly before disappearing in obscurity.  The voice belongs to homeless beggar Ted Williams.  You remember him.  The YouTube sensation who while asking for a handout on a busy street corner, exhibits what we voice-over artists refer to as the V.O.G. (Voice of God) a most valuable skill set.  Ted is the former radio jock with magnificent pipes who winds up on the wrong side of more than just that street, turns to drugs that turns his career and home life to dust.  But at his lowest point living on the streets, he still has that voice.  The Internet makes him a sensation and next thing you know, major advertisers and sports teams are lavishing Ted with money and gifts to announce their products.  For a time, he rises to the occasion, delivering stunning vocal reads while being touted as a superstar.  But the spotlight burns too bright too quickly.  Ted’s downfall isn’t the result of a bullet; he falls out of step and crashes as so many do in the flash of celebrity.  He disappears back into addiction and heartache, that beautiful voice now a fading memory.

As we have come to know one year later, the woman struck down by a madman’s bullet waged a dramatic uphill climb to regain at least some of the voice thought lost.  She has used it to comfort the families of the other victims while inspiring a nation.  With the aid of her medical angels, a devoted husband and family and incredible determination Congresswoman Giffords in her recovery reminds us that a voice put upon by violence can rise to be heard again.  And, that faith is a powerful ingredient, intangible as it appears, to healing.

What you may not be aware of here at the start of the New Year is that Ted Williams too has fought the good fight in regaining his voice.  Despite many stumbles on the way to sobriety, with the help of his rehab angels and a few willing to give him a second and third chance, he is now working steadily, reunited with family and once again using that golden announcer’s voice to sell macaroni and cheese and more.  Ted is off the streets, making a living and loving life again, all the while exercising those golden vocal chords to tell everyone he meets how wonderful it is to be alive again.

Two voices nearly silenced…two voices out of millions worth a listen.

Maybe if more of us used our voices and spoke the things in our hearts that so often are left unsaid, we’d feel better about a lot of things.

Members are unable at the current time to use official resources to record holiday greetings, post on social media/website, or send to constituents in franked mail or e-communications.

Member’s Congressional Handbook: GREETINGS-

Expenses related to the purchase or distribution of greetings, including holiday celebrations, condolences, and congratulations for personal distinctions (wedding anniversaries, birthdays, etc.), are not reimbursable.”

Franking Manual:

4(a). Example of Nonfrankable Items-Birthday, anniversary, wedding, birth, retirement or condolence messages and holiday greetings are prohibited.”

You may make reference to the season as a whole using language along the lines of ‘Have a safe and happy holiday season.’ It may only be incidental to the piece rather than the primary purpose of the communication.”

No wonder their approval rating is lower than the highest rated MSNBC show.  We now have another big reason why.  The anti-Christmas dictum that has pervaded so much of our landscape comes straight from the lawyers under the dome.  The same solons that send our precious young people off to fight untenable wars, the same paragons of fiscal virtue who have spent this country into oblivion actually spend their precious time outlawing words that any rational human knows are perfectly reasonable.  In fact they are downright pleasant.  Season’s greetings invoke warmth, kindness and peace; those who have a problem with it and any related issues are either hypocritical, hypercritical or both.  Serve them up some heavily spiked eggnog and force them to stand under mistletoe for about a week straight I say.  It might lessen the disease of silliness.  A better solution might just be to throw the lion share of grinches out of office and start over.

To the honorable president, speaker, majority leader and toadies, I hereby utter those words deemed unimportant, incidental and incendiary.  Merry Christmas and to all who don’t like it, a good night.

There is no need to dwell on the oft cited examples of wayward celebrities acting like buffoons (getting thrown off planes seems to be in vogue these days), or the crooked politicians who vigorously uphold their hypocritical oaths, or the always entertaining stupid things done by intellectually-challenged criminals.   Dear reader, civilization as we know it is closer than ever to coming apart; I point to the following evidence.

We’ve got ourselves a high school football team poised to win the regional championship.  They score a dramatic touch down only to have the zebra in charge blow his whistle calling back the play.  Why?  Because of excessive celebration, a mortal sin in the eyes of some.

In case you missed it, here are some details.  With just minutes to go in the game, 18-year-old Cathedral High School senior Matt Owens, on his birthday no less, carries the ball himself across the end zone to score the game winning touchdown in the Division 4A Super Bowl championship game.

But horror of horrors!  In his excitement achieving the first Super Bowl victory in his school’s history, this horrid, brash, unthinking teenage athlete raises his left arm in a victory pump, a seemingly innocent reaction at such a moment, wouldn’t you say?  Nothing in that gesture rises close to the level of insult or “rubbing it in the faces” of the other team.  Apparently, emotion of any kind is considered unsportsmanlike on the high school grid iron.  Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t football, the way we Americans play it, all about bashing, smashing, tackling, blocking—basically kicking the stuffing out of the opposing players?  The game is all about that testosterone rush that big tough sweaty guys really dig.  Anyhow back to the game, the heroic play was called back and the opposing team went on to win the game and the championship.  By the time you read this, that decision might have been overruled or reversed, but the precedent it set is hard to figure.

My take is that the call is silly and shameful on the part of the rule makers.  What’s next and will it spread to other sports?  Will baseball players be denied the chance to group hug as they adorably do by the pitcher’s mound?  Will hockey players after scoring a goal be required to skate back to their respective boxes without raising sticks or conking their buddies on the helmet?  Winning, with all disrespect to Charlie Sheen, is still a good thing.  At least it used to be.  It is one thing to flaunt success and let’s face it no one admires a showoff or diva whether it be on the playing field, the office, or the classroom.  It’s quite another thing to stifle a reaction of success and joy that is so natural, so inherently human.  Quarterback Matt Owens has the stuff to be a winner.  He deserved better last week on the field.  The kid should have had the chance to celebrate a championship with his teammates.  His dad says he got over it and has accepted the decision.  Another productive example of humility for the rest of us.  Still, a championship would be something Matt and his teammates would treasure for a lifetime.

Too bad the zero tolerance officiating crew threw down their flag, benching common sense.

Allow me to recommend the National— a multi-star restaurant serving the finest in authentic Asian cuisine.  At least according to a solitary reviewer who no doubt was staring down the barrel of a loaded AK-47 when he wrote it.  Yes, the National is situated in downtown Pyongyang.  In case you don’t recognize the name, it happens to be the capital of this season’s number one vacation hot zone—North Korea, at least according to their official Communist news agency.  How delightful that the most secretive country in the world with a height and hair-challenged porno addict at the helm is now open up to tourists.

There are indeed lots to see in Pyongyang.  You’ll enjoy mountains, waterfalls, parks, wide streets with very little vehicular traffic and an unusually large amount of monuments and statues dedicated to you know who (the aforementioned Beloved Leader).

The locals are pleasant but you are reminded to refrain from interacting with them at any time.  One wouldn’t want to pollute their existence with the knowledge of just how much fun it is to live somewhere else—anywhere else.  And don’t expect to take any pictures, particularly of people or buildings.  Your affable government hosts wouldn’t approve.  I-phones, Droids and Blackberry’s are frowned upon.  And who’s got time to check e-mail or tweet friends when you’re busy trying to avoid spending a decade or two in a swanky North Korean prison.

The country is mired in a dismal economy with half of the population literally starving to death while the dictator and his army hoard nearly everything.  United Nations sanctions only add to the woes.  The nerve of the U.N. cutting off supplies, simply because Kim and his associates actively build nukes and export threatening material to terrorists around the globe?  It is simply not fair.  What’s a struggling people’s democracy to do?  What else, but open up the country a crack to let the vacationers in?  No Mickey Mouse ears allowed either.

The highlight of anyone’s journey has to be the relaxing tour of the demilitarized zone and a chance to duck sniper fire along the 38^th parallel.  Now there’s an activity you’ll want to tell your friends back home about.  Assuming you get back home.

I have yet to make my 2012 getaway plans.  The idea of visiting North Korea, one of the most mysterious places on earth is wildly enticing.  But so is cleaning my gutters, re-seeding my lawn or going to The White Mountains.  None of those activities raise the kind of concern that tour guides with fixed bayonets and listening devices does.

I wonder if the National Restaurant in Pyongyang provides take out?

The Red Sox collapse in September might turn out to be the best thing for the organization and its bottom line.  Not since 2003 and the horrendous Grady Little playoff debacle has there been this much talk about the old home town team.  Sports shows that would normally feature stimulating discussion about the exciting NBA strike, Revolution soccer or Belichick’s kindness to media members, are suddenly Red Sox red hot.  Thanks to John Lackey et al, we’re back in the misery game.  It feels familiar and somehow comforting.

I’ve landed by remote on Kim Kardashian’s wedding at least three times on one of cable’s dumping grounds.  There’s the perfect reason to tie the knot—to boost ratings for a very special The Kardashians.  Stay tuned for the February sweeps when we can expect christenings, house warmings, a bar mitzvah or two and if we’re lucky divorce court.

Herman Cain for president?  Why not.  He promises to put the knife to the federal deficit.  Better slice it in six Herman; I don’t think we Americans are hungry enough for eight.

Dancing with the Stars needs an overhaul.  Perhaps developing a competition in which actual talent is rewarded.  There but for Nancy Grace go us all.

One of the major car companies announced this week they’ll be manufacturing wider cars based on the fact that American drivers and their passengers have wider bodies.  That’s right, a fatter population means bigger and bigger gas guzzlers.  Sleek adorable two-seater sports car lovers take note—your days are numbered.

Since the completion of that shovel-ready marvel The Big Dig, I cannot remember a single trip in or out of Boston that hasn’t been clogged, stuck, snarled and mind numbingly frustrating.  Fourteen billion dollars later and I’m running later than ever.

Speaking of snow, don’t you love the stories of people rushing to the shops to by snow blowers and shovels only to find the shelves bare?  Sold out!  Question—we live in New England where winter seems to happen with some consistency.  How many natives have gone for winters without said shovels until now?  They are probably the same ones who never seem to have any milk, eggs or bread on hand during a snowstorm.  (Everyone knows the number one dish to make is French toast during a blizzard).

Dream on.  Steven Tyler fell in the shower.  The result was a black eye and several missing front teeth.  It is not the first time he has taken a tumble.  Aerosmith has announced a remix of their timeless classic, reissued as “DON’T Walk This Way.”  Mr. Tyler should contact Paul McCartney, Ozzy or Jagger fast to get a deal on those senior citizen bathroom safety devices for aging rockers.  Worst thing that can happen to someone as hip as Tyler is to break a hip.

The Boston Globe, in an exclusive investigation, reveals that much of the fish we order in restaurants isn’t what we thought we were ordering.  No wonder so much of it and everything else tastes like chicken.  Remember, you don’t often know what’s coming down the pike.  Chances are that fillet of sole could be pike.

Love Halloween and shame on those snotty do-gooders who want to rob kids of the fun of dress-up and candy.  One rule I would enforce constitutionally however.  I would ban all candy corn from store shelves.  It is truly a vile product—cheap and cheesy with artificial everything AND the taste and consistency and afterglow of a dental fluoride treatment.  Candy corn is basically sugar gone amok.  The only thing worse in terms of texture is Halva, that dense sweet concoction from the Middle East.  Thankfully, the only people who consume that seem to be aging relatives from the old country.  Children are unlikely to come into contact with it.  Yeccch!  One man’s opinion.

Leo DiCaprio is the best young actor of his generation.  He seems to act in the style of the old school performers, enveloping himself in character pretending to be someone else.  I detect less of a method system, more imagination.  For proof I suggest any number of films most notably “The Aviator” and the upcoming “J. Edgar.”

Isn’t it a shame that the new line of comic books featuring Superman, Batman and friends is aimed at hip readers in their twenties who demand flawed, sex crazed, drug addled heroes?  It sure doesn’t leave the little kids whom comic books were designed for with much.

The Occupy movement decries corporate greed and the capitalist way of robbing the average citizen of everything MAAANNN!  (REI Tents, Poland Spring, Taco Bell, Domino, Gore Tex, Zig Zag rolling papers, Apple Corporation, et al exempted)

And speaking of the movement, most police say they’d rather work any other detail than this particular type of crowd control.  Losing your career and/or pension due to constant accusations of police brutality by angry people itching for a chain reaction is no one’s idea of a decent day’s work.

Oh, to be a fly on the wall in the family quarters at the White House after a presidential campaign swing.  “Barak, we need to have another talk about the sausages, pancakes, sundaes, pizza and cheeseburgers you wolfed down!”  “Just photo-ops Michelle, you’ve gotta believe me!”

Finally, October 29^th was Positive People Day in Boston, aimed at stemming violence and promoting a sense of compassion and compatibility.  A flurry of activity in the right direction if you ask me.

Don’t fret.  I am not, nor shall I in the future be applying for Andy’s old gig.  I am happy to stroll along my merry way without feeling a compulsion to moan, groan or nitpick on network TV.

Besides, who needs TV?  If I were looking to carp a teeny bit, this would be the medium in which to do so.  Since I have this convenient forum with no desire to write about anything serious today, allow me a tender  Rooneyesque commentary about something truly silly (but kind of fun to gripe about).

Colleagues in my office recently pointed out that of all of the people who use the communal kitchen, yours truly is the culprit responsible for leaving the cupboard doors open—on a consistent basis.  I quickly dismissed the charge.  Certainly not moi, the same diligent office mate who washes other worker’s dirty mugs, replaces spent paper towels on the rack and routinely orders the coffee and supplies?  Walk away without doing something as simple and courteous as shutting a cabinet?  How gauche to even suggest it.

Sadly for me, they had the weight of overwhelming evidence on their side.  I was caught in the act the other day, nonchalantly reaching for a jar of peanut butter on one shelf, a plastic knife from another, only to leave the cabinet door ajar.  In fact, very much ajar next to yet another cabinet door that had been previously flung asunder for the all important crackers that accompany the peanut butter.  Caught in the act, I ruefully admitted the character flaw and vowed to do something about it, to bring the matter (with all apologies) to a fitting close.  During the last two weeks on Cabinet Rehab “(My name is Jordan and I tearfully admit  there have been times in my life when I’ve left things undone”) I have fared well, managing to concentrate on the emerging processes of finding finality, of closing those open doors.  There have been slipups, but most have been self-corrected within short order.

Turnabout being fair-play, it was time to return the favor with a little venting at the very colleagues who called me out.  Something in the kitchen occurred that offered me the perfect opportunity.  Something I will refer to affectionately as microwave malfeasance.

It dawned on me that for the last dozen or so times I had attempted to set the timer on the microwave nothing happened.  It finally became obvious.  The previous user(s) had stopped the oven before time had run its course, plucking their frozen pizza out thereby leaving the microwave machine in radioactive limbo.  Someone’s impatience had gummed up the works and frozen the machine’s memory.  Since the digital counter is below eye level, one cannot readily see that the readout is not set to zero.  So, we are forced to regroup, reset and punch in new numbers before pressing the start button to get something to happen.  A minor inconvenience of course, but enough of an annoyance to trigger payback.

Many of us prefer things remain in numerical order.  Despite my unruly habit of leaving doors ajar, I do not appreciate the digital counter displaying anything other than zero when it’s time to begin my nuking project.  Apparently there are many out there you share this view.  So for those of you who are digitally careless, remember the common courtesy of letting the microwave time down to zero.  Here’s a helpful tip.  Instead of cooking a bagel for 5 minutes, try 30 seconds.  You’d be amazed at how simple it can be to change.

Otherwise you’re apt to get a tongue lashing, Rooney style.  And if you’re incapable of making this adjustment, here’s a suggestion—go the conventional oven route and leave the zapping to us professionals who know what 00:00 is truly all about.  While you’re at it, synchronize your cable boxes with your cell phones and bedroom clocks.  It makes for a more digitally secure environment.  In return, I promise to keep working on closure—the cabinet kind.

19, 38, 50, 27, 40, 33…

Names spoken.   A lone bell peels by a fountain.  Silence.

65, 28, 31, 31, 39, 43, 56…

In a soothing breeze, the flag unfurled in gentle salute.

61, 76, 39, 38, 47, 23, 26, 41…

A queue of children, spouses, parents, strangers— Americans patiently waiting with paper and pencils.  Tracing names.  Memory etched.

16, 79, 44, 51, 55, 35, 30, 21…

So much hurt.  Yet, reverence.  Preserving dignity, honor.  Never to forget.

28, 27, 61, 42, 45, 48, 55, 23, 25, 28…

In bed, TV on.   Weeping for those I had never met.  Feels like family though.  A pattern—ten names read, voices cracking, music to soothe, silence.

44, 54, 24, 26, 58, 70, 63, 41, 49…

Numbers.  Not random.  Crawling across the screen—ages of those taken.  21, 36, 28, 42. Young and not so young.  78, 60, 19, 37, 49.   None deserved to go; none here today in sadness deserving such pain.

1

For a brief stunning moment on this 10^th anniversary, what we are.  A resolute number.  Through the tears, hope.

Like most of my fellow travelers, I have hung around the planet long enough to have experienced my share of challenging weather.  Stuff like hurricanes Bob and Gloria, crazy thunderstorms prompting funnel clouds or worse, and a hearty dose of nasty blizzards before and after the “Big Daddy” of them all back in 1978.

Now that the juice is flowing and I can put away the candles as I slave away at my writing desk, allow me to take stock.

Weather prognostication— the science of meteorology— has improved greatly over the last few decades.  The advent of the Doppler Radar system, sophisticated satellites and a well trained, experienced legion of forecasters have improved accuracy and dependability overall.  Everyone by now realizes that meteorology is and always will be an inexact science due to its very nature.  Unless conspiracy theorists are correct and some secret government organization in a deep dark lair really does have an evil weather machine with Dick Chaney’s initials carved on it, we are due to bow to the whim of upper level winds, the jet stream, troughs, isobars, barometric pressure and all the stuff that happens no matter what we do.

We should be impressed that meteorologists can tell us approximately (within hours) that system is due to affect us.  Where that something is expected to land is tougher, but the weather folks get it right a lot more often than not.  Statistics actually bear out an accuracy rate of 70 to 80 percent.  Stack that up against any politician’s promises and well, you see my point.

Also, I can’t believe I’m about to write this, but the government’s overall handling of weather emergencies has gotten better.  Obviously, Hurricane Katrina pointed out what incompetence and lack of leadership on the local and state level can lead to.  The feds (the bureaucrats mostly, not the majority of relief workers on the ground) didn’t distinguish themselves either.  Examining the general response by governors, mayors, public safety officials, police, the Coast Guard and others to most emergency situations nowadays, there seems to be a disciplined approach in keeping the public calm, informed and prepared.  So kudos to those in power who choose not to make a tough situation worse by playing the hysteria card.  Instead, we turn to media for our dosage of hype and hysteria, specifically to television.

Sadly,  much of the TV reporting on weather emergencies has become a You Tube bonanza, the celebration of Gore Tex windbreakers worn by twenty-something sacrificial rookie reporters whose job it is to warn us of doom and peril as they themselves get knocked about by waves, tree limbs and storm surge.  The latest video sensation occurred just last week during Hurricane Irene.  It featured an intrepid young Edward R. Murrow in the making reporting from a sewerage runoff station near Washington, D.C.  During the live-shot, he was set upon by what was described as mysterious green foam.  There was nothing mysterious about the foam’s odor, however.  It didn’t take the viewing public long to figure out that he had placed himself in the path of oncoming human waste from an overflowing treatment plant drain.  The stuff certainly hit the fan as well as the young journalist.  I suspect he remained in the sterilizing isolation unit somewhere at the CDC for quite some time following the affair.  It reminds me of the old joke about the guy who for fifty-five years remained at his post at the circus sweeping up after the nightly parade of elephants.  We all know what elephants are prone to do. When asked why he never quit the dirtiest and smelliest of lowly jobs after so many years he replied with the classic retort, “And what, give up show business?”

I observed a bit of TV this past storm cycle with reporters reminding us of what we need in emergencies and how to cope.  Batteries, food, water.  Really?  I never would have figured that out.  Of course, millions flock to their supermarkets to load up on bread, eggs and milk—more than they could possible use up in a month.  French toast is obviously the meal of choice in any disaster.  Most egregious of all occurred on the ABC network when a correspondent actually reported that in New York City officials were ready for the storm of the century with hundreds of body bags at the ready.  Nothing like an image corpses floating down Broadway to settle one’s nerves.  Especially in a serene, low stress city like The Big Apple.  I would have fired that reporter.  The only problem with that idea is that his bosses and their consultants must have loved it. What’s a hurricane good for if not higher ratings thanks to a good old fashioned panic?
Nature is infinitely more intelligent, resourceful and powerful than any president, legislature, army, navy or mass media.  It doesn’t waste a millisecond of its time concerned about ratings, public opinion polls, safety or inconvenience.  Nature and its weather simply is.  It is as foreboding as it is beautiful.  I don’t fear the weather but I sure as hell respect it.  Ponder the thought that a storm churning through our area three hundred years ago, before anyone ever imagined what a modern city might look like, is a direct descendent of the same storm sweeping up the coast today.  The difference is not the weather of course, just the fact that three hundred years later a whole bunch of us and our power lines now stand in its path.  The earth has been and will continue to be on permanent spin cycle.  Storms come and go; things continue to happen as they always have.  Those of us lucky enough to be here should bear that in mind as we go along for the ride.  Turn away from the noise, use common sense and always listen to your mother and have that umbrella at the ready.

Perhaps you heard about the celebrity hockey game in Minnesota recently in which 11-year-old Nick Smith got the chance of a lifetime to win a $50,000 jackpot after purchasing a $10 charity raffle ticket.

All he had to do was take an exceedingly luck slap shot and fire a puck from center ice 89 feet into a tiny cutout (a tad bigger than the width of the puck).  Easier said than done but in true Hollywood style the kid did it.  All that was missing was the legendary Bob Wilson of Bruins radio fame calling the play.  “Nick Smith sets, he shoots, he scores!  There are 50,000 reasons to call this a little boy’s miracle on ice!”

The win means a paid up first year of college, a vacation for the family, the video gaming system of any teenager’s choice and more.  All well and profitable except for one little detail.  On Thursday night, Nick Smith’s name was drawn in a raffle, entitling him to take the shot.   But when the time came for the Minnesota boy to pick up his stick and shoot, he was outside the building, so his brother Nate Smith did the brotherly thing and stepped in so a place in line wouldn’t be lost.  Nate Smith in the case would be Nick’s hard to tell under any circumstances identical twin brother.  Nick’s name was on the ticket; Nate ended up doing the impossible, launching the puck the tiny slot so many feet away.  Both boys went home thinking that they had parlayed a winning ticket into a fortune.

That night, their dad talked with them about the circumstances surrounding the win.  Since the boys pulled a switch and didn’t play by the rules, he counseled them on the consequences of bending regulations along with the benefits of being honest.  It was decided among the family that they would decline the prize.

As of this writing, the insurance company sponsoring the contest has not decided what course to take.  Award the money to the family for their honesty?  Return to the contest rulebook and do a makeover?  I leave that to the powers that be holding the purse.

The mere fact that this story made international news makes me smile.  When someone does the right thing nowadays, some in the media appear stunned.  A story emerges from Middle America without blood, bombings, curse words or natural disasters in the lead and folks want to know more.  Nothing like a little morality tale to remind us of a parent’s love and guidance and a child’s ability to learn a life lesson.

I hope the twins get to keep a part of the winnings if not the entire jackpot.  With a dad like theirs and a value system like the one they have in place, it suggests a wise investment.  And if they don’t get a dime, they will still have realized a nice gain.  As will we all.

Believe me, if I knew the secret, I’d parlay it for more moolah than Bill Gates has.  I would most likely even have my fist best selling book—a really big seller.

For my first century on the planet the answer to those inquiring minds was always the same.  “Duh, beats me. I weigh the same as I did in high school.  Hey, what are looking at me funny like that for man?”

But alas, this metabolic saga has taken a turn, one that I am content to share with the world.

Despite being free of the fat curse that affects millions, being skinny isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be, unless you’re one of those DKNY fashion models.  Why, just the word ‘skinny’ conjures up images of a wimp, a pallid, undernourished lightweight, no threat to ever make the football team or remain standing in a bar fight.  I’m not denying that I’ve walked the wimpy road more than a few times (I’m a lover not a fighter), but  not having the requisite meat on my bones has not been totally detrimental.  In fact, I’ve enjoyed excellent health throughout my days, none better than now in my early fifties.  All of those lovable numbers – blood pressure, cholesterol, glucose — are pretty much where they should be and there are no second thoughts about making it to my 35^th high school reunion this fall.  The mirror reflects a pretty well put together “me” at this stage with one important change, heretofore noticed by me and me alone.

The difference is in yet another number, one that counts for a ton in this overweight nation.  I stand on the scale and appear naked before you (use of literary license here) to announce that for the first time at least 35 years I have gained weight, a considerable rate of growth for my history and body type.  Last year at this time, my playing weight settled in at around 125 lbs.  Friends have lost MORE than my total body weight during their various dieting sprees.  At 5 feet 7 inches, I have always had what some euphemistically refer to as a “small frame.”  I often went with my own euphemisms referring to myself as “wiry” or “agile,” but there is no denying that I was a poster boy for skinny.  Not quite the pre-Captain America Steve Rogers kind of skinny, but not far off either.

Suddenly, like Captain America emerging from the army’s top secret presto/change-o machine, I am a new man, with 20 additional pounds to prove it.  Unlike most of our population, there isn’t a hint of guilt or regret associated with this gain.  There is however pride, accomplishment and a sense of maturity.  I am still a dues paying member of the lightweight class, but the extra 20 has granted me confidence and even a little swagger.  I like it here.

Bonus points are had with no pot in the middle, no sagging chin.  I’m actually exercising more than ever (hot yoga, tread mill, calisthenics, walking on average five miles per day) and eating healthier — lots of natural foods, fruits and vegetables, lean protein and occasional treats that I don’t deny myself.

It is nice to part of the in-crowd, finally knowing what it feels like to expand.  I do have empathy for those who gain without control and do constant battle with their bulge.  Mine is a manageable situation.  I’m right where I need and want to be having leveled off at a comforting 145 lbs. for the past several months.  There’s a more muscular and solid feeling to the frame right now.  A stiff wind isn’t threatening anymore.  I have arrived.

Medical experts tell us that body type and metabolism determines physical image.  I’m grateful to nature for allowing me my growth spurt deep in the heart of middle age.  It is comforting to realize that humans have the capacity to shrink or grow, as the case may be, and develop new skills at any age.  Work, determination and a healthy dose of genetic luck is at the center of it all.  It is nice to have arrived.

Footnote.  At yoga class the other day, the teacher commented on studies that indicate regular yoga stretching may add inches to one’s height.  If that is the case, the idea of being altitude challenged all of these years might go the way of the skinny.  My life long goal of standing taller than Tom Cruise is not far off.

The final mission of the American space shuttle program signals the end of this nation’s most prodigious science project.  There will likely be more manned space missions occurring at an accelerated pace now that NASA is having their final go at it.  The very  thought of a rocket blasting into the cosmos adorned with  an Amazon.com or Virgin Airways logo in place of  the United States flag leaves me with quite the queasy zero-gravity feeling.

If space is indeed the final frontier as young James T. Kirk said on more than one occasion (79 original season episode opening montages to be exact) then it appears we are ceding the human exploration of the heavens to billionaire businessmen with deep pockets and enormous egos and more than a few shifty foreign governments.  How about the notion of our astronauts now needing to bum a ride with the Russians to visit the space station that we and our tax dollars pretty much built several thousand miles above the earth?  And what happens when eventually the Hubble Telescope will suffer a cracked lens due to an errant asteroid pebble?  With no deployable nationally-backed space craft ready at the pod bay door dear Hal, it is going to take longer to get things done up there.  And who is going to guarantee the work?

Pardon me for lapsing into sentimental Americanism, but I would put our astronaut corps (the likes of Cooper, Shepard, Glenn, Armstrong, Musgrave, Ride, Kelly and any of the rest) up against anyone from anywhere in or out of pressure suits.

It must be a generational thing.  When one grew up with signed pictures of astronauts on a bedroom wall, when ABC’s Jules Bergman was “The Man,” when you sweated out every liftoff and splashdown, when time seemed to stand still as you looked skyward in awe at the very thought of it, well it is rearview mirror time, a bygone era.

Over the last few decades, we have witnessed the extraordinary turn humdrum so quickly.  Only when the worst happened and horrific disasters occurred did people stop to think about the space program and present further arguments that it just wasn’t worth it.

But do those arguments have merit?  Many still say that the cost was and is too great.  NASA represents nearly one percent of our obscenely out of control national budget.  For that relatively small investment, we present for your dining and dancing pleasure Velcro.   But there is so much more that we can thank our space explorers for such as life saving medicines, vital ecological research that is helping the planet today, an explosion of computers, cell phones, GPS systems and satellite TV.  That is just part of the success story.

What we achieve as a culture and as a people as we head to the stars has as much merit as the numerous technological discoveries.  It’s about having a national all-purpose goal, a challenging one for sure, and achieving success.  Despite setbacks and trials, NASA has delivered like few governmental programs.

Back in the turbulent but exciting 1960’s, President Kennedy, borrowing from the great Everest explorer, offered up a simple yet powerful reason for America taking the lead in space.  Because it is there.  Space is definitely still very much there, as America is about to hand over the steering wheel to others.  This is a time when we can really use more in the way of technological revolution, one that would put Americans to work and bring pride back to the nation.

John Masefield’s poem is worth quoting at a time like this.

“I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky…and all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by.”

Our tall starships will soon be relegated to museum pieces.  It would be a shame if after our brilliant work forging a path through space, America gets left behind.

First off, I doubt many women are as impressed by pictures of a man in his underwear as you are.  It’s not “becoming” unless you’re a model for GQ and 99% of that magazine’s readers are men so figure it out.  Second, you’re a married man in his mid-forties.  Act your age.  Pay attention to your new wife and leave the coeds to college boys my son’s age.  Third, try to remember shame is a good thing and we’re equipped with it for a reason.  It helps cleanse the scene of spots and blots that are so often repulsive.  Shame also has the residual effect of helping perps like you.  When will disgraced public servants realize that?  Yes, I say disgraced because that’s what you are Tony.  The few smart perverted big shots are those who quickly desert their sinking ships for the relative comfort of exile and anonymity.  A quick exit from the scene following a public apology is the best salve for an ugly stain.  You should want the public to proclaim, “Creepy, we hardly knew ye,” before putting you out of their minds.  But apparently hubris has gotten the best of the situation.  Rep Anthony, you’re the same guy who for years has tossed bombs at the political opposition, often attacks that personal, unfounded and demeaning.  And you’ve been quite good at it.  How does it feel to be on the receiving end?  I thought as much.

This past week you pouted and complained to the same press that did much of your partisan bidding in the past.  You lied to the media, your family, your constituents and the country.  Shame on you and any official from any party who uses such poor judgment and stomps on public trust.  I know, I know, you seem to think that your irreplaceable voice in Congress for the people takes precedence over any “personal errors” you’ve made.  Sorry Anthony, you’re wrong.  You blew it by being selfish, reckless and dishonest.  In most other jobs, you’d be on the unemployment line by now.  Finally, remember that time tested well beaten path scandals like yours take.  There is more dirt to come thanks to your juvenile misunderstanding of the power of social media and the kind of condescension that only rears its head once in a generation.  I fear the best (or more to the point the worst) is yet to come.  So do yourself and the rest of us a favor and pack it in.  Reap the benefits of shame, resign from public life and enjoy the reward of having plenty of time to pursue your on-line passions.  At least at that point, we don’t have to care.