david seth

"Grandma"

2007-12-14T10:20:00.001-05:00

Ten o’clock at night. I am waiting to find out which plane my eighty-five year old grandmother is on. She is from Tampa, Florida. I was told that she was arriving on the 8:05 pm plane. That plane arrived, if you can believe it, on time. Actually, it was five minutes early.

I waited as each passenger disembarked, slowly. Other than a couple twenty year olds wearing some foul language tee shirts, the other passengers looked quite similar, hunched and with white hair. Even though this was New York, they were in no rush to get out of the plane. I am waiting with a smile plastered on my face.

At nine pm I walked over to the service counter and the already annoyed staff was anxious to get home. “Where is my grandmother?” I asked, at first calmly and politely. “Are you kidding, mister? She must have already arrived. The plane is empty and the door is closed. Look around the gate. We’re out of here. Goodnight."

I turn around to see if she is anywhere. It is not like she just sprinted into the airport lounge for a tryst or something. Everything is closed. “Listen, lady, I do not see her anywhere. She is an old woman. If she were here she would be seated and waiting.”

The assistant, still annoyed to have yet another problem had me follow her to an adjacent counter. The rest of the staff had already gone. “Ok, sir, this computer is still on.” After ten minutes of pressing various buttons, she looked up at me, only a bit startled. “She’s lost.”

“What do you mean ‘she’s lost’?”
“I cannot find her anywhere in the system.”
“Schecter, S-C-H-E-C-T-E-R, Anne, A-N-N-E.”
“Sir, I know her name. She is not in the system. Are you sure you she was coming tonight and not tomorrow?”
“Lady, do you have a ‘persons claimed or lost department’? Or can I speak with a supervisor?”

Ten minutes pass and the assistant returns with a supervisor. He is in his late twenties, wearing an official black jacket with a loosened red tie. He looks haggard and not too swift. “How are you, Mr. Schecter?” He asked pleasantly but with a strong accent.

“Great, just great,” I answer this company man who appears more like a terrorist. “I have waited more than an hour and a half and I can’t find my grandmother? I just called my Aunt Bell again and she said that she drove her to the airport and she assures me she boarded the earlier plane. But she is not here and she is not in your computer?”

“OK sir, calm down. If she boarded a plane, we will know where she is shortly. Can you describe her to me?”
“Yeah, she’s old. And short.”
“How short, sir?”
“Shorter than my patience, about 4 feet 8 inches, but who knows, she could have shrunk since I last saw her.”
“Anything else?”
“Gray hair.”
“OK, so she’s approximately four feet eight inches tall, gray hair and eighty-five years old.”
“Yep.”
“Anything else.”
“She likes Cole Porter and drinks a lot of cranberry juice. Oh, and I understand she has her blood pressure under control.”

The man begins to multi-task; he is making calls, tapping the computer keys and looking up at me from time to time. His facial expression suddenly changes. He looks confident as he tells the person he is speaking with on the phone to “hold on.” “Mr. Schecter, we found two old ladies. One is in Pittsburgh and the other is in Atlanta. The one up north says her name is Johnson, but you never know, right? And the one down south says her name is Schiber, pretty close, eh?”

“Are you out of your mind? Her name is Schecter, Tom (I have just read his name on the badge on his sports jacket)!
“Mr. Schecter, my name is Tim, not Tom.”
“Exactly.” Nincompoop.

“We are closing down for the night, Mr. Schecter, so please give me your phone number and we will be in touch, soon.”

Incredible, I’m thinking as I wait in line for a taxi outside LaGuardia. “80th and Lex.” “Any baggage,” the Pakistani driver asks. “No, I travel light.”

On the journey uptown I am scrolling through my mind all the things that I have lost over the years. My keys, my wallet once, some friends, a chick that was way too hot for a nebbish like me, and a quarter pound of pastrami. (Actually, I don’t think I lost the smoked meat, I never trusted that deli guy. I am sure he shorted me it while I was concentrating on what mustard I wanted). Now I can add to the list a grandmother.

As I walk in the door, the phone is ringing. “Hi mom. No you cannot speak with her. Why? Well I don’t have a clue where she is. Yes, I just walked in from the airport. No, obviously. They said they will call me when they locate her. How should I know if she has her pills with her? Mom, I have to get off the phone in case they call. I know you don’t understand. Yes, I know you lost your father recently, I am related remember? Well, at least you know where he is. Look, I will speak with you later.”

At five o’clock the next morning I awake to a phone call. “Did you know that if you call 800.328.8888 within the next hour you can receive home delivery of the ‘Post for half off the newsstand price?” I hang up on Ms. Computer Voice. Now I am wide awake, way to early. Sleep will not return, I am now thinking of grandma. I brew some coffee, gulp it down, and think about what I must do. I walk down the six flights of the brownstone directly into the regular corner diner.

“What will it be Hon,” the waitress asks, “the usual?” “Yeah, why not.” “Ordering…home fries and bacon.” I am wondering why I have not received a call from the airline. A guy walks in and sits next to me at the counter. He looks like his drunken night is ending. “Hey buddy, do you have a couple of dollars? I think I lost my money somewhere,” he asks me. “Sure, if you can produce my grandmother, I will give you a couple of bucks. I lost her last night.” “I was not with her, I swear,” the guy answers defensively. Jesus, “can I get the bill,” I blurt out to the waitress.

I return to the apartment. There is a knock on the door. I open it. Standing there is an airline employee with an octogenarian wearing a light and flowery Boca outfit, probably made in Ohio in the early 1920’s in the cold of winter. “Sir, I am John John from Pie in the Sky airlines. And here is your grandmother.” I am wondering who in the word bestowed this duplicitous name on this man and how many times he was beaten up in elementary school. Maybe he is of the Nabakov lineage. Then I study his presentation. “Who the hell is she? What is your name mam?”

“Glenda,” she says smiling and toothless. I turn to John John. “Where did you find this woman?” “She was sleeping in the airport when I arrived this morning and she matched the description I read.” “Is that right,” I answer, “well did you know that I am your son that you split on so many years ago, John John?” “Sir, with all respect, I believe you are a solid decade older than I am.” “Yes and two decades wiser, this is not my grandmother. Why don’t you leave and buy this poor woman something to eat. I am going back to the airport.” I slam the door.

to be continued...

Eleanor Rigby "unpublished"

2007-11-14T06:49:00.000-05:00

The holidays wash upon us each year as the temperatures fall. And each year this period comes to us earlier and earlier. As the malls fill with relentless September October shoppers currently we are constantly reminded that the weather, which was once just inaccurate information, is now also not seasonal, but throughout the year ‘severe,’ somewhere. One of the conflicts is how does the temporary good facade of the people in the November and December months rise above the climate, which can always be an inconvenient and random event.

Are we generally happy during the holiday times, or is it just a false mask that we are inculcated or normalized to wear? And if we are able to transision ourselves into ‘niceness’ during this interstice, why are we not able to continue it throughout the year, throughout our lifetimes? It would seem that we cannot keep the ‘good cheer’ annually, and that we are exhausted working to feel something that is uncharacteristic during the pre manufactured hols (as the Brits say).

Several years ago it was witnessed that this false holiday spirit, which is an economic bonanza, has been exported, or imported, to countries all over the world. In non Christian countries, such as China and Taiwan, to name only two, ornaments of a Santa or a lighted Tree are ubiquitous and their meaning was unknown to its pre-internet inhabitants in its genesis. However, their moods changed, and their purses were purged. It seemed to the common denominator, and those who created it, a winning situation.

Now we must think of whom in fact we truly are, what our core really is. The biorhythm of life is clear; all days are subject to emotional and intellectual ups and downs. Life constantly challenges us and we struggle to maintain. So when the holidays are upon us, no matter where in the world we may be, we are still in that flux. It is not unlike a couple of glasses of Merlot that band aid our consistent angst.

What is done amongst us that are not afforded this luxury, this provisional reprieve; the abandoned, the infirmed, the institutionalized, the ardently wounded, lonely majority populace? Extant are those of us that cannot buy into this unnatural feeling whether it comes in the form of holiday or life. Many times the disenfranchised are really as OK as everyone else is but they refuse or cannot compete, often by choice, in the diversion.

Whichever group we fall in, we may know, deep down, that holiday time should be either abnegated or embraced for all time. We should realize that all of us are part of the insanity of the human condition, admit to it, and work with it. Struggle first with ourselves, and then understand that the other one also struggles.

Be compassionate, be forgiving, and love what little there is to love. Toss hate and evil into the aggregate, and commit to this forever, not for a couple of months. Unfortunately, this is a wishful goal, not a reality, for bad always exists with good, and sometimes, the depraved and debauched are incapable of behaving otherwise.
Even during the Giving of Thanks through Christmas season.

Joy to the world, peace on earth, tidings of comfort and joy, are fabricated statements, although well intentioned. If we can introspect and acknowledge what hurts and feels good, this would be a start. We need not hope for these silly sayings (history reminds) to alchemize but rather concede we are only what we are. If we can reach that point of honesty with ourselves, it may spread to others. Not to the world, but with those whom we do care about.

Occam's razor: Give a gift to us first, individual honesty, and then we can share our true selves with others. This is not an antidote, just an unlicensed diagnosis.

i will be back soon

2007-10-07T06:22:00.000-05:00

you have not heard from me for a while. i am chiseling out words for the upcoming book. if this sounds vainglourious, it is not. the toll of a scribe is not to be admired. i work alone with myself, and we do not get along. there are no barriers between me and myself. we argue, we disagree, we are seldom happy with our efforts.

i turn to me and i ask, "what do you think of this paragraph?" "it sucks," is always the response. but i continue to push aphabetic buttons to create something amazing, and to my continuous atonishment, i am unimpressed. so i stand up, walk around, and return to read what i wrote. "no, this is not good."

keep your day jobs. talk to the people where you work. receive a pay check. it's not so bad. i have to leave now. i have unimportant words to eke. perhaps i will speak to my boss, and advise him that i need a different job. but i know him, and he never listens to me. he cares not whether i am ok. he just wants me to complete the work. i always listen to him though, because he is me.

the next president, oh will my mom be proud 08.27.07

2007-08-26T09:21:00.000-05:00

I am throwing my DKNY jeans with pre-designed holes, my kangaroo hat, and my crocs, my tattered tee shirts, my Calvin Klein boxers and my Capri’s into the ring. This symbolizes my new attempt, stated here for the first time, that I am running for president. Somebody with a modicum of common sense, from the rank and file of the proletariat, must speak out straight talk and seek office. D.C. was never expected, but neither was grey hair.

Below are some of my stellar qualifications:

I have a bachelor’s degree from a non-ivy league university

My major was business, with a minor in skiing, not political science

I never studied law or wanted to become an attorney, my ethics teacher advised against it.

I am not the son or grandson of Pat Paulsen

I was never the captain of any sports team

I really do not care how my hair looks

I choose my friends carefully and I am wary of those with agendas

I know that I cannot please everyone all the time

I am agnostic so separation of church and state is fine with me

I have read many of the philosophers

I realize that our time on earth is finite

I do not have a billion dollars in the bank nor do I seek money from others

I have some issues with big business

I am laissez faire

I do not spend more than I have

I do not borrow

I am monogamous, and I am not closeted

*****************************************************************************

All right, does that pacify you somewhat? Now you will need to know my agenda for the next eight years for I will surely be a two term president. The list of things I will change:

Since women are the only ones able to carry children, they will continue to be allowed to choose to abort. This will be effective until the year 2099. At that point, if we become mindless drones who have spent the last fifty years succumbing all our souls and thoughts to a machine, an alien, or to the newest interpretation of the Koran that we have all abided, it may be too late for personal choice. Enough said.

Gays can marry. Period.

I kiss up to no one, so nobody can influence me

I receive compliments poorly, so no one can persuade me

I will seek a bookkeeper to get back all the money we lent

I will not offer assistance to any country outside of the United States

I go to bed early so I am unable to wine and dine with the politicians

Kathy will be my vice president, an ethical and intelligent person. We will share the responsibilities of the job, because we will represent the populace that is evenly divided between male and female. (and because she says so)

I do not need a private plane. Although first class would be nice.

I will not accept a limo. I will use my 21 gear bike.

I will keep the name Camp David, but its function will be for public use, as soon as I find out where it is.

I do not need a white house. A small flat with a nearby Whole Foods will be fine

Meetings with foreign dignitaries will be over the Internet. I also will not fly to them. If they want to visit on their euro, fine.

The only politician I respect is the first and only Gandhi. You will not hear any bellicose remarks by me, nor will I tolerate them from others. Instead I will choose a psychological moderator that will force us to work out our issues through compromise, one on one. I am against meetings.

all lawyers and politicians will be remanded to live in Guam for the entirety of my term

All corporate CEO’s salaries will be capped at ten million dollars a year, which I consider more than enough. If their companies do well, then the extra earned dollars must be reinvested in the company, divvied up amongst shareholders, or be reflected in higher wages to their employees.

I will keep taxes down and create a flat tax rate. That will end the IRS conglomerate that employs too many people. It will surely upset accountants also. Dudes, that alone will save a lot of mullah. I instead, will make prostitution and drugs legal, in a further effort to decrease the budget and to eliminate all the naughty people associated with these industries.

Say good-bye to the Electoral College. Does anyone still believe this is still valid? If so, trade in your horse and buggy for a bus ticket.

*************************************************************

This will be a ‘word of mouth’ campaign, so I will not need to raise funds. The cabinet will be composed of construction workers, small business men, artists, philosophers, PhD’s in psychology, and at least two comedians. I will not tolerate any cable operator in the cabinet. Age or color or religious background or gender will not matter. The only requirement is the ability to articulate and to be honest.

I apologize for entering this late in the game. After hearing the candidates speak, I really cannot take it anymore. The time is now. We can have what we can make. There will be a total ban on foreign imports, forcing us to create what we are very capable of making. I will not tolerate an oil based economy. American manufacturers will have to make their own fuel or learn how to make things work electronically. There will be no investments allowed from foreigners, and we cannot invest in other countries. We must only rely and finance ourselves. I am quite sure this is more than possible.

When I am inaugurated, there will be no twenty million dollar party. I will have a few friends over to the apartment and we will sip California chardonnay and Merlot. The food will be catered by the homemade dishes of the invitees. I will answer only questions from the public, not reporters. The answers will be direct and the media will put any spin on them they like, although at the rate things are going on the news channels, the ‘severe weather’ segments seem to be half of their show.

I will write my own speeches. In fact, I will seek the help of Larry David and Conan O’Brien and their ilk, to help me in the editorial process. When I need a vacation, I will not have ten houses that I can retreat to. I will go to Zagat’s to pick out my accommodations. I will not require much time off however.

I will not accept a salary. I will accept only a percentage of the GNP if it should go up. If it does not, I will not be paid.

If you like what you hear so far, please vote for me. If you have any questions, feel free to email me. I will try to answer everyone back. If you text message me, it may take quite a bit longer for a response. Now you have the power to make an intelligent decision. Will you make the right one?

Europe in the summer of 07? 08.10.07 alburquerque city outlook

2007-08-10T04:56:00.000-05:00

Molto caldo
Molto costoso
Molto ammucchiato
Abbastanza bello
Et la pizza delicieuse (that’s French, were you paying attention?)

When in Roma, keep roaming. A couple of weeks ago I flew to Roma on a direct flight from Newark. As usual, we were in the plane two hours, until the antiquated NJ runway, notice not plural, permitted us to leave. It was a six hour flight, so we landed, of course, on time, the way only the airlines can pad it.

We cued up on customs lines in Roma and with passport in hand, the official did not even open up, less stamp, my passport. A minute later I was outside, baggage in hands, and there Kathy was waiting.

She led me to her rented car. It was a Mercedes, a woman with taste. She admitted that under chaos, the rental agency gave her this car by mistake. So as I entered the passenger side, I saw that the right side of the car was drastically damaged from stern to bow, as if hit by a drowsy eighteen-wheeler. I asked about this, and her reply was a story of those darn illusive tapered Italian roads. At first they seem wide and then they narrow down to impassability. She was not worried, she had insurance. It happens.

I believe I was the first to arrive at Kathy’s self promoted and paid for fiftieth birthday party. She had rented a villa, just south of the Umbria region and within an hour north of Roma. Slowly, her long time girlfriends bucketed in with their partners and their siblings, some with children. Also, of course, her sister and one of her brothers with their mates joined.

Under cloudless skies and heat that only Mephistopheles could know, we headed to her villa. The six to eight rental cars, circus cars suited for midgets that Europeans use, followed our damaged Mercedes to the villa. We arrived in dried out farm country, caused by global warming or just plain lack of rain. The villa was magnificent yet understated, which made it all the homier. It was not the type of habitation that George Clooney would have at Lake Como or an ousted Ruler’s retreat, but it was overly nice for the simpler people we are.

Other than I, the house was chocked full of modern or contemporary people who wander around as if nude without their internet access. The owner of the house was somehow able to hook up one of the dozen laptops brought in the middle of nowhere to a cell phone. It worked, which acted as perfect a pacifier for the adults as the pool was for those guests under fourteen.

Kathy had arranged cooks to prepare a single dinner and daily breakfasts. These two woman home chefs, the same age as their occupants, cooked so well, that a consensus was drawn that they should cook all dinners for us. Go anywhere you want, to NYC or to a Michelin rated restaurant anywhere, and you will realize they have nothing over good home Italian cooking.

I was the newbie on the block. Most of the other people at the house knew each other more intimately than they know their wine, which they do well. I do not drink wine, however, Kathy arranged for a bus to take us to two wineries. We were instructed by the owners of these wineries of the entire process, and although my knees were bent by the force of ennui, the others could not get enough. It did not hurt either, that these owners were also very handsome men with Italian accents, which the women appreciated as much as the tasting. There were about six different wines to smell, swirl, and sip between the two places. I liked the first one only. The rest of the group discussed the complexities of the other wines and bought substantial quantities at the end of the tour. I was informed the prices were good although the U.S. dollar has as much value as an activist in Myanmar.

We visited towns not overrun with tourists that were delicious in the elder European style; small roads, small shops, and churches. Old men always standing or sitting in shaded sections, were seldom conversing yet eyeing the suspect foreigners or just reflecting on their lives. Then we saw more duomos, and after that more churches. I must admit I can cross and genuflect now with the best of them. The orthodox Christians though cross from left to right, ottenuto voi, Lou. Of course I was looking for a confessional, I wanted to hobnob with a Father, perhaps sanitize myself of several sins, or wondering whether he perceived my peccadilloes worthy of penance. No matter, I left my New Testament in the U.S.A. on my nightstand beside my ‘Taoism for Beginners’ book and on top of the Bhagavad-Gita.

This week long event was sort of like the ‘Big Chill’ only twenty years later when some believe that ‘chilling’ time is nearing. The friends came from New Jersey, California, the Bronx, Minnesota, and Connecticut. A better group of fresh Italian eggs you could not find. All were solid Americans, hardworking, decent, and intelligent, if you exclude me. We got along famously, and it was a reflection and homage to Kathy’s good and virtuous life.

We were all sad to leave, but much sadder upon entering the airport in Roma that was as nutty as an under staffed mental institution. Note, do not fly to Europe in the summer without Valium or friends in the Cosa Nostra. Although we all arrived safely back home, not one of us arrived on our soil without an incredible story to tell about the airline industry.

Kathy and I visited Bulgaria and Romania after Italy. Why? Who knows? Sort of like visiting New York City, and while there, jaunt over to Mississippi and Tennessee, because they appear nearby on a map. That said, these Eastern Block countries fascinated, but I suggest they have plenty of work ahead of them to modernize. This will not happen in my lifetime. A modern architect would weep at the 1960’s cement structures the Russians built, their creativity akin to a busy accountant. We passed the gypsy village where that moron Borat filmed as Uzbekistan and we entered Dracula’s Castle, both of them fantasies. I can honestly say that the scariest part of Transylvania is the amount of vampire referenced tee-shirts for sale. However, they are thankful for their new found pseudo democracy, as we Americans are losing it.

So, when we arrived back in our native Orwellian and Darwinian country, we felt as we are. Contrary to Dorothy, the entire world is just like home. Travel always instructs us that this is an increasingly small planet where we are all quite similar, simpatico and irrelevant, regardless of antithetical governments and news . We made and enjoyed the best of it. This is generally the best choice.

'This Isn't Kansas Anymore" 06.27.07 published 07-16-07

2007-06-27T04:38:00.000-05:00

You remember this tune from the ‘Wizard of Oz’. Now, sing along:

TO THE MELODY: IF I ONLY HAD A BRAIN, heart, nerve:

She could wile away the hours
Looking at the mirror
Reflecting in vain
And we all don’t give a damn
If Hill’s a woman or a man
If she only had a brain

And Bill is in the middle,
Searching for a little
Something of the same

(Poet)
We know you’re not together,
Your skins are made of leather,
Neither have a brain

And then there is Obama
Same road as M.C. Hammer
And Edwards lost the game
He walks the rope that’s tight
No matter black or white
Another without a brain

I’ve issued a new fiat
I’m only booking Hyatt
Paris is way lame
She’ less than Mrs. Stewart
While dumb remained stalwart
You two still have no brains

Tom Cruise can’t film, say the fascists
He is a scientologist
Aryan children shifting the blame
Like ants they once killed humans
And Hubbard gets me fumin
The world’s without a brain

Every day there is a killin’
A father knocks off children
The world has gone insane
You seek consolation from a priest
A pedophile allowed to preach
I’m looking for a brain

I do not forget Mel Gibson
Who’s making a hell of a livin
Despite those Jews he blames
But Sharpton has no problem
They both created new jargons
For those without a brain

If you offered me a mansion
In Dallas, Houston, Austin
Where there’s always rain
I would rather live in Camden
No armadillos or hurricane in’
Because I have a brain.

Poetic justice for John Corzine
You have money but lost your mind
Are seat belts and highways eminent domain
We thank you payin the ticket
47 dollars a wee trinket
One of your lady friends stole your brain

If I only had a heart:

I’m thinking of CEO’S,
Their face, spite their nose,
The money they won’t part
The employees they are rakin
Millions more than they’re makin
(Shareholders are a shakin’)
They’re lackin a heart

They all buy a child in Africa
It creates media chatter,… but
The poor here don’t get a start
Jolie ne’er been to Michigan
Or in an L.A. soup kitchen,
Another country took her heart

You, Oprah, and Madonna
Standin on yur box of soap’ a
Talking like your smart
Have you ever walked through WATTS (It’s much close ‘a than Ethiopia)
Or north of central park
I think they’d take out your heart

You all lack emotion, intelligence, devotion
And the press plays a part
You are not any hipper
Than Schwartzman or the Terminator
Power without a heart

Cheney, you’re not gentle
And hardly sentimental
Power and money is your art
We know we are riff-raff
According to your oiled staff
And your doctor found no heart.

I’m still confused by Qaddafi
No better than chemical Ali
Allow the Bulgarian nurses to depart
But know that where he comes from
He treats his own like scum
He never had a heart.

If I only had the nerve:

Yeah the judge that sued Koreans
Complaining about his jeans,
In a jail or a laundry he should serve
So you lost your Hickey Freeman’s
You’ve got a lot of nerve

Its good to know McGreevy
Although was born a sissy
Got what he deserved
Sexuality doesn’t matter
His government was tattered.
A wife? you got nerve

The Mexicans I feel for
But after you’re done sweeping floor
A fate you don’t deserve
We’d be starving without you
No fruits or avocado
If you didn’t have the nerve.

The top birth name in London, it’s said
For boys, this year’s Mohammed
At least that’s what I heard
Although a free society
They want to change the deity
Now that is what’s called nerve

There ain’t too much mournin
For the church of Mormon
A candidate to serve
But hear me Mr. Romney
If you should need a kidney
Will your wives have the nerve?

Miss Lohan and the Richey’s
A couple of the bitchees
Are getting what’s deserved
You wouldn’t eat a cheesecake
And jail to me’s a mistake
Celebrity youth has some nerve.

"I Have a Daydream" philadelphia 06.18.07

2007-06-18T04:28:00.000-05:00

Dear Mr. Bush,
I am an apolitical deist, who views politics and prayer books as an alcoholic considers coca cola. So do not be chary of my agenda, I have none. I do have a suggestion, failsafe; that may remedy what the world believes is the impending Armageddon. I refer, naturally, to the Middle East crisis and its worldwide repercussions. Now that we know that the outdated and useless United Nations are impotent and the loco leader from Venezuela and the irate president of Iran are relaxing at home with their nuclear toys, I will speak. After all, someone has to say something.

North Dakota is a large state, colder than an ice-cube, and has a population of about twenty people (not including some cattle and horses). The two main activities there are shivering and browsing mail order catalogs. It is a desolate and unproductive land. You drive around in your four-wheeler and all you see is, well, nothing. If that big white house you occasionally live in were there instead, it would be worth about twenty-five thousand.

The first thing I would like you to do is to move the ten or so families from there to a nearby state, let us say Minnesota or South Dakota. The ‘ND’ populace will probably be grateful to have a ‘Seven-Eleven’ within twenty miles of their new home. The current residents of these two states would not even notice their inclusion, the quantity of people infinitesimal, the size of their unused land large. The Dakotans could find work there and occasionally find a neighbor to visit within an easy Caterpillar ride. The federal government could help fund their move.

I would then offer the Jewish people of Israel this location at no charge. I would even grant them our tax money for the move, and this country would still save a bundle on what we spend in that area of the world now. These are people of many Diasporas and they adapt quickly to a new environment. At first, they may ask, North Dakota, mishagas. Once they locate North Dakota on a map, they will require a bit of time to think.

They will inexorably conclude that this piece of property is ten times larger than the one they now live in. They will then realize that above them lay the calm Canada and below them forsaken South Dakota. To the west and the east of this state, the neighbors are nice, clean cut mid-westerners. A location surrounded by good people that do not carry bombs under their shirts or explosives in their cars. (Maybe hunting rifles, but used for four legged creatures) They could travel to Chicago or Montreal on their weekends. In their current location, neighboring countries do not allow recreational visits.

The Jews would change the landscape of the state just as they did over fifty years ago in Palestine. I can imagine a verdant land sprinkled with industry and universities. I anticipate a brand new fabric born that would allow a father and son to play catch in thirty-below afternoons. There could be falafel restaurants and a YMHA. Bismarck converted into their Jerusalem. A wailing wall from natural rock formations with pastrami and pickles concession stands adjacent. It could ultimately have many houses and simple hotels that the Mormons and the Amish would venture to visit. Instead of spas or expensive new- age boot camps, there would be cabbalist retreats. Possibly Madonna would build a house nearby, if she is still into that apocrypha.

This country could reap the tax benefits of all this modernization. Imagine, if you will, flying El Al from any place, U.S.A. to Fargo non-stop? One would never feel safer at thirty thousand feet on another domestic airline. This country would even get the admirable intelligence unit, the Mossad, a better choice than Guiliani’s Bernie Kerik for homeland security.

I see Kinky Friedman as governor, and Matisyahu as mayor, a former Texan and a New Yorker, idealistically representing different American generational values. Something like Schwarzenegger in California minus the sauerkraut.

If this confounds our anti-outsourcing public, then invite the people from Mexico and India there also. It is a better alternative for the Israelis than Hamas or Hezbollah. And it is better for these immigrants than climbing fences or not landing a well-degreed job. Anyway, I envision them getting along fine with plenty of work available. Don’t worry, they will all pay taxes that will compensate for the money wasted in futile discussions on Capitol Hill including immigration and world diplomacy.

The Shiites, the Sunnis, and the other Muslim factions could then have the land they desperately want. They would no longer have to fight for what they believe is their right. They would be free of those pesky Zionists, have unencumbered use of land of the former Israel, (a couple of schm’acres), and run around under the protection of Allah and their neighbors. That would optimistically make them content.

Are there any holes in this theory, Mr. Bush? Please think it through carefully. This could help your party win the next election and confuse the axis of terror you refer to always. Think of the potential vexation you'd derive from Iran, Syria, Mel Gibson, Hillary, and the most Reverend Jackson? Think about the polls. Your daddy will be so proud of you. I bet my bar mitzvah yarmulke that this is a multilateral and positive calculation we cannot ignore. After listening to the leaders of various nations come to a non-conclusion at every opportunity, the time is ripe.

Our citizens and some of your supporters that believe in apocalypse will be temporarily pacified also. They could now put more effort into their anti-abortion, anti-gay marriages, and anti-stem cell research platforms.

The rest of us could concentrate on important matters here such as the Hilton girl and the new fall television lineup. Moreover, the airtimes debates, reduced to half, will be less embarrassing for us to watch.

'fifty is the new fifty' key to philadelphia 06.04.07

2007-06-04T05:16:00.000-05:00

‘50
Still 18
But with 32 years experience’

From a tee shirt displayed in a shop

As the readers of this column may know, this past January, I walked out my front door to find the AARP train. I looked inside and saw my new community, older people. I have had six months to contemplate this. I have come to a profound conclusion, I is aged.

The problem is; I only understand it on a conceptual level. In real life, I still am cool (I think ‘fresh’ is the current synonym). Let me offer some examples. When I shop for clothes, I go the twenty-something section. I spot, with my magnifiers, phat pants, cargo pants, funky tee’s, and trendy shoes (no, not those bright colored plastic clogs. I have not made that leap yet). The process now reduces me to ask for assistance from an employee. The help is always under twenty-five and when they approach, they say, “how can I be of service to you sir?”

Sir, like madam, is not a word that we need to hear. I feel like replying, call me dude or I will hit you with my walker. “I need something in a thirty waist, but not any of that overpriced designer stuff. Can you help me find the right sizes and tell me what would look good?” “Sure,” is what I hear but I see a snicker. They walk to the racks and pull out a few different pairs for me to try on. One is cut so low on the waist, that I feel they will not stay on. The other exposes my underwear. Yet another is so wide that it makes me look like a banyan tree. So I leave unsatisfied (which I have become accustomed to). I’ll keep wearing what I have, which are relics from years past. But they feel right and they are worn and comfortable. I do not upgrade. I deal.

Nowadays, I walk into any other place and I adamantly yet cautiously request a senior discount. Sometimes I get it, other times I do not. There is no correct answer to my question, either one annoys me. I am probably older than sixty to seventy percent of the population, and will soon be shorter than ninety percent of high school juniors.

I turn on my Sirius radio. How cool is that? Inadvertently, I program in my stations. The fifties, the sixties, the seventies, classic rock, classic vinyl, and mellow rock. I cannot believe I am listening to Zeppelin, Hendrix, Joni Mitchell, and Leonard Cohen. Most of these people either are dead or are in nursing homes (my imminent next stop). When I was seventeen, ‘Stairway to Heaven’ was heavy. Now I cannot decipher the meaning behind the lyrics. Occasionally, I will try a new band, but listening to the poppy songs of male or female teenage angst seems trivial. I remain stuck between ‘I’m just mad about Saffron’ and ‘e-lec-tric a banana is going to be the very next phase’.

Cell phones. I cannot get used to them. I do not like being called anywhere at anytime. Let’s say I am at Whole Foods in the bakery section. I am focused and pensive. This is serious business. I am looking for something that has nuts and chocolate, but is different from what I have had in the past, yet low in fat. Go ahead, laugh, but do not get me going about Di’bruno’s cheese department. So, I am reading the ingredients typed so small that I would need a microscope to read the contents. Ah, but everything looks so damn good. Just at that moment, while I am also thinking about the chocolate cream cheese cake at the Reading Terminal for $3.99, my phone rings. I look around. Is that someone else’s phone, an alarm, or my cell? It is my cell. It has already beeped four times. Now I rush to press the talk button. Intense.

“Hello”
“Is this 418 9749?”
“Speaking”
“Sarah”
“Yeah”
“Sarah jackman, Sarah Jackman?
"How's by you?"
"How's by you?"
How’s by you the family?
How’s your sister Emily?
She’s nice too.”

The wrong number and right in the middle of an important dessert investigation.

Then I have an ophthalmologist appointment, a dental implant appointment, and a physical with an internist. These doctors are well qualified for fifteen year olds. At least, that’s how they seem to my degenerative eyes. Tri-focal? Crowns and caps? Colonoscopy? Hey bud, what do I look like, your grandfather? “Honestly, a little.”

I want to do something with Kathy today. Perhaps a show. They end at ten or eleven, at night? Forget it, too late. What about a matinee, a stroll through nature, or breakfast at Tiffany’s? “David,” she says, “you’re behaving like an old man.” “You are right Kathy, but you look so beautiful today.” Aha! Age begets tolerance. Tolerance begets indolence. Indolence begets evanescence. Evanescence includes an epitaph. (Guess what kids; I know that evanescence is also a name of a new band)

“Hi dad.” “Who is this?” “It’s your son, David, remember? The dumb one?” “Of course, the dumb one, how are you?” “Fine dad,” phone to the ear, eyes closed towards the ceiling, “When did you first notice that you became continuously cold? At what age?” “Let me think. Maybe when I was about your age, sixty.” “Dad, I am your oldest son. I am only fifty.” “What are you talking about, my oldest son is sixty!” was the reply. I open my eyes, stare at the phone, hesitate, examine the handle as if it were a stranger, then “Sorry, Uncle Joel, I must have dialed the wrong number.” “No problem, Mathew, say hello to your sister for me. Tell her to sell her shares of Zenith Radio.”

Ok, there is just one more thing I want to add. Umm, wait a minute. Hmm…I forgot. It probably was not important anyhow.

"Summer Vacation Plans" Philadelphia Magazine

2007-05-04T08:07:00.001-05:00

Gas prices will soon be $5 a gallon. Airlines will consolidate and reduce flights. You need to get away, perhaps for a long weekend or more. Whatcha gonna do? I have the answer. As a travel writer for the Michelin (sorry, Manishevitz) guide, I have a five Star of David destination. Excited? Hold on, I have to fill this page with at least 800 words.

Pack lightly, summer clothes, even colors that do not coordinate, or striped shirts with checkered pants. I am sending you to a place where fashion does not matter. Leave your passport at home, although the destination is a foreign country. You do not need to convert your dollars into more expensive euros. American dollars work here. I know, you are already heading out the door, but you may need to finish reading this piece.

Worried about your bright orange-dyed hair? Anxious about the metal rings you wear on your ears, your belly button, your tongue, your nose, or your private parts? Fuggetaboutit! No one at this Mecca will care or notice. You can relax here. Sound good?

Skip on over to the Amtrak station. Take the Northeast corridor route to Penn Station in New York City. Note: one of the cars is ‘silent,’ and if you even whisper in it, everyone will quickly admonish you. I know. It happened to me. Two hours later, you will arrive in the tumult of this Gotham station. It is chaotic for gentler folks, so you might want to get an anti-anxiety prescription before you leave, or a “Dummies for Philosophy” book.

While still underground, you will walk quickly (NYC) and look for the 2, 3, 4, or 5 subways heading south. This is part of the adventure. Inside you may not find a seat but you will see some interesting characters. They will be of all ages, weights, colors, and a third of them will be sleeping, another third will be reading, and the rest will have music streaming into their ears. They will not be looking at you, but you should notice them. A virtual carnival on tracks.

The announcement of your destination will come over the loudspeaker. However, if they are speaking in English, I have never understood them. The message is as articulate as an old Beatles album played in reverse (Paul is dead). Wait about four stops later and exit voluntarily or not. You will see stairs heading up to the daylight and there will be an escalator. The escalator may not work. Head up to the outside with your suitcases. Others will help push you up, regardless of need. Whew.

You know what? You’se in Brooklyn. A tower of Babel island. Another country. Nothing else like it anywhere. Calm down, there is too much to do and see. I will provide you right now with some highlights. There is no need to thank me; however, I would appreciate it if you each sent fifty cents to John Edward’s hairstylist. Poor clipper, I am sure he is making under $500,000 year with his scissors. G-d forbid the barber does a substandard job. I am sure the senator will target him with a huge class action lawsuit (with the full support of his wife, of course).

Ok now, walk on the Brooklyn Bridge and ignore the blue Manhattan one. The structure is awe inspiring, and if a cyclist or a blader does not cream you, the views are magnificent. The first place you will notice is an area they call Dumbo, with good reason. It is chocked full of sold-out million dollar closets with the constant din of the two bridges directly on top of it. The bourgeois love a particular ice-cream place in their village. If you want to try it, just be prepared for a cue that is as long as the South Beach Hotel strip.

Next stop is the beautiful Prospect Park and the Botanical Gardens. Pick up a pastrami sandwich and picnic there. No mayonnaise, please! Keep your eyes on your belongings at all time, because others are watching them also. After you have ingested but not digested the two pounds of innocent and seasoned meat, it is time to walk over to Crown Heights and lose 25 of the 10,000-calorie feast.

The best way to describe this enclave is to imagine Port o’ Prince, Haiti and Ma’asharim, Israel in a collision. In other words, either they are of black skin or of black wardrobe. If you possess neither, you will be a foreigner. The entrance point here is marked with a Costco sized warehouse that sells retail (although it claims wholesale) the ‘best beef and fish (?) from the west.’ The languages here are either Yiddish or Ebonics. Vishtay, my brother?

Only a couple of words permitted left. How about Greenpoint, Brighton Beach or Coney Island? Even if you are not conversant in Polish, Greenpoint will fascinate. If you are lacking in Russian lexicon, both Brighton and the Coney may frustrate. Screaming on the Cyclone roller coaster is universal. However, if you have the appropriate amount of bold gold accessories and can speak English with an immigrant Italian accent, you will be fine. Also, make sure your hair is poofed up and your shirt is partially unbuttoned.

I have enlightened you to another world. I have saved you money and I have offered you multi-cultures. What more could you want for a respite, Four Seasons hotels on the beach with concierge service? Nah, this city is what the Old Russian authors called ‘organic collectivity.’ A mish-mash of everything. Have fun and tell them David sent you. This will get you an already free Village Voice or a threat from a guy with connections.

I almost forgot. Try the food in all these locations. The victuals will not be recognizable or explained, but your palate will never be the same.

"To dream the impossible dream" Key to Philadelphia 4.23.07

2007-04-24T04:19:00.000-05:00

I need a vacation. A writer seldom receives time off. The mind keeps churning like a broken clothes drier that never turns off. Stephen King suggests in a book about authorship that a scribe must read and write twelve hours each day (his scariest discourse yet). Of course, I picked spring break to pursue the book I am manufacturing, genius that I am. Typically, a writer seeks some kind of temporary peace and locale to accomplish this. I try to pursue a little holiday interval to coincide with the endeavor (procrastination). Now is the time to head out of town and clear the cobwebs. Good-bye monotony, hello Elysian Fields.

Ads abound. Impossible smiling women relaxing in bikinis, their long smooth hair draping their bodies and the white sand at a beach somewhere in Virginia (high school dropouts certainly). Rapturous Couples on a weekend jaunt to the Days Inn Suites in downtown Secaucus N.J. (honey, we can take a train to Newark and try the Portuguese rodizio). The magnificent Midwest (only a 40% chance of tornado), refresh yourself in the hills of California (sipping Napa wine by the brush fires). Flights to Florida for $49 that promise as much fun as a night at a Mamet show or the Cirque de Soleil.

With credit card in hand, you stimulate the computer keys in optimistic style. The confirmation number appears and you are on your way. When you just seek escape, all options lead you there. Adieu everyday stress, I have located peaches and cream.

Then there is the check in and airport security. My goodness. There are so many people doing what you are doing, that angst still resonates. The lines at security are so long and slow, you would think that you were attending a free premier to a new Broadway show about a woman’s memoir, portrayed by a sympathetic Pro-Palestinian actress (90% of the audience is of Jewish faith). Two hours later, it is your turn to meet the agent who asks for your ID (which is in what pocket? which bag?). Then the time comes that you must undress before you enter the magical metal portal.

You proceed shoeless, the civilized yet ancient Japanese custom rekindled, with 25 gray trays to put your laptop, your toiletries, your cell phone, infants, and any metal objects you may have. I usually keep the illicit drugs in my pocket and a machine gun in my pants. The women sentries are so impressed with the bulge that they do not even hear my lousy jokes. However, they take away $75 of Kiehl’s products that weigh over 3.4 ounces (who is the Mahatma who came up with that weight, Fibonacci?). A coup for the packaging business lobby. Without my hair products, I look like Einstein sans brain.

I begin to collect my scanned stuff and reboot myself, but I always forget something. Fellow passengers remind me what I left. I thank them quixotically and head towards the gate, a writer slash moron errant. At the gate, I try to find a place to relax and whip out my laptop (a personal old western movie fantasy). Every seat taken, except for the one next to a couple who have a two-year-old running about? Their nochas I know, but I want to write. The announcement blasts over and again (as if it is prayer time in Fez) to beware of suspicious baggage and behavior. I am tense, or suddenly paranoid. I look around for suspect behavior and I spot some hefty people eating cinnamon buns and donuts. Should I report them to Weight Watchers? A swarthy man wearing sunglasses is patiently standing. Oh wait, is that Karenina he is reading? No railroad tracks here.

Finally, after an apologia for the delay, we enter the plane. I do not want to crack open my laptop in the middle seat 24E. Final moments on the dear mobiles surround while the old woman next to me is boasting about her wonderful grand children as I help her with her bags (where are these indolent progenies now?). Satire, like comfort, does not come easy.

It is difficult to find recluse and write. Much more difficult than fighting off the revenge of Montezuma. Consistently baited by this most expensive bargain fare, I return home with fewer words etched than when I originally left.

It is back to the stressful flight experience I just had two weeks ago and back to the room from which I came. Next time I will drive to Maine in the winter, and rent a bungalow with or without a view. This is easier, although I am sure I will land there with a couple of traffic tickets in hand, road construction traffic and four dollar a gallon gas. In sub-zero temps, I might be able to concoct chilling prose.

Skating away, on the thin ice of a new day.

"From the cradle to the cradle" Key to Philadelphia 4-09-07

2007-04-09T04:59:00.000-05:00

From the cradle to the cradle

David Seth

It is April 2. I am sitting on the couch in front of a flat screen TV. My mother is on the other side of the pastel colored living room putting the pieces of a puzzle successfully together. Beside me are two chairs, one with a back support cushion that can be bought at Target. My father is sitting on this chair and his friend Joe is reclining on the other. The respective ages of these men are ticking quietly and quickly towards 78 and 80 years old. By some miracle, my mother is only ten years older than I am and wears a size two (both exaggerations that a good son accepts). I am, for an occasional moment, the youngest in the room.

Unlike me, these two men are quite bright, one with an engineering and business background, the other a neurologist. My mother has a solid degree in life. My father has control of the channel changer. Eight o’clock in the evening has recently passed. Dad turns the TV on with this gadget that I am sure could also track Bedouins in the desert within a meter or two.

“Irwin, put on the Ohio-Florida game,” pleads Dr. O’Brien. The NCAA basketball tournament is on.
“All right, let me find it,” my father replies.
He begins scrolling through the 480 channels there are, to my amazement and to their bewilderment. At their ages though, it is not a big deal. What is? (Early bird dinners?) At the same time, all three elders are looking for the correct channel in various sections of different newspapers. Does it really matter that one may be from yesterday? Not at their age.

Joe says, “it is on channel 9.”
My father plugs in to that channel and a science fiction show appears.
“It is not on channel 9 Joe,” he replies as he immediately becomes engrossed in the current show.
“Well then,” Joe declares, “it must be on channel 11. The game starts at eight.”
Irwin concedes and somehow pulls up that annoying scrolling guide that displays what is playing on what channel. The pace of the spool is even slower than their steps. I’m talking turtles.

Twenty minutes and three hundred channels later, Irwin finds out that the game is on channel 12 and it begins at nine o’clock, not eight. The mystery is solved.
He informs Joe of this, but Joe is now sleeping upright in his chair.
My mother is busy doing, who knows what, and I am between internal hysteria and a mini-breakdown.

Irwin ignores the sleeping friend and returns to his sci-fi show. He is quite content with watching that. The show ends at nine and my father switches to channel 12. My mother, who is sitting right beside Joe screams (in my opinion), “Joe, the game is on!”
Joe opens his eyes as easily as they previously closed and without hesitation begins talking about the game with Irwin. Everyone is happy now.

I can play most sports with genuine mediocrity. I laugh to myself at the thought of the last pickup b-ball game I played. I remember chuckling to myself at the older players when I was twenty and the old guys would attempt a comedic and impossible lay-up that seldom went in the basket as they ultimately tumbled to the pavement. I have now become that guy that I once laughed at.

I am tired. I have recently qualified for AARP membership (damn it) and I am still questioning my existence as many did when they were in college during their required Philosophy 101 class. I bid good night to my parents, Joe, and retreat upstairs to the bedroom amid the oohs and aahs of the discourse on the game.

I get into the bed, and begin reading my Henry Miller book. The author is discussing Balzac, Strindberg, Dostoyevsky, and Cervantes. I am engrossed in his theoretic amid the background cacophony of the play by play of the sportscaster and the present audience.

Dostoyevsky is relinquishing himself to the Supreme Being to make sense out of the evil that is latent in each of us. Cervantes and Balzac have come to different yet oddly similar conclusions. Meanwhile, real life is going on downstairs among people. I am aware that their ages are only a hop-skip-and jump away from me. They came into a world indifferent to Nietzsche. I however popped onto this earth with Timothy Leary, Vietnam, Hillary Clinton, and Yanni. Like many others today, I am suspect of all. I cannot simply put food on the table. I must think of the repercussions of events that evolved to make the food. I also know, that in between Iraq breaks, e-schmoli may have infected my spinach and that the farm subsidies have increased my tax obligation. In addition, I must endure whether this is all an act of a G-d or of the emptiness of soul of the current generation (writer’s disease).

I realize that Nietzsche is dead and that Descartes had an affinity for cross-eyed women. Mrs. Clinton may not have the best relationship with her husband, regardless of the campaign money they have already received from large corporations for the benefit of us regular folk. I believe now (easier written than done) that life may not be as complicated as these former icons had us believe with their cockamamie wisdom.

I close the book. I hear the simplistic enjoyment of people that are glad for this very day and watching ten young behemoth men running up and down a wooden floor with a round object. Why does our generation exert so much energy on the wrong things? Our checklists are too extreme and demanding. I had just finished “Gilgamesh,” the oldest book ever written. It was about the decline of the immodest and tyrannical true King of what is now Iraq. His demise was not pleasant. Sound familiar?

Life is a lot less intricate than we make it. Maybe we should pay less attention to the philosophers and the politicians. Let us learn from the ordinary white haired ones. The voyage of life is short (depending on your personal viewpoint). Take a walk with your dog or your companion (simplicity). Think about this, but not for too long.

"Live and let die" Focus June 07

2007-03-26T18:06:00.000-05:00

you can shine you're shoes and wear a suit
you can comb your hair and look quite cute
you can hide your face behind a smile
one thing you can't hide
is when you're crippled inside

Richard Jenni committed suicide this past week. He was a young Italian comic from Brooklyn. The tribute to him was minor, although he received more than most. Do you remember Spalding Gray, Lenny Bruce, Freddy Prince, John Belushi, and Andy Kaufman? These comedians determined that death was more comforting than life. They acted upon it. Behind each well-written joke they delivered, a hundred tears wrote their lines. That is the role of these people in this society. Their sadness creates humor to diminish their personal pain (and ours).

Buddhism preaches that life involves much suffering and I have yet to hear of a Buddhist comic. It makes you wonder why. The Chinese invaded a peaceful Tibet. Their already sparsely populated behemoth country, I imagine, just was not large enough. If the math were correct, you would think that the monks could defend themselves with one-liners. Suffering makes comedy and comedy can be a powerful ally. Optimistically, the invaders would drop their guns and fall on the ground laughing at the latest llama pun. However, many offered no resistance, died, and they lost their sovereignty. These pacifists internalized their pain instead of learning the Chinese language. Rule number one is to know your audience.

Woody Allen has always stated that he is preoccupied with death. He does not want to die, but he wants to continue living. Mr. Allen’s famous neurosis comes from a previous generation. A generation that existed without any expectations of entitlement. An immigrant mentality forced to put food in their systems and a roof over their heads. End of story. But is it? There were funny man suicides in his time also. We just did not know it in those days.

Put on your television and watch a comic perform. It may be funny but it is also as dramatic to some as watching a weather report. Included with jogging, drinking, narcotics, popping an anti-depressant, they tame the beast with a joke. The beast lingers though, and it resides in them just as their hearts and limbs do. We listen, we relate, we laugh. We go to sleep, while some of them cannot. Showbiz.

Comedy is a craft built on stones of chronic ache. It is a unique profession where anguish translates into an anecdote that we can accept, because many of us have shared a similar experience. The comic comes to you naked, honest, and transparent. He puts himself on the line at each venue. Few other professions demand such personal concessions (or confessions).

Not all comics need to join Jim Jones for a Kool-Aid picnic in Guyana. They represent a portion of any population that struggles imperceptibly. I am expressing a concern for these people, who are microcosms of all the damaged souls in our world. Humor is an antidote for the ills in the world theatre. Their acts are an enormous feat of self-survival and tremendous altruism. I applaud their courage. Their wont is to be free of pain. Their conflict is it is against societal mores. It is a sin in many religions to commit suicide. It is illegal by many governments to commit suicide. There is a doctor in jail now whose compassion for the terminally ill who seek quietus is objectionable to the legal authorities.

you wear a mask and paint your face
you can call yourself the human race
you can wear a collar and a tie
but the one thing you can't hide
is when you're crippled inside

The clerics and the other authorities (any government) that do not recognize the common thread of sadness and depression that links society should rethink and introspect. Are you exempt from us because you are elected, or you passed the bar exam or you are uniquely cabled to a spiritual authority? No, you are one of us. We are all in this thing together, yet alone. Have the compassion of the crying clowns who perform, and learn from them. Remove your blinders and rid us of the shackles and the cuffs you put on us with each new law passed. It is a step to help those invisible mentally wounded. Think of Mr. Jenni and the dig into the dirt below the punch line.

Good-bye, Mr. Jenni. I enjoyed watching you and listening to you. My thanks for the layered pain that you erected and shared to make me laugh. You were probably a B-list comedian, and that is fine. This is not about celebrity anyway. This is the story of the clown who could, and the desensitized circus that notices only the obscured individual. This clown leaves the circus, because his perceptions changed for any or no particular reason. It happens. I will never judge you or any of your kind for your ultimate decision. It was a decision that you made for yourself. You did not deliberately hurt anyone. You simply conceded to the grief that resides in all of us in varying degrees. A number may judge your actions differently. As a satirist, all I can say is that I understand and I accept, and I am appreciative of your work. As a citizen, I am wary about the cloaked establishment (see circus above) that does not examine thanatology and hides their transgressions behind digressions.

you can go to church and sing a hymn
judge me by the color of my skin
you can live a lie until you die
one thing you can't hide
is when you're crippled inside

lyrics by John Lennon

"Payback is a bitch" More Magazine

2007-03-12T06:48:00.000-05:00

(For Mature Audiences Only, irrespective of age)

Let us put man and woman together
And see which one is smarter
Some say man, but I say no
The woman got the man like a puppet show

I am thinking of sex, conceptually. Only the passing of years would permit me to write that first line. When I was between the ages of seventeen and twenty, physical sex was the only thing on my mind. In fact, if I had then what is available today, I do not think I would leave my bedroom. The internet, DVD’s, pay per view, female anchors and reporters, models and actresses, even a pretty nurse mentioning the importance of condoms would have set me off many years ago. Now I write about sex as a concept. These times they are a changing.

I am no longer young. Nor am I very old. When I go to movies now, I ask the pimply faced teenager who sits behind the ticket window for two senior tickets for Kathy and me. The response is a, “are you joking or what” type of facial reaction or they gladly offer me the senior discount with respect. That is how old I am. Enough said.

We all know that women have an arsenal of books and magazines and intimate conversations with their girlfriends about sex. However, what about men. We are stoic, we are strong, we are hunters, and sometimes we are full of crap. What men lack are the different mediums and the detailed communication techniques that women have to discuss sexual issues. Well it is lucky for you that this fine paper provides you with honest opinions. Men take note, the following may make you cringe or gag and ultimately call me a wimp, or worse. Women, do not worry, I am letting you into my male mind, which is not much different from many other men. I have opened the sealed box and am allowing you to look in.

When I was thirteen, I discovered for the first time that there are parts of my anatomy that can evoke great pleasure. When I was sixteen, I perfected the methodology a bit, and I could still make myself happy in my bedroom with any female visual (do you remember Veronica from Archie comics?). By the time I was a senior in high school, I had very strong hands and zero sexual interactions. (Ok, I am lying. I did have a brief introduction when I was seventeen, but there were no fireworks, just a silly smile that remained on my face for two days.) Otherwise, I was drier than the Sahara, and each girl I would have liked to bed was a false oasis.

Damn. Then I went to college and I thought this newfound freedom would literarily open the doors to all the girls’ dorm rooms. It did not. I was motivated but I lacked the master key. I was also five foot four and wore a beard that did not fill in correctly. I wanted the girls to find me attractive. What they saw was a freshman they believed was Amish, and they were not interested in wooden chatchkas.

Then in my late twenties, sex reentered my life. Good, selfish, and sophomoric quick man sex. Then I married. Minutes after a ring slid on her appropriate finger, to my dismay, I again became Portnoy (no one told me differently). After a stint with marriage, I was available to a new group of women. The older ones, you know, 30 years old. Unfortunately, the skills in courtship that I never learned as a youth persisted. I tried fancy watches, fancy clothes, erudite conversations, boots with three-inch heels, but I went home alone. I attribute some of that to a failed marriage that put women on a lower needs priority, and my self-esteem that came to me every time a comet appeared in the blackened sky.

As I aged, so did my female friends, except they were becoming more aggressive. Where in heaven’s name were these women twenty-five years ago? Suddenly, the roles reversed, and I was more interested in friendship than a one-night stand (I can visualize the male readers now turning to the next article). I started seeking friendship first, then they had to pass the honesty muster, and if we could converse without friction for over thirty minutes, a potential sexual partner was born. Of course, the feeling had to be mutual.

But it did not mean I was ready to take the plunge on the first night. No, many women intimidated me based on my perception of their expertise. I sometimes did not trust their motives, even if they only wanted to use me for sex (I am referring to the sightless women only, of course).

Ultimately, I realized that both sexes had equal demands and expectations. The problem was I was now at that potentially older stage. Their needs were varied (I do not limbo any longer) and sometimes too demanding on my cardio even though I jog weekly. I began to wonder if there was a ‘rehab’ unit somewhere that I could join. Nowadays, the celebrities seem to have found a rehab for every problem they get themselves into.

Men are now required to do more. Yes, the feminization of America is well on its way. I can no longer enter a gym without coordinating my running gear and shaving beforehand. Along came Viagra, Levitra, Cialis, all drugs to enhance the experience for the ladies. Now men have to deal with Oprah and all those advocates of the perfect relationship. Hey, Hillary may be the next president. Ladies, you are in control now, but remember, power is ephemeral.

What older men would like to have is a nice meal, quick sex that both partners enjoy, a little conversation, and then sleep. We are tired and are not marathoners, OK? Am I asking for peace on earth?

Our stamina has diminished, while women of age are getting ardent. It now takes us equal time to achieve orgasm. Oh the irony of it. I feel, during the act, that I have a fifty-fifty chance of a pleasant intimate experience or angina or a heart attack. What once took thirteen seconds (or less), now takes us both into the next time zone.

Have patience with us men. You were hard on us growing up and you are less tolerant of us not being hard (pun intended) and energetic now that we are old.

It is good to establish strict communication rules between partners. The young people know this. There are fewer marriages today and those that do marry are not always having children. Perhaps the youth are smarter than we were. I suggest to the women that authority may be intoxicating, but a good relationship may be better. Many, not all of us men, are decent people. Our aim might be off slightly, but it is true.

Mr. Belafonte is no Kinsey, but as a spokesman for the baby-boomer males, we understand.

Little boy sat down and cried
An old man passin' asking him why,
he said I can't do what the big boys do
Old man sat down and he cried too

"The Mitzvah Bombs" Key to Philadelphia 2.26.07

2007-02-26T16:44:00.000-05:00

I park myself on the chair with a microphone in hand facing the audience. I study the faces of the group and begin. Kathy is visible but off to the side video recording the event for a future television something (mini-Borat). “I am David and let us talk about some of the things that interest you.” The room is silent in this large building and I sense anticipation but the eyes and the mouths are conveying nothing. “I am a writer, a satirist and we can share experiences with each other.” Silence. “You know,” I continue, there is a hospital around where I live that treats a disease called menopause. Now, when did that become a disease, and have women dealt with this inconvenience forever?” In the fifth row, a woman shouts out, “It should be called heropause.” Very funny, but I am the humorist here. “Yes, quite right.” I say back to this disinterested heckler. May two of her false teeth, fall out.

I am in a structure that has a huge multi-purpose room. I am the guest speaker of the day. This is a senior center where the elderly come at nine and leave at three. They have conversations, meet others, do exercises and have a down right cheap lunch. The ages are from the seventies to the early nineties. But hey, this is a tough crowd. It is like performing at an accounting convention and teasing them that my dogs are named LIFO and FIFO.

“Have any of the men here been in the army?” I persevere. A man sitting close to me holds up two fingers. World War II is the assumption. From the third row, an octogenarian who looks down at the floor and away from me growls, “the Civil War.” “You look great for a guy from that period,” I respond. He does not answer, smile, or make eye contact with me (where is his grey coat?). Pause. “Well, my father was in the Korean war and as part of the intelligence unit, he was stationed in Manheim, Germany sending Morse code for his tenure. Clever guy, I guess. Didn’t have to fight and learned about Europe.” The silence in this room is screaming at me. “Well, I know more about Manheim in the 1950’s than an American should know. It is not that exciting, unless you are heavily into bratwurst.” One laugh, please? Nothing.

“I understand last week that the speaker here spoke of elder depression. Was it an interesting lecture, because I am experiencing mid-life depression now?” A female voice arises in the tone of a teacher, “everyone gets depressed.” I was expecting a guffaw and received an analysis. “Do you know that John Adams and Thomas Jefferson died on the fourth of July, and Jefferson’s last words were “is it the fourth?” I imbue the audience with my vast historical knowledge and pray for any reaction (other than a walker thrown at me). An intelligent black woman in the fourth row then asks, “Do you know that he sired black children whose descendants still exist?” “No, I had no idea, but I would like to learn more about that.” She pries, “What is the name of the book you are writing?” “It is tentatively called “Chronicles of a ‘C’ Student. It is a memoir.” “Seems right,” she acknowledges. Another woman from a back row pronounces to the room that she was an ‘A’ student. Nah, nah, nah, Nah. I should have asked this bully for proof. Kathy is cracking up and I am schvitzing.

I have always venerated old people. They are soft and cuddly and honest. Some are even wiser than they once were, although many still are what they were when they were eighteen less the saggy skin and diminishing hairline. I have sought conversation and advice from my elders since I was a boy. This was not a senior center, this was morphing into a seniority center and most of the audience was probably ex-U of P graduates from the ‘50’s who never had the opportunity to have a building or a stepping stone named after them. And in front of them is a schnook (me) who possibly went to a college that had no association with the word ‘IVY.’ I would probably feel safer shopping for plantains in Camden then speaking here now where I think I see a mushroom cloud through a window. The talk ended at lunchtime. Though there was no proffer of an invitation to join them for lunch, many gracious people there were satisfied with themselves and with me. They came to talk to me in person while eighty percent of the audience is already on their third saltine.
“Has anyone here heard of text messaging?” I am still trying. No answer, so I ask if anyone has heard about email or the internet. While I see most eyes glazed, an intelligent woman in the fifth row says she threw away her computer because it was overwhelming. I told her I agree (why not?). “I only read books,” she offers. “What are your favorite books?” I ask. “None of your business.” I am very tolerant and deferential to my elders so I allow her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she did not want me to know that she is into Turgenev or Joyce because she was sympathetic to this ‘C’ student sitting in front.

"Happy Valentine's Day" Key to Philadelphia 2.12.07

2007-02-11T08:21:00.000-05:00

“And in the end
The love you take
Is equal to the love
You make”

Believe what you will. According to ancient Christian text, three saints/priests who appeared at various times after the Common Era bore the name Valentine. Interesting? They all met premature deaths on the same day of the year they died in, February 14. Wild, yes?

Then there is the story that Chaucer, who many years later, connoted the religious text with love in one of his verses. Some believe this was the beginning of Valentines Day. Since that time, each culture has established a similar holiday held at different times of the year that requires some unfamiliar and weird festival antics.

In the United States, we have our own issues; the overt one is capitalism. Our republic has no equal to take a simple day and turn it into a moneymaker. Valentines Day, regardless of its murky past, has become a huge marketing event. I cannot view the TV, the internet, the papers, the billboards, the city stores without some reminder that February 14, 2007 is coming up shortly.

Hallmark Cards sells one billion valentine cards a year, the second busiest day after Christmas. Women buy eighty-five percent of them. Try to land a reservation at a restaurant on this day. Fuggetaboutit! Shows are busy, bars are busy, postal workers and UPS carriers are extremely busy. Victoria Secret is busy? (Who is that for and is this proper expression?)

Parents are busy buying their young children an inordinate amount of heart shape cards that their children will share with the class. Then there are those little candies, each a different color and each with a romantic note emblazoned into the sugar. The children are supposed to pass them out to their little friends, but it may be illegal this year. Trans-fat. I remember eating more of them than giving, but that is for another time (kids part with sugar as easily as politicians concede their point of view).

Once upon a time, we sent letters of our private thoughts to our sweethearts. Then giant companies in the Midwest hired thousands of recent college graduates to put cute sayings on cards that cost a minimum of five dollars. Now we can demonstrate our regard by buying perfume, candles, flowers, jewelry, clothes, chocolates, or a trip to the Bahamas at one of their all-inclusive resorts. Must we prove our love on this particular day, whether we are having an argument or one of us just found our partner in bed with someone else? In those cases, email is probably best (and save your receipt).

And what about the new demographics? Divorcees and singles make up a huge part of this population. What do they receive for Valentines Day? Bubkas. Life is not fair, but this particular festival is tough on them (as many holidays are tough on others). If this day is about love and or like, then why do we inflict this on the singles of the country? Although many singles may be quite content as they are.

Most of us spend more time suffering for amore than receiving it. And once we receive it, we suffer (I confirmed this with a Buddhist monk and my married friends). Therefore, I suggest that we institute a national ‘Day of Suffering.’ We will then appreciate the love we have or lost through this uncomfortable day. Remember, “They paved paradise, and put up a parking lot.”

Affection, friendship, ardor, passion does not need a special day. We do things for our mates because we care about them more than we do ourselves. Relationships demand comprises and a unique affinity between two people, not chocolate covered salted pretzels from Godiva. We need to demonstrate our feelings with words and kindness and respect, whether we are couples or singles. One day, pick a day, if you feel particularly tender, do something nice for another. That does not mean to give a city mendicant a dollar, but maybe he can use a little attention, or a shirt that you no longer wear.

“Scotty, Spock here. Beam Valentines Day and its commercial demands to the Klingons. It’s the only logical solution” Emotions should be free, and we should not spend dollars to prove it. And forget about that author who once wrote that ‘love is never having to say you’re sorry.’ Sorry is a very useful word in relationships. Anyway, that Erich Segal was not referring to people in general (or love); he was referring to attorneys when he wrote that line.

Kathy has read this valentines article. I believe she anticipates a diamond less hug or a kiss, but not a bushel and a peck. Maybe she expects some well thought out emotional word concoction from me. However, we never know when that little putto will pull the strings of his bow and release.

"an updated Holiday tribute" Englewood Independent 12.28.06

2006-12-18T17:32:00.000-05:00

little drummer boy-translated and updated

"Come", they told me; -the mail was so slow.
"pa-rum-pum-pum pum
A new born King to see. -Do they make crowns that small?
pa-rum-pum-pum pum
Our finest gifts we bring, -anything from that Roman’s Neiman Marcus’ store?
pa-rum-pum-pum pum
To lay before the King. -What, no Fed-X?
pa-rum-pum-pum pum
rum-pum-pum pum
rum-pum-pum pum
So to honour Him -maybe throw a party in the carribean.
pa-rum-pum-pum-pum
When we come."- It is proper etiquette to be a few minutes early for the Lord.
"Baby Jesus, -newborns are so cute.
pa-rum-pum-pum pum
I am a poor boy too. -The average hedge fund manager now makes $383 million dollars a year.
pa-rum-pum-pum pum
I have no gifts to bring- same old problem, what to buy a king.
pa-rum-pum-pum pum
That's fit to give the King; -a Pat Boone cd?
pa-rum-pum-pum pum
rum-pum-pum pum
rum-pum-pum pum
Shall I play for you- something from Andrew Lloyd Webber?
pa-rum-pum-pum-pum
On my drum?"- damn it, I forgot my sticks.
Mary nodded,- nothing for me?
pa-rum-pum-pum pum
The ass and lamb kept time.- white animals can’t dance.
pa-rum-pum-pum pum
I played my drum for Him, -too loud, next time please bring a flute.
pa-rum-pum-pum pum
I played my best for Him; -Keith Moon was my tutor.
pa-rum-pum-pum pum
rum-pum-pum pum
rum-pum-pum pum
Then He smiled at me,- and then I had to change his diapers.
pa-rum-pum-pum pum
Me and my drum.- An odd couple. Maybe you should find a young and pretty Pharisee.

Additional lyrics:

Come, mom called me pa-rum-pum-pum pum

Down to Florida pa-rum-pum-pum pum

The weather is so warm pa-rum-pum-pum pum

You, my first born son pa-rum-pum-pum pum

I called the airlines pa-rum-pum-pum pum

Oh, what a schlep this is pa-rum-pum- pum

There, they greeted me pa-rum-pum-pum pum

With hugs and kisses first pa-rum-pum-pum pum

Then they said to me pa-rum-pum-pum pum

You are too skinny pa-rum-pum-pum pum

Your hair is much too long pa-rum-pum-pum pum

Dad, is driving me pa-rum-pum-pum pum

We are on the highway pa-rum-pum-pum pum

Our speed is 35 mph pa-rum-pum-pum pum

They live ten miles away pa-rum-pum-pum pum

It takes an hour pa-rum-pum-pum pum

The kitchen table is full of food pa-rum-pum-pum pum

Eat, they order me pa-rum-pum-pum pum

I am full; I say pa-rum-pum-pum pum

But the key lime pie they say pa-rum-pum-pum pum

I fly home today pa-rum-pum-pum pum

Twelve pounds heavier pa-rum-pum-pum pum

I’m not even tan pa-rum-pum-pum pum

I must rid myself pa-rum-pum-pum pum

Of weight and neurosis gained pa-rum-pum-pum pum

A new year’s pledge I make pa-rum-pum-pum pum

Though I love them so pa-rum-pum-pum pum

Next year in San Juan pa-rum-pum-pum pum

Me and my Tums.

"silent night" Vanguard 12.20.06

2006-12-18T17:27:00.000-05:00

A modern translation

Silent night, holy night, -this is not going down in big cities, and I include Jerusalem.
All is calm, all is bright,- and the board at Starbucks has made sure their lattes wire us all day.
Round yon virgin mother and Child. -To all the divorced fathers out there, I feel your pain. Too many Silent nights.
Holy Infant, so tender and mild, -what do you mean she wants breast implants? She is only seventeen!
Sleep in heavenly peace,- let’s see, the medicine cabinet has ambien, lunesta, rozerem, and cialis. Oh, my bad.
Sleep in heavenly peace.- This feat is difficult to perform while on Earth. Remember ‘Soylent Green?’
Silent night, holy night, -I lay awake with thoughts of that shlub Borat considered a comic genius. Suggestion to Sacha Cohen, keep your publicist.
Shepherds quake at the sight;- they are worried about their flock and we need to know what color the terrorist alert is today.
Glories stream from heaven afar,- they have not yet reached where I live yet.
Heavenly hosts sing Alleluia!- It is much better than the Rap version.
Christ the Savior is born, -another nice Jewish boy, more competition.
Christ the Savior is born!- He has no idea yet of how tough life can be.
Silent night, holy night, -which reminds me, I am throwing out or donating all the clothes I have with holes this year.
Son of God, love’s pure light; -I am the son of Irwin and his love has not always been apparent. Note to myself: call my shrink and discuss the incident I had with him when I was twelve. However, I love him; I hope you love your father also.
Radiant beams from Thy holy face -this must mean global warming or the reaction one gets to Niacin tablets.
With the dawn of redeeming grace,- thirty-two degrees or less is seldom graceful.
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth, -Flavius Josephus, the only proven scribe of that time, might disagree. Nevertheless, what the hell (oops, forgive me lord at thy birth).
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth.- In a few years, you will meet Herod and will be disappointed to learn that Herod had no smoked fish. Some hedonist. He will not share his women or wine, so may I suggest a somewhat long hike to Dubai? I suggest you do not tell the customs official you are a rabbi. Tell him you are on a group tour and got lost.
Silent night, holy night- easy for you but I am having a tough time finding myrrh. I wonder if Keihls carries it.
Wondrous star, lend thy light;- Denver has more sunny days per year than any other city. Time to think about moving. Why so sun greedy with Oregon or Washington?
With the angels let us sing, -I would not want to ruin a good thing, so unless your moil missed or you were a chosen eunuch of a Chinese emperor, the angels are enough. You would not make a guest appearance with the Supremes, or IL Divo, right? You know how mad Barbara can get.
Alleluia to our King;- It’s good to be a king!
Christ the Savior is born; -you mean my mother wasn’t a virgin when I was born (yech!) in Flushing, NY? I guess she was unaware that the breeding rates are cheaper in Bethlehem. So what if it is far away, Joseph and Mary made some trek through the winter to get there. Good parents.
Christ the Savior is born! -Elvis cannot compete with this dude, ‘He’ has been making news for over two thousand years. What happened to the cast members of ‘Family Ties?’ Do you think they will chant Mel Gibson in the year 4545?

I thank Franz Gruber for the original lyrics. They just needed a little update.

Sudden Divorce Syndrome - MSN Lifestyle: Men

2006-12-01T06:49:00.000-05:00

Sudden Divorce Syndrome - MSN Lifestyle: Men

"everything you wanted to know about sex (and less)" key to philadelphia 12/04/06

2006-11-30T18:21:00.000-05:00

So I am sitting in a pub with Kathy on Chestnut Street in Old City, last night. It is as much a part of the writing process to drink alcohol, as it is to sustain a pen in your hand eking out words. If you try to do them both together, a story might begin like “I waas triing to talk with an aardvark at the jim where I xercise…” No matter what the distinguished authors/imbibers have created in the past, I choose to separate the two activities. Saturday night, it was, and I was on my first vodka and soda water and Kathy was on her first glass of Shiraz. I like this type of old fashioned, woody, and plain place because it has a modern day jukebox that plays songs from my youth, like Donovan, The Byrd’s, The Partridge Family.

The price of a jukebox song has gone up wildly, and for a dollar, I scroll through a series of thousands of computer-generated choices. After about an hour of staring and learning the operation of the machine and narrowing my choices of artists, I pick one song (I want to know who stole all those old 45’s). I then go to the men’s room, and by the time I return to my seat, the song is ending. I become frustrated. Ultimately, some younger person picks out twenty songs in about three minutes (they may know how everything computerized works but I know how to multiply on paper) and I end up listening to the grunts and rap of artistic angst from teenage bands I do not know. One day, I hope to find a tavern with live folksingers that wear tattered clothing that became that way because of excessive wear, not because a designer decided to charge three hundred dollars for dungarees (oops, my bad, jeans) where they manufactured them last year with pre-made holes.

On this particular eve, we are talking to each other, to the staff, and to the clientele in this dimly illuminated bar with dark walls and furniture. There is a guy sitting a couple of seats away reading a book. I ask him if I could see it. “Sounds interesting,” I said. “It sucks.” He replies. Then a song comes on that we paid for earlier. It is from the eighties. A group called A-Ha. They had one hit and for some reason I loved this song. I am listening intensely to the lyrics, while the manic-depressive book reader offers his opinion. “This song is the worst one ever written in the history of music.”(Has he ever listened to Yoko’s solo album?) I try to be polite and understand his reasoning, but at the same time, I want to hear the words to the song. The song finishes, and I missed most of it, because the sad sack next to me was describing how shitty his life was, in detail, and I listened. Why? No idea.

The guy leaves, promising to return (I imagine he needs to run home for his medication). I start teasing the waitresses, who easily dish back the jibes I give. The banter is fun. I then engage another person who I find odd but interesting. Then a Prince song comes on, and I do not immediately recognize it in between the current tunes. “Who is this guy?” I ask too loudly. All the melancholy patrons now laugh. Surely, I am old enough to know the artist who decided at forty to stop using his entire one word name and replace it with a symbol. I am now on my second drink and I am less lucid. So, excuuuuse me!

Kathy and I return to our conversation. There is a guy too old to be playing computer games behind us shooting things on the video screen and having a great time (the guy reading the book is depressed and the moron playing video games is happy. I may need to consult a philosopher on this, or Dr. Phil). A short woman approaches me on my left where there are no more stools. She stands besides the barmaids and me. I glance quickly and say hi. She is in her mid thirties, blond hair, braless with a fishnet sweater that reveals too much (it is 39 degrees outside). She is a little chunky and not particularly attractive. She starts talking to me. This is usually not a good sign when a female approaches me without my fake Rolex.

She speaks in loud whispers, semi-audible above the music. The remarks are immediately lascivious. At that point, I introduce her to Kathy, my girlfriend. She nods to her, disinterested, and continues to say things to me that are not only inappropriate but also suggestive. I tap Kathy on the knee with my knee. She smiles at me and has no clue as to what this woman is saying to me.

“You are very cute,” she says. She must be high, or farsighted. “Do you have a cozy place we can go to?” I’m thinking of calling the zoo to pick up the tenant who has obviously escaped. I turn to Kathy to advise her, with my eyes, that a seduction is occurring. Kathy now understands, as this woman is rubbing her body against mine and lightly massaging my back. I re-introduce her to Kathy, and for a generous moment, the woman leaves me to speak with another man and the guy on the gaming screen. I advise the female bartenders that this lady is a little weird and to keep an eye out for her. They know her m.o. and she has frequented this place before.

She returns shortly to my left side and her male friend/husband sits besides Kathy, on her right. She now comments on how pretty Kathy is while the man compliments my looks. I am aware that I am in the land of brotherly love, but I rather be complemented by a well-dressed, intoxicated, and indecipherable transsexual. I study this bald and pockmarked fifty-year old intruder with this woman’s continuous lewd comments entering my left ear as he positions his seat to face Kathy directly, not the bar. His demeanor is too intimate. I now know what is transpiring. In all my years, I have never been the object of swingers.

Kathy is still oblivious (I know by her innocent answers to the man’s queries) but shortly she becomes aware of the intentions of this couple by some scarce remarks the man makes to her. I am still friendly but I suggest to Kathy, with a pleading expression and my credit card out, that we are leaving, now. She understands. As we exit, the manager wants to know what happened. We give him a brief explanation, and he is aware of this couple. “No harm done,” however, if I was with a female attorney, I could probably have a decent lawsuit (or at least free drinks). If all the workers there knew this couple, they should have removed these people or at least cautioned us. We just leave, as adults should do when they are uncomfortable in a bad situation.

We rush home to eat the large pizza we had delivered but not finished the preceding night (with onions and eggplant atop). The entire walk back north on Walnut we feel raped, abused, agitated. It felt sleazy and incorrect. These people were predators with selfish needs. I make no judgment on their lifestyles but they should attend a place called ‘Plato’s Retreat’ or ‘Two Is The Loneliest Number,’ if they want to fill their needs.

We eat our cold pizza and it is still early enough to watch the on-demand movie Moonstruck. I picked this as an ablution to what happened an hour ago, rather than dousing in sanitizer. However, the movie is too antithetical, too saccharin, too romantic to the scene we had just left, and we retreat to the bed, to sleep. It is now nine p.m. Just the two of us. This feels better.

This is no longer the dawning of the age of Aquarius when Jupiter has aligned with Mars. Afros are history and Krishnas seldom seen dancing with tambourines. For those of us that remember these allusions, doctors now recommend only one partner at a time, and a colonoscopy. We must protect our decaying arteries and our higher blood pressure, even if we have a yen for debauchery and a prescription for Viagra.

"little by little i understand less (and more)" key to philadelphia magazine 11/20/06

2006-11-20T13:07:00.000-05:00

Gallivanting up Walnut Street, the ambient convergence of petitioners barrages us. This type of marketing is notorious throughout the city where so many solicitors are handing out fliers for discounts at a store or where political parties are petitioning you to fill out a form, prozelytizers requesting conversion, or where a steady flow of ragtag vagrants supplicate for a quarter or a dollar. As a city boy and not an anchorite from a never heard town somewhere in Pennsylvania, I have learned to ward off these predators with a pensive face and an aloof stride that appears more confident than I am. As a scribe, though, one must see as much as possible and deduce its’ meaning. An attractive young blond woman was handing out cards to men who passed her. I took the writer’s liberty (also, I shave my face daily) and I accepted the card from the girl. I must do these things for my profession.

I immediately looked at it and I saw nothing. It was an expensive looking four-colored business card with pictures and words. I forgot my 2.0 magnifying glasses that I buy by the dozens at Kmart to read small print (two signs of aging). I put the card in the bag I carry, now that it is cool and utilitarian for men to carry bags because of the amount of electronics and identifications we must travel with in these modern days.

I emptied out the bag when I arrived home and recognized the card. I put on my 2.0’s and saw it was for a Lucullan gentleman’s club in town. Coming back from the airport once, I noticed a few billboards offering this type of entertainment. On my way to see a movie on Columbus Avenue about an impostor from an eastern bloc country whose jokes I heard before I graduated high school, I noticed many of these behemoth men’s clubs. Their size seemed more like Costco than showbiz, which indicates that the combination of tigresses and their tigers must be in the thousands. I am not sure what goes on in these places and I do not want to imagine what happens with the client after he leaves.

Then I read that a casino has opened in town. It has thousands of slot machines and nothing more. It is a gambling convenience store, a seven-eleven if you do not want to travel to the market. It is a result of the assiduous determination of a group blessed by the federal government to help some and hurt many. The profligate Atlantic City is an hour away, where one could spend all their days and their money. Then they could come back to Philly and join up with the vagabonds.

I open up a free city rag each week and after seeing a mountain of ads for rock and roll bands I have never heard of I come across the always-huge section filled with pictures of hundreds of young women inviting you to call them or visit them. And if that is too much trouble, they make house calls. Ah, the good old days (all you doctors, take note).

I then read about the pecuniary difficulties this city faces and how the revenue collected from the slot machines will ameliorate them. Does anyone see something skewed in this thinking? The gentlemen’s clubs are so many and so big that they must generate a lot of income for the city. Now the slot machines will add to that pile. What about the women on those pages? If they can generate enough revenue to run consecutive weekly color ads, that must be a huge money base. Why does the city not legitimize a need that it cannot eliminate and knows it exists, and take taxes from them? Another benefit of course would be a decline in crime and health issues inherent to this field, both tantamount to the customer and the vendor.

As long as the politicians of Philadelphia desire to be what Reno is to Las Vegas then why not go all the way. It seems nowadays, state governments tolerate certain vices; gambling, women who sell themselves, and liquor (soon to be prohibited) are all tolerable, and taxable. Smoking cigarettes, becoming addicted to non-prescribed narcotics drugs, and driving without a seat belt on (although you can drive a motorcycle here without a helmet) seem inexcusable. The geniuses that have allowed this and disallowed that should now be able to capitalize on their moral choices. Not that I understand their thinking, who does? But as long as citizens cannot scupper their show, and as long as we the audience become inexorably indifferent to the additions of new laws written daily, then let them tax what they tolerate. While others slip into this legislated applesauce, I will jog by the Schukyll.

In the meantime, all these thespians (mummers, here) will be as efficacious in reducing our taxes, as Atlantic City has been for the last thirty years, when it received the states’ gaming approbation. If I am correct, New Jersey has the highest property taxes in the country and Mr. Corzine just raised the sales tax another percentage point. We should consider where all this additional money went to if we intend to imitate the folly of others. I am not laughing now, but some people are, most probably with a legal background, all the way to the bank

"1 + 1 = 0 or 1∞ = 0" Insight January 2006

2006-11-12T09:24:00.000-05:00

David Seth

A man’s character is his fate. Conversely, his fate is the result of character. I read this first in Saul Bellow’s ‘Adventures of Augie March,’ as his premise, many years ago. It was in the first paragraph of the book and I read it over and again, fascinated. Recently, at a writer’s conference, an editor from Philadelphia made the same reference. He attributed it to the ancient Greek, Heraclites. I was astounded, the first time I had heard a contemporary think and speak the same thought. This simple concept has the effect of putting your glass under a waterfall to get something to drink rather than a faucet.

Then I thought about the comment Hermann Hesse once made, “people with courage and character always seem sinister to the rest.” True, always true. If I juxtapose these two thoughts, can I draw a conclusion or confusion? They both seem to work together as essential building blocks to a personal theory of futility. But how do I explain these thoughts concisely to opine about uselessness?

I am one of those people who were born in the 1950’s. I view the modern world through cheap magnifier glasses I buy at a behemoth store, and what I see and hear is still unclear to a mind cluttered by many years of life. Without quoting the well-known existentialist of years past, like Kant, Camus, or the like, I am an existentialist, as we all are. Our internal compositions are molecules of life experiences. They congeal over time to create ‘character.’

We then ultimately act instinctually. It would be fruitless to contest this point. Our destiny now pre-determined by the lessons we individually have learned from our lives. To know this is to reconcile ourselves with what we will do (more or less) and what was. This is neither a revelation nor a condemnation. It is a perspective viewed and discussed many times by many others before. I am just another observer.
I am amongst people. I find everyone so incorporated and socially correct. Original sin can be baptized, but what is the antidote for unoriginal thought? These are not the musings of a misanthrope, but one who hears clearly a language he speaks fluently but no longer comprehends, when he listens.

This man has heard of the I-pod, but still jogs with a walkman. A person who types on a computer, but learned on a typewriter. One who understands the concept of the text message and wonders why others use this laborious form of communication. He who watches a movie that cost two hundred million dollars to make and walks out frustrated and bored. A man who refuses to call up large institutions, because he must endure a computer generated voice for a long period and finally not reach the person intended. A person who forgets or refuses to record keep the litany of numbers needed to identify oneself to a web site, motor vehicles, a cop, insurance companies, accountants, credit card issuers, airlines, the postmaster, a phone company. He who accepts a crippled world unhampered by the latest “makes me happy for a couple of hours” drugs. Another broken member of society, fractured without the chimera of restitution. A realization that we are only numbers now and words are becoming useless.

Google the word ‘antiquated.’ Better yet, I will attempt to describe the word with words, for those who are as inept as I am with the new diminutive references and acronyms for everything and anything. ‘Antiquated’ is outdated, no longer necessary, and unable to function adequately in a modern system. Is that correct? I just wrote this down; I did not confer with a dictionary. Thus the spirit of my character, the definition of accumulative experiences, disenfranchises me from modern comportment.

Have I become sinister to the youth that do not understand this older person? Will I be kicked out of the fraternity because I am an undesirable? Or will I be lucky, like those who are over seventy-five. They are just dismissed by the youth. But my mien, my essence, cherishes these elders. I like talking to them and listening to them. Their value is incalculable. I will not stray from this behavior to endear myself to children. I have the courage of character. If you do not accept me, then I am a throwaway in a disposable society. And even in this new world of entitlement, I am unavailable.

Is this an indictment of today’s youth? Hardly, I am not that simplistic. I will no longer be here when this new generation becomes antique. Then you will no longer be here. And so on.

A man of character and courage that comes to mind first is Mahatma (defined as the great one) Gandhi. He had courage and character. Moreover, in his final moment, he was despised; he was sinister, to a fellow Hindu. And he was shot and died.

Before him, there were generations of others equally afflicted. Nevertheless, let us skip many years of those scorned because they had the courage of character. Go back. Socrates comes to mind. He once lectured his peers on the demise of the youth of his day, their lack of work ethic, lack of respect, lack of what was his own value system. A then current antiquity, he was a man of character and courage. And in the end, he was perceived as sinister. A tribunal backed by the chorus of society of new and different thinking then, rewarded him with a last supper of hemp. He ate it courageously and died.

Jesus fits the bill. This is too easy and you already know his story.

John Lennon is a modern victim of courage and character and the futile attempt to escape one’s fate.

This lands me on the base of the mountain I now stand on. Let someone else climb to the plateau. Most times, its top is surrounded with clouds, so when you look down, I have a better view than you do. What is already was. What will be has been. Simply stated, life should be lead, as Hesse intimated, with character and courage, although we be deemed sinister. And as Heraclites said, our character is our fate. So, let us be true to form and dismiss our detractors (what I refer to as ‘noise’.) This we cannot escape. If I put these thoughts together in jar with a lid, then shake that jar, and empty the contents on the table in front of me, nothing will come out.

Philosophers have dwelled on truths. They have provided a lifetime of text for us to analyze. This author however contends that all the truths of the world end up as one big lie. There are no truths; there are only one’s perceptions of the truth. Nietzsche, Schopenhauer, Seneca, Kierkegaard, and all those before, during and after are no longer. They lay below us with unanswered questions. They did not understand the futility of their queries.

Simply resolved, life is a lesson in futility, and all clever observations of it through any form of transmission, go to the grave with those who spoke them. If inanities or profundities from clergy or country allow you to pass the years as consolations, as it will future generations, then fine. Alas and atavistic, 1 + 1 even exponentially, to infinity, lamentably equals zero.

"Tales of Philly: david gets his fortune told" key to philadelphia magazine 11.06.2006

2006-11-07T02:32:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I went to a palm reader. Yes, that is right, somewhere in Center City below Broad Street (the last spiritual experience I had was many years ago and it grew in Jamaica). The sign read five dollars, which sounded good considering that Mick and Barbara are charging five hundred of those dollars per seat to watch them for an hour. I wanted to see them, but I come from an era where houses had once cost that much in Iowa City. Instead of some music, I called up the Fountain restaurant at the Four Seasons and Kathy and I had a great dinner. The meal, with a drink each, including tip and taxes, left six hundred dollars more in my pocket than I would have spent for the two concert seats (the twenty-five dollar Cesar salad, croutons included, is unparalleled). As my grandmother once said, “Such a deal...” I am no dummy.

(grandma, a reliable source, made a matzo ball that if tossed into the air, it would not touch down for a half hour, and hers is better than the one claimed ‘the best’ by a chain here)

I digress, sorry. I opened the mystic’s door and look up a steep flight of stairs which prohibits anyone with asthma or a cardiac condition from climbing. “Hello, is anyone here?” I shouted. A large but and sweet Mediterranean-skinned woman looked down to me. “Can I help you?” “Don’t you know already?” I answered. She should know who I am and that I was to visit, pre-defined by her crystal ball background. “I am me, are you the reader?” “Yes, I am, come on in.” “Are those cats up there I see?” I asked. “Can you put them in another room, I am a bit allergic and I would like to be able to see you and breathe also when you make your evaluation.”

I climbed (without crampons) thirty steps to an ordinary apartment. The guru sat on a chair and she had me sit on the couch next to her. “I must ask first, can you take both good news and bad news?” She questioned. I thought for a nervous minute. “Well, I am not sure if I can handle good news, but I will try.” “Great. Hold out your right palm for me,” she insisted. I did. She looked at my palm, which is a very valuable instrument for all lonely men. She quickly studied it. Then she looked directly into my eyes.

“It looks like women are a cause of angst for you. Specifically, a woman that is close to you or a relative.” My eyes welled up. It must be my mother. She is a bit neurotic. Was it something I did badly when I was eight? I have been eating her date and nut bread for a week now. I think it was safe. Maybe it was the call I received from her within the past week advising me of the litany of drugs that she and my father are taking for blood pressure or cholesterol. Is she trying to tell me what my genetic future will be like?

Was it my girlfriend? A daughter, or all three of the girls? An ex-spouse (99% chance)? A current platonic female friend? The hair stylist? My woman psychologist? Anna Karenina? Oprah’s book club and all the chick literature that I read? I know that all this estrogen stuff is as infectious as a person who is beside me and sneezes. It is just that I seem to migrate with them when air paricles are tainted. Some people live in the suburbs. I live in their epicenter, at the intersection of Ayn Rand Boulevard and Scarlet Johannsen streets.

“I see that you are strong and very sensitive, and that you prefer to give than to take. This will be difficult. Once you rid yourself of this negative female, everything will be better by mid November.” Mid-November? I guess Shangri-la is a month away. I have been waiting a lifetime for mid-November. “You seem to also have a good health prognosis.” Ay yay yay, she brings the evil eye on me with that statement (that confirms there are only a couple chapters left in me). To think that I received the same fortune later that day from a cookie at Sang Kee confirms that I may be posthumous by the time this article appears. I thank the nice teller who I will probably visit again shortly, although I have no idea why. Another woman, Feh.

I slip into a miasma as I descend to Chestnut Street, so much so that I think I see David Brenner in front of me (if anyone has spotted him, please contact the editor for me?). I am going home to write. First, I check my email. An author friend wants me to read a section of her not-yet-published book. My insight is important to her; she writes (call me Mike Cervantes). I read what she sent and I reply. it is a heady self-help book that will eliminate everyone’s problems if one follows her rules. Her analyst concurs with the theme, although she should continue the prozac.

Maybe I should not see the Indigo Girls tonight. Possibly stay home and crank up some Led Zeppelin. Maybe watch the Beagles’ game, or is it the Eagles? Is that a baseball team? Maybe have a couple of beers and talk to the guys about three point shots. Get out my hammer and put nails into a block of wood. Do some push-ups. Try to make a tie on a white buttoned shirt like a corporate. Yeah, male stuff. That’s it.

First, though, I must make a call, “Hi mom?”

"she said, but he did not hear" BKLYN magazine spring 2006

2006-11-02T09:34:00.000-05:00

David Seth

In a town, slightly north of Chelm, a Rabbi well known for his eclectic and profound thinking, resided. People would come from all over Europe, except France, to speak with this Rabbi about problems that they could not resolve. His name was Ben Noah and he lived on a small farm in a community of one hundred people. He was not only the captain of the Temple; he was the last chief of ‘lucid thought’ in Poland, one hundred and fifty years ago. Copernicus was the only previous chief of ‘lucid thought’ in that country centuries earlier. The time in between these two men left unoccupied by a man of such distinction. And after Ben Noah, none.

Jorge Bernstein came by horse and buggy from Galicia, Spain to visit him. The trip took him a month, because of a problem with incontinence and a desire to always nosh on anything a pueblo would offer. Medics had referred to this as Tapastancia, a chronic disease that affects neurotics who do not exercise.

Jorge was a swarthy short and balding man, who found it necessary to befriend anyone he met. He needed their acceptance and approval as a gefilte fish needs water (horseradish would come many years later). His wife hated him for this behavior, nudging him constantly, “what, my company is not good enough for you?” “No, mamala Maria, it is not that. I love being with you, it’s just that I have to mingle.” “Mingle, shmingle, Jorge, I want you to spend more time at home. We need to feed and milk the cow, harvest the olives, and fix my bed. I am tired of sleeping as if I am going to fall off a boat.”

story continues....
please contact if interested

"best of... " key to philadelphia magazine october 9,2006

2006-10-09T05:52:00.000-05:00

David Seth

(Alert: Encryption of this article is ‘yo-Philadelphia Americana’ code. It will be indecipherable to anyone who may read it from another state.)

Ok. Two weeks ago, I wrote how much I love this city. I am a recent transplant from New York, and I have lived in many other cities. Do not worry; I am keeping Center City a secret. Like George Washington, I will keep quiet, or you can come and chop down my cherry tree. Since I am now reminded everyday of our forefathers, I can now name-drop the celebrities of the 17th and 18th centuries, as you can. Honest Abe, (see, there I go again. he was around during the 19th century).

You all know that this city is a gem. Now I know it. However, should we not keep our fanciest jewelry in a safe, and only wear it for important occasions? Most of us appreciate pulchritude, but few of us like it when a gorgeous person accessorizes, it makes us feel more insecure than we already are. Humility is endangered specie and it may become extinct here.

I am aware that the public likes ratings. I am aware that there are ubiquitous critics in this country that make a living judging something, or someone, or somewhere. I have never noticed though, a city with more ratings, than here. I cannot pass any type of establishment, retail or otherwise, that does not display its score. I am confounded.

The assessments come from various authorities; Zagat, Philadelphia Magazine, Style, AOL, best of Citysearch, MSN, Fortune, the society of short people with stained teeth (the oldest chapter in the country is here), the local papers, various public groups, and others I have never heard.

Think of this town as a beautiful woman who must wear the largest diamond ring and David Yurman necklace around town. She has drawn you in by her looks but you are now a little put off that she is parading around other assets. I am confounded with the ‘best of’ disease that this city procreates.

Every salon, restaurant, spa, Laundromat, bar, museum, theatre, cinema, nightspot, hospital, law firm and any other business have a sticker on their entrance telling you that they have been selected. It does not seem to matter what the score they received was. It can be high, low, or just mentioned. It can be circa 1990, or from 1999, or it can be current. An institution I never heard of can assess it. What is a newcomer to do?

I wanted to stroll for a restaurant with my woman friend (is that politically correct?) the other day. She lives in Brooklyn, but worked as a nurse here for seven years. We pass a Middle Eastern restaurant that has a Zagat rated sign on its front window without a grade. We look at each other. Does this mean it is good or bad? We walk to a pizzeria that has a Best of AOL emblem from 2001. We look at each other again. Is it still any good? Then we pass an eclectic restaurant, its windows cluttered with long articles from various magazines from different years and of different opinions. It was good by this magazine in 2002, and was mediocre by another in 2004, and again it was Zagat rated, without a number.

We end up in a rated delicatessen, but I do not care anymore. I am hungry and these self-imposed badges befuddle me. I know delicatessens, Italian or Jewish, and what is good, just by looking. I majored in this field, the only A that I ever received.

Then Kathy wants a manicure and pedicure. OK, I admit it; I was the one who wanted it. We pass about 47000 places between Market and Walnut that will do the job. Some look expensive and others have combo deals. There are decals on all the places. Damn it, I am confused again. I want good, but these displays are not clarifying anything. So I decide on cheap. Cheap is good, right? Twenty-five dollars later, my nails are fine, thank you, and I was not rushed to Jeff.

We then decide to finish the evening at an Irish pub. James Joyce, cover your eyes. Since when has this institution needed approval? The idea is to drink a beer, or seven, on a stool. Period.

Like a mendicant, I respectfully beseech the owners of every business, from my rental apartment (that is rated very good by some real estate consortium) to please scrape your windows or your websites, and agree on only one system, and it must be current, or just agree that the customer decide by word of mouth how good you are.

I caution you with my pen, bought from a best of Philly rated stationery store, that if this problem is not mitigated, then I add myself to the roster of critics. I am a nice person, and I will rate everyone excellent, because I do not want to hurt anyone’s feelings, but I want to get even.

The ‘Best of Philly’ is the worst of Philly, and I am mad as hell and I will not take it anymore. How many times do I have to tell you I love you as you are?

"big apple vs. big pretzel" september 25, 2006 key to philadelphia magazine

2006-09-25T05:47:00.000-05:00

David Seth

Three month’s ago I moved here from the big city. I arrived here in less than two hours on the New Jersey Turnpike, not because I am a fast driver, but having an eighteen-wheeler on your tail most of the way tens to shorten the ride. I crossed the beautiful Benjamin Franklin Bridge and made a left turn through three blocks of food prepared by wok, a diamond district, and arrived at my new home.

I strolled around the myriad of little parks here and walked up and down center city streets. No ‘tasti-delights’ ice cream stores that plague new Yorkers on each block, with false promises of non-fat pleasure. There were no ‘ray’s pizza’ or ‘original ray’s pizza’ or ‘son of ray’s pizza’ restaurants here that exist on every corner in New York. Here they have real mom and pop ice cream and pizza places where the tastes are authentic (and arguably better). No longer do I see the Trump name, thank heavens, emblazoned on billboards or buildings (although i hear he is coming soon).

They have Broadway in NYC, but I always found it unappealing. The current crops of plays do not deliver the rapture the price of the exorbitant ticket would suggest. I would rather eat in one of the many great restaurants here, and then see the revived (why?) Godspell for $25 a ticket. After seeing that rewritten show, that has thankfully ended, I rushed to the nearest restroom and rid myself of the food I just ate. That particular presentation had a bulimic effect.

I notice in the old town district horse and buggy rides that actually took visitors on longer than a five-minute ride. In central park, these rides cost double, and the three-minute route is always the same. However, with all respect to Philly people, lose those duck rides. Listening to both adults and children quacking as they cruise Americana is callow and unnerving after the first time. it's like seeing a four hundred pound woman in a bikini.

I know more about farming techniques in Nepal than sports teams, so I will leave that subject alone. There are many top universities here, boutique libraries, and a fair share of wonderful museums. They cater to the well-educated individuals that populate this town. New York, on the other hand, has the MOMA and the Whitney and the Guggenheim, but their shows are for the sheepish pseudo-intellectual inhabitants that endure long lines to see the uncovered and never-before-displayed treasures of Lithuania. The movie theatres here show current films and are clean. In New York City, one waits on line for an hour to see the newest Indie film and feels he is bewilderingly lucky to spend only twelve dollars for the ticket.

If you have a nice car in New York, you must find a lot that will charge you over five hundred dollars a month to rent a space. Here that could be the price of a nice studio apartment (providing you never interact with Lew Blum or George Smith). New York has many more people, but they are either misanthropes or it just is not cool to speak with another. They speak of neighborhoods there, but there is no community. Here the people are actually friendly.

I am forty-nine now and I know absolutely nothing about the wonderful history of this country. Only here, in Philly, do you bump into Ben Franklin this or a Constitution that. The buildings, tourist signs, and the attractions here have made up for the history of this country I forgot thirty years ago.

Up there, the Declaration of Independence means that you can shop Bloomingdales ten hours each day. In addition, the Revolutionary War is a ‘retro’ fashion statement in Greenwich Village. You make a purchase, hop on your horse to your psychiatrist, visit the hair stylist, go to your apartment mirror, and smile at the reflection of Betsey Ross or Tom Jefferson. Way cool. Except they do not know who these people are. We do.

I love Philadelphia. If you want to crush New York City without mercy, I have only one suggestion, learn how to make better bagels.