Beer
I was waiting for Rudolph Schaffer.
He had recently just taken the reins of his father’s and grandfather’s F.& M. Schaffer brewing company, which in 1973 was on Kent Avenue, in Brooklyn, New York, where it had been for quite some time.
I was writing a story about beer. Me. It was to be called, “Beer, I Love You.”
(I kid you not. This has always been the best job.).
I still couldn’t believe my luck, in choosing this second profession, in the hope of forging my way through this life without performing anything like work. I was, maybe, 26, and had been writing newspaper stories for three years, ever since I had left teaching, which I also loved.
The problem with teaching was that it required starting all over with the same stuff every year, for 30 or so years. That frightened me. What if, after the 17th year, I was bored?
Reporting introduced you to a new skill every week, and you didn’t have to learn it, just learn enough to get somebody else to explain it.
It made me giddy to think that I was getting paid to write about beer.
It already had gone around the office that I loved beer. So, what did they do but assign a reporter who loved beer to write about beer. It was unheard of, this journalism; exactly the opposite of what my father told me the Army would do. The Army would assign a guy who loved beer a job where he blew up breweries. The guy would go to his bunk each night in tears. .
At an editor’s urging (Think of it; at an editor’s urging!), I already had interviewed Ivo Havlacek, the fifth Havlacek to preside over the brewery in Pilzn, Czechoslovakia, where they made a beer called Pilsner Urquell (in American), or, loosely translated, “Pilzn from the original source.” It was the acknowledged, “King of Beers,” the finest beer in the world, the finest beer in history, the first laagered beer, golden beer.
When The Kremlin rolled tanks all over Czechoslovakia, the communist government had approached Ivo’s father, Ivo, and said, “You will make more Pilzn beer!” I guess they thought Ivo’s father would snap to it.
“Not so fast!” said Ivo’s father, instantly making himself a National Hero.
(I love this story. Ivo Jr. told me it, through a Russian interpreter, no less, on a marketing visit to The States.).
“What?” the Kremlin guys said.
Ivo’s father said: “The law of this land, going back to 1292, through all the political upheavals, says Pilzn beer has to be aged in limestone caves. Any brewmeister who violates that rule is to be tarred and feathered and run out of Pilzn, by Bavarian law, whatever the ruling country is. There are 22 miles of limestone caves under Pilzn. You want more beer, you find more limestone caves.”
Whoa. The guys from the Kremlin did not know what to do. But they had to do something, or they would lose face. They decided to market Pilzn beer in the United States, where it had been banned since the first World War. They would take it out of…some other country.
Meanwhile, I had to interview an American brewmeister to balance the Ivo Havlacek interview.
The closet beer brewer was Rudy Schaffer. I was to interview him, to ask him questions about his life, his business, the product, the family, the problems, the market, the past, the future; virtually anything and everything I could think of that satisfied my curiosity. Or, that satisfied the curiosity of persons who picked up a copy of Newsday and paged through it until their eyes landed on a full-page glass of beer with the words, ‘Beer, I Love You,” superimposed on it.
The interview went well enough. We went through the brewing process, saw single-file lines of 12 oz. bottles marched through the bottling process, with a bottle every so often rejected by a magical electrical eye that determined whether the bottle was too filled or not filled enough. It was fun.
I had forgotten that I was accompanied by a Newsday photographer, John Cornell. He saw this happen.
A stainless steel beer tap was mounted on the wall in Rudy’s office, next to the, “Stein Room,” where the Schaffer’s entertained brewmeisters and company executives from all over the world. It looked out of place, with the ancient table and the chairs carved by hand by coopers centuries ago.
I wanted to get Rudy Schaffer to say something about, “cleaning the coils,” from the barrels to the tap. Some saloon owners needed to know why I evaded their establishments. I brought up the subject, and the normally calm, business-like, Rudy Schaffer lit up into the likes of a raging bear.
“Do you know where that beer comes from?” he asked, not waiting for an answer. “The Barrel room, below here, where somebody taps a barrel from one of hundreds of barrels. Do you know what beer company executives say about that, ‘ordinary’ Schaffer beer?”
(I didn’t say a word.).
“They say, ‘Wow, Rudy. This is the best beer! What do you do, save it for private use?’
“It’s Schaffer beer, poured through a clean tap.”
“Really. Right out of that tap, there,” I said, not wanting to suggest anything. Aw, maybe.
“Yes. I cannot emphasize enough the importance of a clean system.”
“Brewmeisters from all over the world say that beer right out of that very tap, is the best they ever…”
“Yes. And it’s regular Schaffer beer.”
“Really. Wow. Right out of that tap, there…”
I saw Cornell out of the corner of my eye.
“Yep, right out of that tap.”
I gave it up. I never tasted the beer. I wrote the story, Schaffer moved to the LeHigh Valley, the beer changed, and I was uncorrupted, but not exactly by choice.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Dr. Seuss
Larry,
You stopped me at, “Dr. Suess.”
This is a real, strange development, and I will ask you to indulge me for a moment, because I spent a few hours searching my brain and my computer, and I am enjoying a tiny triumph, thanks to you.
In February of 1973, I trekked off to Romania with the Syosset High School Band, basically to write the story of the first American High School Band since, “The War,” to so visit. The memory of it is awash with other memories, which I am currently enjoying. So, thanks for that.
I developed a lot of friendships on that trip. The following spring, a telephone caller—I think to my home but I can’t swear to it—said that he (or she) was a member of the band who traveled throughout Romania last year and that there was a, “Hat Day,” at the Syosset High School that morning. A photographer and I would do well to see it.
I said, “Hat Day?” The caller hung up.
I called in a photo assignment and drove from my house in Amityville to meet with a Newsday photographer from the Garden City headquarters, to see what this, “Hat Day,” was about.
Well.
When I arrived at the office, all I could say was I had just been in an unwritten, live, Dr. Suess book. Everyone but the photographer and I were wearing hats, of all kinds, colors and shapes.
It all was about a, “protest,” by the entire student body (wise guys to nerds to jocks to princesses) against a policy barring hats in school. A, “Hat,” demonstration, in support of one kid (who years later became a famous dancer) named Doug Varrone. The principal got wind of it and decided that rather than fight it, the faculty, staff, administration and custodians would join in.
Two veteran journalists, Mike Unger and Kevin Lahart, told me later to write it, “Dr. Suess,” style.
But Newsday, too, had a policy. No news story had ever been written in verse in Newsday. One attempt, a parody of, “The Song of Hiawatha,” had been offered years before by not-yet-columnist Robert Mayor, but the copy desk crushed him by printing it as prose paragraphs and running it atop two other stories—a heartbreak to see.
Still, I wrote, for the next day’s newspaper:
Hat Day
By Ed Lowe May 17, 1974
Hat day declared. Hats were the rule
Hats on the heads of Syosset High School.
Hundreds of beanies, sombreros and caps,
Fedoras and fezzes and hats with ear flaps,
Wool hats and helmets, hat songs and games,
Mets hats and Jets hats and hats with no names.
To stop all this, now, would be such a shame
(And impossible, too, said Walter Yanette,
the principal.). He wore a silly hat, yet.
What started all this? What made it all go?
It started, said one kid, when someone said, ‘No.’
It started with Bemak...no, Feinstein...no, Doug.
Hey, couldn’t we keep all that under the rug?
Doug Varone, 17, in a writing class, see?
He wore a brown hat, like this one on me.
Walt Bemak, the chairman of English dropped in,
Told Feinstein, the teacher, ‘Doug’s hat is a sin.
‘He must take it off, Don. No hats on in school.
‘No shoes off—or hats on. That is the rule.’
‘I don’t mind it,’ said Feinstein;
don’t mind it at all.
‘It isn’t distracting. It isn’t too tall.
‘It isn’t too colorful. It stays on when he reads.
‘Maybe it’s part of him, something he needs.’
‘No good,’ answered Bemak. ‘This is a school.
A hat is no educational tool.
‘I don’t wish to be obstinate, cranky or cruel,
‘But, that hat has to go.
‘A rule is a rule.’
WELL, that’s all the rest of them wanted to know
They spread it around, for a month or so, slow
They organized HAT DAY.
They schemed and they planned
They even set up a parade with the band.
They had posters and streamers
and yellow pompoms,
Including a HAT CAKE from one of the moms.
Feinstein’s writing class did all their ads,
Wrote letters and papers concerning hat fads.
And contests they had
(They looked forward to that,
‘Cause Bemak was judging
HIMSELF IN A HAT!).
Custodians, nurses, typists and clerks
(To tell you the truth, they all looked like jerks.).
‘But what of tomorrow?’ I asked ‘Doc’ Yanette.
‘Tomorrow’s tomorrow. My mind is set.
‘Hat Day will be done
‘And a rule is a rule.
‘There will be no hats
In Syosset High School.’
Becky Clock was head of the copy desk. She laid it out with pictures atop, one showing Varrone with his signature hat, one showing the villain wearing a ladies hat. The copy was broken into stanzas, each one beginning with a huge, Seuss-ian capitol letter.
I got a lot of letters. Washington bureau reporter Myron Waldman, whom I would not meet for a year or two, sent a note consisting of comments by a half-dozen reporters covering the Watergate hearings. One of them, a Washington Post guy, said, “Newsday must be the only Newspaper in the country where you could write like that…if you could write like that.”
I unearthed the thing about twenty years ago, when I was speaking to an entire school over the public address system. I never rehearsed a speech in my life, but I wore the copy out, rehearsing that. The kids liked it.
Sorry I got so carried away. I still owe you a response on your stroke. You seem to have the right perspective. It’s always there. Keeps us appreciative.
ed
You stopped me at, “Dr. Suess.”
This is a real, strange development, and I will ask you to indulge me for a moment, because I spent a few hours searching my brain and my computer, and I am enjoying a tiny triumph, thanks to you.
In February of 1973, I trekked off to Romania with the Syosset High School Band, basically to write the story of the first American High School Band since, “The War,” to so visit. The memory of it is awash with other memories, which I am currently enjoying. So, thanks for that.
I developed a lot of friendships on that trip. The following spring, a telephone caller—I think to my home but I can’t swear to it—said that he (or she) was a member of the band who traveled throughout Romania last year and that there was a, “Hat Day,” at the Syosset High School that morning. A photographer and I would do well to see it.
I said, “Hat Day?” The caller hung up.
I called in a photo assignment and drove from my house in Amityville to meet with a Newsday photographer from the Garden City headquarters, to see what this, “Hat Day,” was about.
Well.
When I arrived at the office, all I could say was I had just been in an unwritten, live, Dr. Suess book. Everyone but the photographer and I were wearing hats, of all kinds, colors and shapes.
It all was about a, “protest,” by the entire student body (wise guys to nerds to jocks to princesses) against a policy barring hats in school. A, “Hat,” demonstration, in support of one kid (who years later became a famous dancer) named Doug Varrone. The principal got wind of it and decided that rather than fight it, the faculty, staff, administration and custodians would join in.
Two veteran journalists, Mike Unger and Kevin Lahart, told me later to write it, “Dr. Suess,” style.
But Newsday, too, had a policy. No news story had ever been written in verse in Newsday. One attempt, a parody of, “The Song of Hiawatha,” had been offered years before by not-yet-columnist Robert Mayor, but the copy desk crushed him by printing it as prose paragraphs and running it atop two other stories—a heartbreak to see.
Still, I wrote, for the next day’s newspaper:
Hat Day
By Ed Lowe May 17, 1974
Hat day declared. Hats were the rule
Hats on the heads of Syosset High School.
Hundreds of beanies, sombreros and caps,
Fedoras and fezzes and hats with ear flaps,
Wool hats and helmets, hat songs and games,
Mets hats and Jets hats and hats with no names.
To stop all this, now, would be such a shame
(And impossible, too, said Walter Yanette,
the principal.). He wore a silly hat, yet.
What started all this? What made it all go?
It started, said one kid, when someone said, ‘No.’
It started with Bemak...no, Feinstein...no, Doug.
Hey, couldn’t we keep all that under the rug?
Doug Varone, 17, in a writing class, see?
He wore a brown hat, like this one on me.
Walt Bemak, the chairman of English dropped in,
Told Feinstein, the teacher, ‘Doug’s hat is a sin.
‘He must take it off, Don. No hats on in school.
‘No shoes off—or hats on. That is the rule.’
‘I don’t mind it,’ said Feinstein;
don’t mind it at all.
‘It isn’t distracting. It isn’t too tall.
‘It isn’t too colorful. It stays on when he reads.
‘Maybe it’s part of him, something he needs.’
‘No good,’ answered Bemak. ‘This is a school.
A hat is no educational tool.
‘I don’t wish to be obstinate, cranky or cruel,
‘But, that hat has to go.
‘A rule is a rule.’
WELL, that’s all the rest of them wanted to know
They spread it around, for a month or so, slow
They organized HAT DAY.
They schemed and they planned
They even set up a parade with the band.
They had posters and streamers
and yellow pompoms,
Including a HAT CAKE from one of the moms.
Feinstein’s writing class did all their ads,
Wrote letters and papers concerning hat fads.
And contests they had
(They looked forward to that,
‘Cause Bemak was judging
HIMSELF IN A HAT!).
Custodians, nurses, typists and clerks
(To tell you the truth, they all looked like jerks.).
‘But what of tomorrow?’ I asked ‘Doc’ Yanette.
‘Tomorrow’s tomorrow. My mind is set.
‘Hat Day will be done
‘And a rule is a rule.
‘There will be no hats
In Syosset High School.’
Becky Clock was head of the copy desk. She laid it out with pictures atop, one showing Varrone with his signature hat, one showing the villain wearing a ladies hat. The copy was broken into stanzas, each one beginning with a huge, Seuss-ian capitol letter.
I got a lot of letters. Washington bureau reporter Myron Waldman, whom I would not meet for a year or two, sent a note consisting of comments by a half-dozen reporters covering the Watergate hearings. One of them, a Washington Post guy, said, “Newsday must be the only Newspaper in the country where you could write like that…if you could write like that.”
I unearthed the thing about twenty years ago, when I was speaking to an entire school over the public address system. I never rehearsed a speech in my life, but I wore the copy out, rehearsing that. The kids liked it.
Sorry I got so carried away. I still owe you a response on your stroke. You seem to have the right perspective. It’s always there. Keeps us appreciative.
ed
Friday, April 30, 2010
Dan
DAN
“Hi Ed,
“Two things to say: first, I once had the pleasure of listening to a lecture by Stephen Hawkins. Only his assistant could understand his verbal comments. But Hawkins managed to find meaning in life in his condition, so I imagine we all should be able to so, no matter what.
“Second, I like your articles, and urge you not to give up, if that was the thought behind your desire to talk about death.
“Guess I'll say more after all.
“You are in a position to explore a part of life that most of us will never have access to. A very dear friend suffered a bi-lateral stroke 2 ½ years ago and might have uttered 5 or 10 sentences since. He's now 54, physically intact (although maybe blind—we cannot tell) and we find your articles inspirational. You have what we all hope and pray (and doubt) he has, your mind is intact.
“If I misunderstood your article, ‘Tough Subject,’ [April 14, 1010] then pardon me. I just want to say that if it is a call for help, that I am answering.
“Nice to meet you, Dan”
Dan,
No, the column wasn’t (intended) as call for help, but I suddenly see your point and perspective and am compelled to (1) apologize for heretofore not seeing it; and, (2) thank you very, very much for the concern, the courage, and the…I don’t know what it is, exactly, but I wish I had some of it…care, is part of it, but whatever else makes you decide to sit down, interrupt your busy day and write such a letter.
I must have dozens of them in my head at any moment, and I’m ashamed to say I’ve written none. The one time I wrote one (to Hal Holbrook), years ago (and it was not important), I was astounded that he…well, that he got it, frankly… but that he read it, appreciated it, and wrote back. Yet, I don’t think I wrote another, certainly not like yours..
Steven Hawkins has crawled around my head, too, by the way, especially since this so-called damage that I privately refer to as one of the greatest adventures of my otherwise lazy (I’m not opposed to laziness, by the way) and incredibly rewarding life.
I look at things a bit differently, now—just a bit, I swear to God—and yet, suddenly all of it is more wondrous by tenfold. I mean every bit of it, every obstacle, delay, interruption, scene, tragedy, comedy, poignancy, terror; all of it seems to exist as a show, an awesome production for (my, I guess) entertainment, education, and growth.
One of the examples I’ve used is the walk from the car to (the currently closed) Abel Conklin’s Restaurant. I never before paid attention, in all the years I’ve been going there, and it is one miracle after another, gone unnoticed all these years. Forget the ancillary miracles of the car, the trees, birds, sounds, scents, the sky and all of that, for a moment, just concentrate on what a body has to do to get from a Honda CRV to the door.
You are across New Street. First, you get out of the car, but you have go up the (high) curb to aim yourself properly across the street. This involves stepping up, crossing over some lovely (but uncertain) grass, and facing the voyage head-on.
Without the balance you are unconsciously unconscious of, mounting the curb is a daunting task, and one whose completion makes you feel quite proud (after a year or so of feeling self-indulgently useless, incompetent, ashamed, and inordinately punished for some sarcasm; but that’s another essay.).
Forget the traffic. It would take too much time to describe its variety, speed, direction and relative inattentiveness. Just figure there’s standard traffic—oh, all right, maybe two drivers have homicide lurking in their brains—and a breeze blowing out of the north, just to keep balance in mind.
Now, step off the curb, and notice two things about New Street. First, it’s sloped, maybe 20-degrees right-to-left, because Huntington is built on a hill; and it’s crowned to boot, to keep the rainwater headed for the sewers. You have to put that in your mental computer and prepare for it or, you most assuredly will fall.
And on the other side (suddenly quite a ways off), there’s another curb, leading to another patch of lush grass. This, before you steady yourself for another challenge: the brick walk.
You may have thought a brick walk was level. It looks level, I will grant you. It may once even have been level, for a day or two, but now, it mimics the soft ground underneath. It’s like walking on billiard balls pretending to be bricks. Then, there’s two oversized, inch-thick, slate steps that collect and store rainwater (unevenly, it would seem, but in fact, the opposite); and now you’re at the door.
What a trip. I’d take you to lunch to celebrate my making it to lunch.
You know—not to change the subject, but, yes, to change the subject—I’m increasingly overwhelmed by your letter even as I write these sentences. On a different day, and, perhaps if I were not feeing so lucky, it may have been the single most important sentiment or gift of encouragement I desperately needed, at a singularly crucial time in my life.
So, evidently, this is my long-winded way of saying, “Thank you;” and, “Thank you,” again, for the reminder that we’re in this life (or we are tragically not), together.
It’s all so simple. When I can, and I have the strength, and the luxury of some time, and the opportunity, for God’s sake, I should help somebody up.
You know, it’s damn nice to meet you, too.
An honor, in fact.
edlowe
“Hi Ed,
“Two things to say: first, I once had the pleasure of listening to a lecture by Stephen Hawkins. Only his assistant could understand his verbal comments. But Hawkins managed to find meaning in life in his condition, so I imagine we all should be able to so, no matter what.
“Second, I like your articles, and urge you not to give up, if that was the thought behind your desire to talk about death.
“Guess I'll say more after all.
“You are in a position to explore a part of life that most of us will never have access to. A very dear friend suffered a bi-lateral stroke 2 ½ years ago and might have uttered 5 or 10 sentences since. He's now 54, physically intact (although maybe blind—we cannot tell) and we find your articles inspirational. You have what we all hope and pray (and doubt) he has, your mind is intact.
“If I misunderstood your article, ‘Tough Subject,’ [April 14, 1010] then pardon me. I just want to say that if it is a call for help, that I am answering.
“Nice to meet you, Dan”
Dan,
No, the column wasn’t (intended) as call for help, but I suddenly see your point and perspective and am compelled to (1) apologize for heretofore not seeing it; and, (2) thank you very, very much for the concern, the courage, and the…I don’t know what it is, exactly, but I wish I had some of it…care, is part of it, but whatever else makes you decide to sit down, interrupt your busy day and write such a letter.
I must have dozens of them in my head at any moment, and I’m ashamed to say I’ve written none. The one time I wrote one (to Hal Holbrook), years ago (and it was not important), I was astounded that he…well, that he got it, frankly… but that he read it, appreciated it, and wrote back. Yet, I don’t think I wrote another, certainly not like yours..
Steven Hawkins has crawled around my head, too, by the way, especially since this so-called damage that I privately refer to as one of the greatest adventures of my otherwise lazy (I’m not opposed to laziness, by the way) and incredibly rewarding life.
I look at things a bit differently, now—just a bit, I swear to God—and yet, suddenly all of it is more wondrous by tenfold. I mean every bit of it, every obstacle, delay, interruption, scene, tragedy, comedy, poignancy, terror; all of it seems to exist as a show, an awesome production for (my, I guess) entertainment, education, and growth.
One of the examples I’ve used is the walk from the car to (the currently closed) Abel Conklin’s Restaurant. I never before paid attention, in all the years I’ve been going there, and it is one miracle after another, gone unnoticed all these years. Forget the ancillary miracles of the car, the trees, birds, sounds, scents, the sky and all of that, for a moment, just concentrate on what a body has to do to get from a Honda CRV to the door.
You are across New Street. First, you get out of the car, but you have go up the (high) curb to aim yourself properly across the street. This involves stepping up, crossing over some lovely (but uncertain) grass, and facing the voyage head-on.
Without the balance you are unconsciously unconscious of, mounting the curb is a daunting task, and one whose completion makes you feel quite proud (after a year or so of feeling self-indulgently useless, incompetent, ashamed, and inordinately punished for some sarcasm; but that’s another essay.).
Forget the traffic. It would take too much time to describe its variety, speed, direction and relative inattentiveness. Just figure there’s standard traffic—oh, all right, maybe two drivers have homicide lurking in their brains—and a breeze blowing out of the north, just to keep balance in mind.
Now, step off the curb, and notice two things about New Street. First, it’s sloped, maybe 20-degrees right-to-left, because Huntington is built on a hill; and it’s crowned to boot, to keep the rainwater headed for the sewers. You have to put that in your mental computer and prepare for it or, you most assuredly will fall.
And on the other side (suddenly quite a ways off), there’s another curb, leading to another patch of lush grass. This, before you steady yourself for another challenge: the brick walk.
You may have thought a brick walk was level. It looks level, I will grant you. It may once even have been level, for a day or two, but now, it mimics the soft ground underneath. It’s like walking on billiard balls pretending to be bricks. Then, there’s two oversized, inch-thick, slate steps that collect and store rainwater (unevenly, it would seem, but in fact, the opposite); and now you’re at the door.
What a trip. I’d take you to lunch to celebrate my making it to lunch.
You know—not to change the subject, but, yes, to change the subject—I’m increasingly overwhelmed by your letter even as I write these sentences. On a different day, and, perhaps if I were not feeing so lucky, it may have been the single most important sentiment or gift of encouragement I desperately needed, at a singularly crucial time in my life.
So, evidently, this is my long-winded way of saying, “Thank you;” and, “Thank you,” again, for the reminder that we’re in this life (or we are tragically not), together.
It’s all so simple. When I can, and I have the strength, and the luxury of some time, and the opportunity, for God’s sake, I should help somebody up.
You know, it’s damn nice to meet you, too.
An honor, in fact.
edlowe
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Blognonimous
Blognonimus
A bit like my birth, in that certain details were lost in the confusion and excitement of the moment, a lot of the narrative of my apparent resurrection two years ago, some 62 years later, has escaped the grasp of my memory.
In my defense, I thought details I would have bothered to commit to memory would be important to only me, but, I am a storyteller. I should have been much more attentive in noticing, and careful about memorizing, what was happening.
I apologize for that. After all, it’s my story, and I had every intention and therefore obligation of sharing details of both the birth and the resurrection—especially the latter, because I had encountered so many new friends after the first 62 years, and the details were clearer—and I blew it.
But, I was lax (Yeah, I know: No! You! Ed Lowe! Really, come on, lax? You jest.).
I cannot even remember the color of the paint on the walls at either hospital, Boulevard Hospital in Queens (long gone) and Fletcher-Allen Medical Center in Burlington, Vt., two years ago.
However, in straining to remember, I rediscovered an inside-baseball characteristic (I don’t think I want to know how many people don’t know what, “inside baseball,” is) of my current work (And I agree that this, “work,” is not exactly what some people would call, “work”) that had me puzzled to stoned befuddlement.
Last September, when I wondered whether I would or could do this, “work,” again, I chose to create a, “blog,” where I could study it and determine whether to give column writing up, or, to boldly sally forth, and probably confuse things more.
The blog required a name, and, I fiddled around until I landed on, “edlowehimself,” which I liked, but did not know why.
Well, now I know.
I was syndicated around 1980-or-’81. The syndicate editor, David Hendin, of United Features Syndicate, called me to tell me, but, instead, said excitedly, “Where did you get this idea?”
Of course, I should have said, “Oh, just a creative imagination,” but I didn’t know what he was talking about and so said, “What idea?”
He said, ‘“Ed Lowe, Himself.’ I love it…”
My notepad! I’d sent him a note on my notepad!
He continued: “That’s what we are going to call the column. ‘Ed Lowe, Himself.’”
He was so proud.
I would have been mortified, had I taken any of this seriously.
When you got, “entitled,” at the Newsday paragraph factory, you were entitled to stationery—envelopes, stationery-stationery and little notepads, all with your, “title,” on it. That was it.
I had been entitled, “Columnist,” for several years, but hadn’t taken the ego-bath of, “entitlement percs,” until recently, when I ordered the little notepads. I must have got them just as I was sending some sample columns to Hendin.
I was entitled, “Himself,” on the notepads because of a smartass, end-of-argument crack I had made to the late Paul Back, the Design Director of the then-much-acclaimed Newsday, who flew around the country designing other big-deal newspapers in his spare time, and otherwise went to a (long gone) house-turned-into-a-lunch-bar name Garrity’s, with New York Herald Tribune veteran, Warren Berry, and good, younger friend, me.
Back had to explain to me that the accepted style for the notepads called for the name of the entitled to be printed at the top left corner of the page, followed first by a comma, and then by whatever title entitled him to personalized notepads.
So, if I were the Long Island editor, or the assistant managing editor, my notepads would reflect the fact after my name: Ed Lowe, BlahBlahBlah.
I had submitted a request for notepads saying that I wanted to be identified as Ed Lowe, unencumbered by any titular information.
That was not our style, Back said. I had to select a title for myself. He assumed I wanted to be identified as, "Ed Lowe, Columnist," but his natural graciousness drew him out into the newsroom to check with me, first.
Unwise, and probably unkind, too, I did not know then that, "style," and design consistency could mean as much to a design director as rhythm and syntax might meant to me. I shrugged flippantly and said that I had ordered the pads to identify me as Ed Lowe because I was Ed Lowe and wanted to be so identified.
He laughed slightly, shook his head and repeated that identifying me merely as, “Ed Lowe,” was not, "our style."
If I had known better or had grown a little older first, I might have seen from that very point the direction into which I had launched our conversation and simply retreated from it.
Instead, I said that identifying me as, “Ed Lowe,” was my style; that the notepads were to be my pads for the answering of my mail, not our mail, and that frankly I didn't care what, "our," style was.
He laughed and shook his head, again—although I noticed his teeth were becoming clenched—and said that our style was our style, and that was that.
Well, I had scraped away all of Paul Back the Design Director's patience, and he erupted. He said rather emphatically that he didn't care how I answered my mail; he didn't care what title I held; he didn't care if I lived. He cared about our style, and my notepads would reflect our style, or I would not have them. "For all I care," he thundered, "the pads could say, ‘Ed Lowe, Himself!’”
"Oh, yeah? " I shouted. "Do that. I'll take it!"
“Ed Lowe, Himself,” got printed on my notepads; Paul and I stayed away from each other for a day or two; Hendin called the syndicated column, “Ed Lowe, Himself;” and Lou Schwartz, the Newsday editor just appointed to take over The Newsday Magazine, changed the layout of the magazine so it would say, “Ed Lowe, Himself.”
Thirty years later, I got the idea to call my blog, “edlowehimself.blogspot.com,” and wondered, until now, where I got the name.
What? You thought it was easy being, Himself?
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A bit like my birth, in that certain details were lost in the confusion and excitement of the moment, a lot of the narrative of my apparent resurrection two years ago, some 62 years later, has escaped the grasp of my memory.
In my defense, I thought details I would have bothered to commit to memory would be important to only me, but, I am a storyteller. I should have been much more attentive in noticing, and careful about memorizing, what was happening.
I apologize for that. After all, it’s my story, and I had every intention and therefore obligation of sharing details of both the birth and the resurrection—especially the latter, because I had encountered so many new friends after the first 62 years, and the details were clearer—and I blew it.
But, I was lax (Yeah, I know: No! You! Ed Lowe! Really, come on, lax? You jest.).
I cannot even remember the color of the paint on the walls at either hospital, Boulevard Hospital in Queens (long gone) and Fletcher-Allen Medical Center in Burlington, Vt., two years ago.
However, in straining to remember, I rediscovered an inside-baseball characteristic (I don’t think I want to know how many people don’t know what, “inside baseball,” is) of my current work (And I agree that this, “work,” is not exactly what some people would call, “work”) that had me puzzled to stoned befuddlement.
Last September, when I wondered whether I would or could do this, “work,” again, I chose to create a, “blog,” where I could study it and determine whether to give column writing up, or, to boldly sally forth, and probably confuse things more.
The blog required a name, and, I fiddled around until I landed on, “edlowehimself,” which I liked, but did not know why.
Well, now I know.
I was syndicated around 1980-or-’81. The syndicate editor, David Hendin, of United Features Syndicate, called me to tell me, but, instead, said excitedly, “Where did you get this idea?”
Of course, I should have said, “Oh, just a creative imagination,” but I didn’t know what he was talking about and so said, “What idea?”
He said, ‘“Ed Lowe, Himself.’ I love it…”
My notepad! I’d sent him a note on my notepad!
He continued: “That’s what we are going to call the column. ‘Ed Lowe, Himself.’”
He was so proud.
I would have been mortified, had I taken any of this seriously.
When you got, “entitled,” at the Newsday paragraph factory, you were entitled to stationery—envelopes, stationery-stationery and little notepads, all with your, “title,” on it. That was it.
I had been entitled, “Columnist,” for several years, but hadn’t taken the ego-bath of, “entitlement percs,” until recently, when I ordered the little notepads. I must have got them just as I was sending some sample columns to Hendin.
I was entitled, “Himself,” on the notepads because of a smartass, end-of-argument crack I had made to the late Paul Back, the Design Director of the then-much-acclaimed Newsday, who flew around the country designing other big-deal newspapers in his spare time, and otherwise went to a (long gone) house-turned-into-a-lunch-bar name Garrity’s, with New York Herald Tribune veteran, Warren Berry, and good, younger friend, me.
Back had to explain to me that the accepted style for the notepads called for the name of the entitled to be printed at the top left corner of the page, followed first by a comma, and then by whatever title entitled him to personalized notepads.
So, if I were the Long Island editor, or the assistant managing editor, my notepads would reflect the fact after my name: Ed Lowe, BlahBlahBlah.
I had submitted a request for notepads saying that I wanted to be identified as Ed Lowe, unencumbered by any titular information.
That was not our style, Back said. I had to select a title for myself. He assumed I wanted to be identified as, "Ed Lowe, Columnist," but his natural graciousness drew him out into the newsroom to check with me, first.
Unwise, and probably unkind, too, I did not know then that, "style," and design consistency could mean as much to a design director as rhythm and syntax might meant to me. I shrugged flippantly and said that I had ordered the pads to identify me as Ed Lowe because I was Ed Lowe and wanted to be so identified.
He laughed slightly, shook his head and repeated that identifying me merely as, “Ed Lowe,” was not, "our style."
If I had known better or had grown a little older first, I might have seen from that very point the direction into which I had launched our conversation and simply retreated from it.
Instead, I said that identifying me as, “Ed Lowe,” was my style; that the notepads were to be my pads for the answering of my mail, not our mail, and that frankly I didn't care what, "our," style was.
He laughed and shook his head, again—although I noticed his teeth were becoming clenched—and said that our style was our style, and that was that.
Well, I had scraped away all of Paul Back the Design Director's patience, and he erupted. He said rather emphatically that he didn't care how I answered my mail; he didn't care what title I held; he didn't care if I lived. He cared about our style, and my notepads would reflect our style, or I would not have them. "For all I care," he thundered, "the pads could say, ‘Ed Lowe, Himself!’”
"Oh, yeah? " I shouted. "Do that. I'll take it!"
“Ed Lowe, Himself,” got printed on my notepads; Paul and I stayed away from each other for a day or two; Hendin called the syndicated column, “Ed Lowe, Himself;” and Lou Schwartz, the Newsday editor just appointed to take over The Newsday Magazine, changed the layout of the magazine so it would say, “Ed Lowe, Himself.”
Thirty years later, I got the idea to call my blog, “edlowehimself.blogspot.com,” and wondered, until now, where I got the name.
What? You thought it was easy being, Himself?
Friday, April 23, 2010
Ignorance
Ignorance
I love ignorance.
I think ignorance will save the world; will one day make curiosity and examination prevail; make peace win out over war; will inspire drivers of vehicles to signal and drive safely and otherwise pay attention to all their surroundings.
I mean it.
Ignorance used to be a nasty-sounding word to me, a militantly, cold-minded, closed-minded, hateful word, worthy of the darkest of dark ages and the bitterest of bitter scorn.
Was I ignorant? Yes, and no. I was stupid. Ignorance is innocence. Ignorance is a gift. All things are possible through ignorance.
I called other people ignorant without knowing what it was; without recognizing my own wonderful ignorance, let alone the wonder of anybody else’s.
Example: coastal people quite naturally introduce themselves to mountain people without explaining naturally their presence on the coast; without introducing the way they ate lobsters, drank cold beer, or, tossed Frisbees; or without describing the joy they felt running barefoot on the beach to the water.
And this to, “guests,” who never had seen a beach and could not even have yet imagined its soft texture and how wonderfully tired it could make you feel after you jogged a bit.
I bet I got caught up in that. “You ignoramus!” I might have said. “How could you be so ignorant?”
I was talking about what a person didn’t know. I wasn’t paying attention. How could we know, yet, what we didn’t know? That’s stupid.
Ignoramus. Somebody who is—what—a blank slate? Somebody to whom you could explain igloos or longhouses, or fishing traditions, so they would better understand your ways, the textures of your favorite garments, your passion for rattlesnake meat, or seal blubber, or blue-claw crab?
Or the way you parked your cars or drove on the opposite sides of the street or one-finger-saluted someone who offended you.
The fact that you ate muskrats in the Chesapeake, and I ate eels from Great South Bay, further North, and each of us thought the other was nuts. (Also, drunk, but we called each other, “ignorant,” for that, too, remember? What am I saying? Of course you don’t remember. You were drunk.).
That kind of ignoramus?
An incident forty years ago keeps me up nights. I don’t know if because I didn’t get it right away, or, worse, because I did, and didn’t always apply it.
The Suffolk Sun was a daily, morning newspaper begun in 1966, located in Deer Park, L.I., and charged by its Florida owners with competing with Newsday for circulation.
I had applied for a job writing stories for it, as I had at Newsday. A fresh college graduate in 1967, I had no journalism school background. My minor was in Education. Both newspapers told me to go teach.
I did, and went back to the Sun, I suppose obstinately, two years later, the father of two daughters. They hired me. I was too exultant to ask why (the paper had eight weeks of life left; that was why, and most everyone knew it but me.).
Come to think of it, what probably kept me from thinking homicidally in those pre-Newsday days, was Jim Bernstein. The Sun hired (Newsday’s) Bernstein a month after me from a paper in Florida. Sun editors must have been even surer the Sun was going to set, and they didn’t let on. I must have figured Bernstein had that much more reason to be angry.
My first assignment was a, “short,” a buried little announcement that makes the executive director and board of an organization uncommonly happy. A news release from the Village Officials Association said that they had invited Gov. Nelson Rockefeller to their annual meeting.
“Here,” said assistant editor Tom Moriarty. “Find out if he’s going.” I said, “Who?” He stared at me over the top of his glasses. I said, “Oh. The Governor…How?” He said, “Call him up!”
Of course. Call up Governor Rockefeller and ask if he’s got nothing better to do than attend the Long Island Village Officials Association’s golf outing.
I spent all day on it. He wasn’t.
That was my journalism training. The next day, I was sent to interview Alfred D. Hershey, a Cold Spring Harbor Carnegie Institute scientist who had just been announced to the world—to the World, mind you—that he was a winner of the Nobel Prize for medicine.
The late Earl Ubell, a former newspaper science writer for The Herald Tribune, and then a very big shot TV science correspondent, was interviewing Hershey on camera when I arrived. When he was done, Ubell asked Hershey if he could use Hershey’s desk. Hershey and I moved aside (me thinking, “What am I going say to this Nobel freaking Prize-winner?”), and, looking into his cameraman’s lens, now in Hershey’s chair, Ubell asked all the questions he’d just asked Hershey, nodding dramatically to nobody and leaving a pause between. I realized what he was doing: filming his questions as if there had been two cameras. Clever, if deceptive.
Then, as Ubell and his crew gathered up their equipment, I confessed to Hershey, “I know what the Nobel Prize is, sir, so I know I am in way over my head. I’m a junior high school English teacher on my second assignment as a newspaper reporter. By the way, I congratulate you, but I’m going to have to tell people what you’ve done, and I don’t know what it is, or why it is important. Can you help me out, please.”
Before he could answer, Ubell started aggressively apologizing for me, as if I were not there and were not already pretty humiliated, myself.
Hershey took his chair back, and said, “Thank you,” to all, and then proceeded to sit me down and give me a twenty-minute course about his part of the research done on, “bacteriophages,” viruses that infect bacteria.
My story was every bit as good as Ubell’s.
It was ignorance that saved the day.
I love ignorance.
I think ignorance will save the world; will one day make curiosity and examination prevail; make peace win out over war; will inspire drivers of vehicles to signal and drive safely and otherwise pay attention to all their surroundings.
I mean it.
Ignorance used to be a nasty-sounding word to me, a militantly, cold-minded, closed-minded, hateful word, worthy of the darkest of dark ages and the bitterest of bitter scorn.
Was I ignorant? Yes, and no. I was stupid. Ignorance is innocence. Ignorance is a gift. All things are possible through ignorance.
I called other people ignorant without knowing what it was; without recognizing my own wonderful ignorance, let alone the wonder of anybody else’s.
Example: coastal people quite naturally introduce themselves to mountain people without explaining naturally their presence on the coast; without introducing the way they ate lobsters, drank cold beer, or, tossed Frisbees; or without describing the joy they felt running barefoot on the beach to the water.
And this to, “guests,” who never had seen a beach and could not even have yet imagined its soft texture and how wonderfully tired it could make you feel after you jogged a bit.
I bet I got caught up in that. “You ignoramus!” I might have said. “How could you be so ignorant?”
I was talking about what a person didn’t know. I wasn’t paying attention. How could we know, yet, what we didn’t know? That’s stupid.
Ignoramus. Somebody who is—what—a blank slate? Somebody to whom you could explain igloos or longhouses, or fishing traditions, so they would better understand your ways, the textures of your favorite garments, your passion for rattlesnake meat, or seal blubber, or blue-claw crab?
Or the way you parked your cars or drove on the opposite sides of the street or one-finger-saluted someone who offended you.
The fact that you ate muskrats in the Chesapeake, and I ate eels from Great South Bay, further North, and each of us thought the other was nuts. (Also, drunk, but we called each other, “ignorant,” for that, too, remember? What am I saying? Of course you don’t remember. You were drunk.).
That kind of ignoramus?
An incident forty years ago keeps me up nights. I don’t know if because I didn’t get it right away, or, worse, because I did, and didn’t always apply it.
The Suffolk Sun was a daily, morning newspaper begun in 1966, located in Deer Park, L.I., and charged by its Florida owners with competing with Newsday for circulation.
I had applied for a job writing stories for it, as I had at Newsday. A fresh college graduate in 1967, I had no journalism school background. My minor was in Education. Both newspapers told me to go teach.
I did, and went back to the Sun, I suppose obstinately, two years later, the father of two daughters. They hired me. I was too exultant to ask why (the paper had eight weeks of life left; that was why, and most everyone knew it but me.).
Come to think of it, what probably kept me from thinking homicidally in those pre-Newsday days, was Jim Bernstein. The Sun hired (Newsday’s) Bernstein a month after me from a paper in Florida. Sun editors must have been even surer the Sun was going to set, and they didn’t let on. I must have figured Bernstein had that much more reason to be angry.
My first assignment was a, “short,” a buried little announcement that makes the executive director and board of an organization uncommonly happy. A news release from the Village Officials Association said that they had invited Gov. Nelson Rockefeller to their annual meeting.
“Here,” said assistant editor Tom Moriarty. “Find out if he’s going.” I said, “Who?” He stared at me over the top of his glasses. I said, “Oh. The Governor…How?” He said, “Call him up!”
Of course. Call up Governor Rockefeller and ask if he’s got nothing better to do than attend the Long Island Village Officials Association’s golf outing.
I spent all day on it. He wasn’t.
That was my journalism training. The next day, I was sent to interview Alfred D. Hershey, a Cold Spring Harbor Carnegie Institute scientist who had just been announced to the world—to the World, mind you—that he was a winner of the Nobel Prize for medicine.
The late Earl Ubell, a former newspaper science writer for The Herald Tribune, and then a very big shot TV science correspondent, was interviewing Hershey on camera when I arrived. When he was done, Ubell asked Hershey if he could use Hershey’s desk. Hershey and I moved aside (me thinking, “What am I going say to this Nobel freaking Prize-winner?”), and, looking into his cameraman’s lens, now in Hershey’s chair, Ubell asked all the questions he’d just asked Hershey, nodding dramatically to nobody and leaving a pause between. I realized what he was doing: filming his questions as if there had been two cameras. Clever, if deceptive.
Then, as Ubell and his crew gathered up their equipment, I confessed to Hershey, “I know what the Nobel Prize is, sir, so I know I am in way over my head. I’m a junior high school English teacher on my second assignment as a newspaper reporter. By the way, I congratulate you, but I’m going to have to tell people what you’ve done, and I don’t know what it is, or why it is important. Can you help me out, please.”
Before he could answer, Ubell started aggressively apologizing for me, as if I were not there and were not already pretty humiliated, myself.
Hershey took his chair back, and said, “Thank you,” to all, and then proceeded to sit me down and give me a twenty-minute course about his part of the research done on, “bacteriophages,” viruses that infect bacteria.
My story was every bit as good as Ubell’s.
It was ignorance that saved the day.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Credit Rating II
Credit Rating II
The Credit Rating story, where Susan Hennings gets her credit rating penalized for 8 years (and still counting) without doing anything (wrong or right); or without knowing anything about not doing anything; and without being able to stop the penalties, which, as far as anyone can see, were caused starting six years before by the credit company against itself, and should have been levied penalties by the offending credit company against the offending credit company (but, really, what are the chances…) got a lot of mail.
You should see some. Here’s two:
“Hi Ed: [me, then, stupidly thinking: Hi.].
“What's your beef, Ed.[Uh-oh.].
“You don't like financial companies? You don't like capitalism? You're hiding a little, Ed. Write what you and your family say behind closed doors. Be a man, Ed. [My family? Behind closed doors?].
“You wanted to smear an industry. Ok. You tried and failed, at least with me. [Wait, you like this?] You don't possess the abilities to illustrate or the evidence you imply or both.
[The.evidence…Wait…What?].
“You make easy and dark suggestions of malfeasance without proof. This exposes you not your target.[All right, this is a gag. Who is this…]. I know it is your right and what you're paid to do. I just don't think it is honorable.
“By the way, what grade level are you attempting to reach? [Evidently not…well, easy. Go ahead…]. The answer to your opening paragraph is because the lenders find their services valuable. It's capitalism, Ed. Duh!
“This column proves you have prejudices, Ed. [Like, maybe against England? Short people?] It’s ok, we all do. Next time share your prejudice with us on a bit dicier target. You're not to suggest that your prejudices are perfectly and solely aligned with the politically correct ones of today's scene, are you? [No, er…yes…with…not…whatever you said.] You'd seem more manly [More manly. What is this with manly?] if you wrote against what isn't so acceptable or so promoted to dislike. [“What isn’t so acceptable,” let’s see… “or so promoted…to…dislike.” Nope, can’t get it.].
“Be a man, Ed. [Oh brother.].
“Before you visit the hereafter again.
“Sincerely yours,
[A man’s name].
He signed it. I e-asked if I could share it, but got no answer. So, as far you know, I made the letter up. If you think I did, well, thank you.
Another letter intrigued me. Much duller, but in English. From Roseann LoFrisco.
“A friend of mine married an illegal alien from Turkey in 2001. She had known him for about 8 years prior. After he broke off the first engagement with her and disappeared, he (unfortunately) returned and they began living together.
“Now my friend is well-educated, owns 3 houses and has a very good job. They are living together for a few years when, lo and behold he takes off again, this time to Canada, because supposedly citizenship is easier to obtain there.
“After he has his court date there, he decided to sneak back in the US, but gets caught. She flies to Buffalo and bails him out.
“Now this was in 2000 when there was a, ‘window,’ for illegals to get their legal papers. She proceeds to fully support him, file for him, get a lawyer, marries him, and about a year ago he gets his citizenship. Last August he goes home to Turkey for a, ‘visit’—on her ticket—and doesn't come back.
“Turns out he plays the stockmarket. And apparently made some money when the market was good. Then he got this idea to apply for credit—which she helped him establish—and he gets over $200,000. from 4 or 5 banks. He is using the money to daytrade and—surprise—he can't make the payments. (Where is the money he did make, Turkey?) This comes to light shortly before he goes to Turkey because now creditors are calling the house nonstop.
“Now, here is the killer: He got the 200K with no job, and (he) owns nothing. Her name is not on these cards. (She is not liable for these balances so these banks cannot lien anything). Her mother called Chase—one of the banks—and asked how they could have possibly given him the money. A Chase staffer says it must have been an, ‘oversight.’
“Apparently, Citibank, Bank One, etc. also have these, ‘oversights.’
“Chase is asked if they will pursue him in Turkey since an address could be provided. “Probably not.” Will they do anything if he is back in the US? “Probably not.”
He is now back in this country—used her return ticket—and is working off the books.
Meanwhile, I apply to Chase for an increase to my home equity line on my home—which is the only mortgage I have, and is less than one-third of what the house is worth—and they deny me. Apparently my debt-to-income ratio is too high.
“So now you and I and everyone else who works hard to pay our bills and pays these exorbitant interest rates can pay Chase back for their utter stupidity in giving this guy with, no job, and no property of any sort, over 200K. Nice, huh.”
What do I tell her, “Be a man?”
The Credit Rating story, where Susan Hennings gets her credit rating penalized for 8 years (and still counting) without doing anything (wrong or right); or without knowing anything about not doing anything; and without being able to stop the penalties, which, as far as anyone can see, were caused starting six years before by the credit company against itself, and should have been levied penalties by the offending credit company against the offending credit company (but, really, what are the chances…) got a lot of mail.
You should see some. Here’s two:
“Hi Ed: [me, then, stupidly thinking: Hi.].
“What's your beef, Ed.[Uh-oh.].
“You don't like financial companies? You don't like capitalism? You're hiding a little, Ed. Write what you and your family say behind closed doors. Be a man, Ed. [My family? Behind closed doors?].
“You wanted to smear an industry. Ok. You tried and failed, at least with me. [Wait, you like this?] You don't possess the abilities to illustrate or the evidence you imply or both.
[The.evidence…Wait…What?].
“You make easy and dark suggestions of malfeasance without proof. This exposes you not your target.[All right, this is a gag. Who is this…]. I know it is your right and what you're paid to do. I just don't think it is honorable.
“By the way, what grade level are you attempting to reach? [Evidently not…well, easy. Go ahead…]. The answer to your opening paragraph is because the lenders find their services valuable. It's capitalism, Ed. Duh!
“This column proves you have prejudices, Ed. [Like, maybe against England? Short people?] It’s ok, we all do. Next time share your prejudice with us on a bit dicier target. You're not to suggest that your prejudices are perfectly and solely aligned with the politically correct ones of today's scene, are you? [No, er…yes…with…not…whatever you said.] You'd seem more manly [More manly. What is this with manly?] if you wrote against what isn't so acceptable or so promoted to dislike. [“What isn’t so acceptable,” let’s see… “or so promoted…to…dislike.” Nope, can’t get it.].
“Be a man, Ed. [Oh brother.].
“Before you visit the hereafter again.
“Sincerely yours,
[A man’s name].
He signed it. I e-asked if I could share it, but got no answer. So, as far you know, I made the letter up. If you think I did, well, thank you.
Another letter intrigued me. Much duller, but in English. From Roseann LoFrisco.
“A friend of mine married an illegal alien from Turkey in 2001. She had known him for about 8 years prior. After he broke off the first engagement with her and disappeared, he (unfortunately) returned and they began living together.
“Now my friend is well-educated, owns 3 houses and has a very good job. They are living together for a few years when, lo and behold he takes off again, this time to Canada, because supposedly citizenship is easier to obtain there.
“After he has his court date there, he decided to sneak back in the US, but gets caught. She flies to Buffalo and bails him out.
“Now this was in 2000 when there was a, ‘window,’ for illegals to get their legal papers. She proceeds to fully support him, file for him, get a lawyer, marries him, and about a year ago he gets his citizenship. Last August he goes home to Turkey for a, ‘visit’—on her ticket—and doesn't come back.
“Turns out he plays the stockmarket. And apparently made some money when the market was good. Then he got this idea to apply for credit—which she helped him establish—and he gets over $200,000. from 4 or 5 banks. He is using the money to daytrade and—surprise—he can't make the payments. (Where is the money he did make, Turkey?) This comes to light shortly before he goes to Turkey because now creditors are calling the house nonstop.
“Now, here is the killer: He got the 200K with no job, and (he) owns nothing. Her name is not on these cards. (She is not liable for these balances so these banks cannot lien anything). Her mother called Chase—one of the banks—and asked how they could have possibly given him the money. A Chase staffer says it must have been an, ‘oversight.’
“Apparently, Citibank, Bank One, etc. also have these, ‘oversights.’
“Chase is asked if they will pursue him in Turkey since an address could be provided. “Probably not.” Will they do anything if he is back in the US? “Probably not.”
He is now back in this country—used her return ticket—and is working off the books.
Meanwhile, I apply to Chase for an increase to my home equity line on my home—which is the only mortgage I have, and is less than one-third of what the house is worth—and they deny me. Apparently my debt-to-income ratio is too high.
“So now you and I and everyone else who works hard to pay our bills and pays these exorbitant interest rates can pay Chase back for their utter stupidity in giving this guy with, no job, and no property of any sort, over 200K. Nice, huh.”
What do I tell her, “Be a man?”
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Tough Subject
Tough Subject
A conversation with myself.
I want to talk about being dead.
Fat chance. Fuggeeettaboutiddt.
The problem is getting someone to listen, I think.
You think? You think.
Of course, I can talk to myself…
Oh, you can talk to yourself about anything. Especially if you have one of those Blue Tooths.
Yeah. What’s the origin of, “blue-tooth,” anyway? I mean, think of it: “Hold on, I can’t hear you, let me adjust the blue tooth in my ear.”
I don’t know. But talk about that, why don’t you.
Yeah. If somebody hears you talking to yourself about being dead, and nobody is around to hear what you intend to say on the subject, there are self-limiting rules other people have to operate under so they don’t come under suspicion that they brought the subject up.
What?
Yeah. Because if you kill yourself, they will be guilty of something to do with it. Watch…whatever.
Is that why you think nobody talks about being dead?
No. That is why nobody talks about his being overheard talking to me about my being dead.
Well, accept it. Don’t talk about being dead.
So, what? So, nobody talks about being dead? I lose before I start?
All right, try it. Bring it up.
I will. “Hey, want to talk about being dead?”
“No.”
That’s it? End of story? I can’t get in a, “No, listen, wait a minute, I got this idea that…”
“Did you hear me? I said, ‘No.’ I don’t want to talk about being dead.”
“Well, I have some really cool ideas, and I just thought I would point out that…”
“No.”
The man doesn’t want to know what I’m pointing out.
Yeah. That’s what I’m saying. This could be the wimpiest guy you know, too. The guy to whom you could talk for 45 minutes about tying a double knot in your shoelaces, or putting too much milk on your Cheerios, or the meaning of Eternity. But, about being dead? He says: “What are you, crazy?”
“No. I just want to have a simple conversation…”
“No. No. You really are crazy. Go away.”
So, no matter what I want to say, no matter what, relatively exciting new idea I have conjured about it, or thoughts of making it creative, or uplifting, or even fashionable, nothing gets past or overrides the fact that I actually want to talk about being dead. I’m considered morbid, maybe even depressed. Probably a danger to myself.
Well, yes.
Nobody even wants to be seen with me, talking about it, not on a boat; not on a skiing trip; not while robbing a 7-Eleven Store; not even at a funeral. In fact, I bet, especially not at a funeral.
“But, aren’t you curious about…”
“No.”
Nobody even believes I am actually curious about it. They think it’s an introduction to a joke they don’t want to hear. I could be losing sleep over it, probably more than I lose sleep over whether I took the garbage to the curb; or left the keys in the ignition of the car; and I really want to know what my friends think about it.
“No.” I get.
You know, many years ago, I worked part time at an ice cream distribution plant in North Lindenhurst with Henry Patrick McArdle. He sold insurance (which forbade him from working at the ice cream distribution plant. But he had seven kids, so he excused himself, and made up his own rule. For that alone, I would have followed him anywhere.). He had, “tricks,” for selling insurance. Like, he never discussed the life insurance policy’s premium with a teacher.
Hah? The premium?
Yeah. The amount you pay. He discussed the money that would come out of the policy in 150 years; or, the maximum amount the policy would cover the customer if he lost his leg on the job, say, teaching math to trapeze artists; or what the policy would be worth when the owner’s great grandchildren cashed it in; but he stayed away from the premium.
Why?
Because teachers were known by insurance people to be the cheapest customers on the planet.
Really. You were a teacher. Your minor was education.
I hear you. I’ve been conscious of tips ever since.
Anyway, he said, “Go to a bar with a happy hour: half-price drinks and free food from 4pm until 7pm. Teachers, as far as the eye can see. All teachers. At 7:15, they’re gone.”
I tested it out. Wow. It was years before I took food at a buffet. My in-laws in Florida were insulted.
But, similarly, McArdle said, he never discussed death, near-death, fear of death, nothing remotely about death, with an Italian.
But, isn’t that the whole point: insurance.
The business was life insurance. One mention of death, and the sale was history.
“What?” The head of the household would say. “Who you talking about? Me? Death? Get out of my house. Death? Look at this, here. I’m sitting here, in my house, and this guy is talking about me being dead. Minque. In my house!”
So, I don’t even approach the subject with my Italian friends.
Uh…okay.
I don’t get it. Here we are, spending a gazillon, bazillion dollars over the last century to find out what took place, or has taken place, or might be about to take place, 300-million-light-centuries to the left (?) of Zebulon. No scientist alive, or in uteri, or in our collective imaginations will discover it; or the other thing they’re after, the exact start-up date of the universe—like March 26,th two trillion years ago, times 12, minus a day or two—and we don’t want to talk about death.
Right.
Death, which no matter you shake it, is imminent, has already happened a bazillion, gazillion times; last fall, alone; in this county, alone; to leaves, earwigs and snakes, alone; to fish, communists and The Taliban; to paranoid schizophrenics, retired Jewish cops, and yet-to-be-designated Saints, alone; all over, every day, all day, and we don’t want to talk about it?
Right. Now, how about those Mets?
A conversation with myself.
I want to talk about being dead.
Fat chance. Fuggeeettaboutiddt.
The problem is getting someone to listen, I think.
You think? You think.
Of course, I can talk to myself…
Oh, you can talk to yourself about anything. Especially if you have one of those Blue Tooths.
Yeah. What’s the origin of, “blue-tooth,” anyway? I mean, think of it: “Hold on, I can’t hear you, let me adjust the blue tooth in my ear.”
I don’t know. But talk about that, why don’t you.
Yeah. If somebody hears you talking to yourself about being dead, and nobody is around to hear what you intend to say on the subject, there are self-limiting rules other people have to operate under so they don’t come under suspicion that they brought the subject up.
What?
Yeah. Because if you kill yourself, they will be guilty of something to do with it. Watch…whatever.
Is that why you think nobody talks about being dead?
No. That is why nobody talks about his being overheard talking to me about my being dead.
Well, accept it. Don’t talk about being dead.
So, what? So, nobody talks about being dead? I lose before I start?
All right, try it. Bring it up.
I will. “Hey, want to talk about being dead?”
“No.”
That’s it? End of story? I can’t get in a, “No, listen, wait a minute, I got this idea that…”
“Did you hear me? I said, ‘No.’ I don’t want to talk about being dead.”
“Well, I have some really cool ideas, and I just thought I would point out that…”
“No.”
The man doesn’t want to know what I’m pointing out.
Yeah. That’s what I’m saying. This could be the wimpiest guy you know, too. The guy to whom you could talk for 45 minutes about tying a double knot in your shoelaces, or putting too much milk on your Cheerios, or the meaning of Eternity. But, about being dead? He says: “What are you, crazy?”
“No. I just want to have a simple conversation…”
“No. No. You really are crazy. Go away.”
So, no matter what I want to say, no matter what, relatively exciting new idea I have conjured about it, or thoughts of making it creative, or uplifting, or even fashionable, nothing gets past or overrides the fact that I actually want to talk about being dead. I’m considered morbid, maybe even depressed. Probably a danger to myself.
Well, yes.
Nobody even wants to be seen with me, talking about it, not on a boat; not on a skiing trip; not while robbing a 7-Eleven Store; not even at a funeral. In fact, I bet, especially not at a funeral.
“But, aren’t you curious about…”
“No.”
Nobody even believes I am actually curious about it. They think it’s an introduction to a joke they don’t want to hear. I could be losing sleep over it, probably more than I lose sleep over whether I took the garbage to the curb; or left the keys in the ignition of the car; and I really want to know what my friends think about it.
“No.” I get.
You know, many years ago, I worked part time at an ice cream distribution plant in North Lindenhurst with Henry Patrick McArdle. He sold insurance (which forbade him from working at the ice cream distribution plant. But he had seven kids, so he excused himself, and made up his own rule. For that alone, I would have followed him anywhere.). He had, “tricks,” for selling insurance. Like, he never discussed the life insurance policy’s premium with a teacher.
Hah? The premium?
Yeah. The amount you pay. He discussed the money that would come out of the policy in 150 years; or, the maximum amount the policy would cover the customer if he lost his leg on the job, say, teaching math to trapeze artists; or what the policy would be worth when the owner’s great grandchildren cashed it in; but he stayed away from the premium.
Why?
Because teachers were known by insurance people to be the cheapest customers on the planet.
Really. You were a teacher. Your minor was education.
I hear you. I’ve been conscious of tips ever since.
Anyway, he said, “Go to a bar with a happy hour: half-price drinks and free food from 4pm until 7pm. Teachers, as far as the eye can see. All teachers. At 7:15, they’re gone.”
I tested it out. Wow. It was years before I took food at a buffet. My in-laws in Florida were insulted.
But, similarly, McArdle said, he never discussed death, near-death, fear of death, nothing remotely about death, with an Italian.
But, isn’t that the whole point: insurance.
The business was life insurance. One mention of death, and the sale was history.
“What?” The head of the household would say. “Who you talking about? Me? Death? Get out of my house. Death? Look at this, here. I’m sitting here, in my house, and this guy is talking about me being dead. Minque. In my house!”
So, I don’t even approach the subject with my Italian friends.
Uh…okay.
I don’t get it. Here we are, spending a gazillon, bazillion dollars over the last century to find out what took place, or has taken place, or might be about to take place, 300-million-light-centuries to the left (?) of Zebulon. No scientist alive, or in uteri, or in our collective imaginations will discover it; or the other thing they’re after, the exact start-up date of the universe—like March 26,th two trillion years ago, times 12, minus a day or two—and we don’t want to talk about death.
Right.
Death, which no matter you shake it, is imminent, has already happened a bazillion, gazillion times; last fall, alone; in this county, alone; to leaves, earwigs and snakes, alone; to fish, communists and The Taliban; to paranoid schizophrenics, retired Jewish cops, and yet-to-be-designated Saints, alone; all over, every day, all day, and we don’t want to talk about it?
Right. Now, how about those Mets?
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