Event Horizon of 2015

As I write, I have just finished watching an old favorite movie, one I had actually forgotten about, until I saw it in Blue-Ray and picked it up a few months ago.  I was waiting for the proper mood to play it.  "Chances Are" with Robert Downey Jr., Cybill Shepherd and Ryan O'Neill.  It was made in 1989, twenty five years ago. O'Neill and Shepherd were still young. Downey was like 25 years old, if that. No sign of the ravages that would lead to rehab and recovery--leaving him a still handsome, but definitely weathered individual.

Ostensibly, it is about a man who is killed in the prime of life in a car accident as he is going to meet his bride of one year only to be reincarnated in the body of Downey, Jr.  The bride was Cybill Shepherd, now old enough to be the Downey character's mother. Silly stuff? Yeah. And not.

All of this, the making of the movie and the movie itself, is about time moving on and about changes to which we are heir whether we like it or not. Somehow, the fictional story and the fact that these actors are frozen on screen in 1989 ties directly into my reveries tonight.

Obviously, if I am writing at 10:30 on December 31, 2014, I am not out and about for the ten second chant that marks the shift from one year to another. This is the first year in a long time. How it came about is a combination of accident, misunderstanding and choice.  And alas, I forgot to do one thing I absolutely intended, to call a childhood friend in New York when the clock turned to 2015 in her neck of the woods. Well, not forgot exactly. Waited until it was too late.  By the time I remembered it was after 1 a.m. in the Big Apple.

"Chances Are" it was all somehow meant. I have always been one to consider the passing of time, the reality of death and all that. But when you are young and reading poems about the philosophies of life and death, it really isn't built into your psyche fully that it is all so damn quick. And while I have sought and generally found meaning in my faith, something about the press of time begins to test that faith. Or rather makes me wonder how solid it is, when the pedal hits the metal.

I am on the event horizon of another year, so many years after the one in which I made my initial appearance. So many family members and a goodly number of friends if it comes to that are gone. And as I enter this New Year, I have fewer and fewer of them on whose presence I can rely. I think that is something that comes to all of us, this realization of there being no bulwark on this planet against the buffets that remain, and fewer with whom to share those transitory moments of joy.

What will I do with this New Year?  Will I waste so much of it as I have wasted much of the years before, thinking I had an abundance of opportunity?

Funny how things you wouldn't expect make me so aware of need to seize moments I never have, and probably never will because I will fall out of the sense of urgency. This actor died. Edward Hermann. He was the dad on Gilmore Girls which I never watched. And he was a really well received portrayer of FDR, whom he actually resembled. He was also a Catholic convert. I didn't know him to chit chat, but I did see him often at Church. He died of brain cancer today in New York, on this last day of 2014. Less than a year ago, I was one of the lay ministers giving out ashes on Ash Wednesday, and he was one of the people in my line.  Even from the step of the sanctuary I had to reach to his six foot five frame as I made the sign of the cross on his forehead, and said, "Remember Man, that thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return.". Maybe this goes back to the movie. I don't believe in reincarnation but I do believe that we are all connected, in life and in death. He is now one of the dead for whom we will pray, as one day I will be one of the dead for whom others will pray.  (Please God).

The reader may say I am being morbid. But that is part of the point.  I can't explain it exactly, but it isn't morbid.  It's a little scary to know that one of these years you won't be getting to or finishing. No, it's more than a little scary. But aside from any philosophical or religious revelations in its considerations, I think it is supposed to be a wake up call, to get us out of habits and mind sets that get in the way of those really good moments that do come our way.

My particular betel noir is fear, a fear that has made me risk aversive to what others find enjoyable, and not particularly dangerous. I'll fly, but only after skewing up a lot of I won't call it courage, but trying to put aside how I hate being up in the air in a tin can. When I see accidents like the one that happened this week, I am ready to bolt the doors and never take a trip. But my fear extends to far more than that, and I wonder whether, if I haven't dealt with them in two thirds of my life, will I in the remaining third, should I be given one? 

But I think as it now is only fifteen minutes until auld Lang sine (which I will be singing to my cats), I shall hold onto that thing with feathers, hope. Hope that I won't just say "Seize the Day!" but once and maybe more than once, do it!

And I pray that as you pass through the event horizon into the unknown New Year, you will find reason to hope for yourselves and the ones you love.

Sony Caves, North Korea Chortles at American Cowardice and Abandonment of Freedom of Speech

I bet that when the producers of the movie readily banished by Kim Jong-Un came up with the idea to advertise that their movie was "from the western capitalist pigs who brought you Neighbors and this is the End" they were having a good old time. Weed was surely enjoyed by all, though certainly no demon tobacco was allowed.  It never occurred to these great media minds that while in America you still mostly can (unless you are a Republican or an active member of Judaism and Christianity) say what you want, there are other countries (that our Administration insists on trying to befriend as if they have the same sense of right and wrong we do) don't subscribe to liberty of any form. And now these dictators have access to our technological infrastructure and can reach the spoiled brats of our movie industry. People used to laugh when Kim and his late dad launched missiles that fell into the ocean.  Now, that former "Mouse who Roared" has demonstrated what life will be when the American experiment fails--as it will if our citizenry does not wake up.

First came the hack that revealed Sony's Most Important Files and the true thoughts of those who publicly offer fealty to all things liberal and the level of jealousy that members of the movie industry have toward one another, and then came the threat of real physical attack on anyone who would dare to show or see the movie.  While government sources weakly announced that there was "no credible threat", Sony pulled the movie before its première, and put a prohibition of any DVD release or other digital dissemination.

Still laughing at Kim?  That funny little man just successfully and completely censored what used to be the most powerful nation in the world. But now that the movers and shakers of modern nation have decided that the Founders were all wet and they know better in their humanistic hubris that believes man is the measure of all things and somehow has changed from beast to god, an exceptional America is verboten. Congratulations.  The fiasco with "The Interview" is one result of an unexceptional nation.

It is not about this stupid movie. I would not have had the least desire to see it had this Sturm und drang not occurred.

Are the corporate heads of Sony cowards?  When America was exceptional, when our way of life was defended unto death, up until about 1968 when we lost our moral compass, yes would have been the obvious answer.  But, after all, in today's world, if they had run the movie in theatres, and if someone had gotten hurt, the lawyers (my field I am often ashamed to recall) would have sued Sony for damages for the failure to protect those who freely attended to uphold the principles of their homeland. As they are now being criticized by some, including our president, who said they should have talked to him--for giving in, they would have been criticized by the very same people had they gone ahead and a terrorist attack occurred.  That's what happens when we try to pretend that our values are comparable to those of North Korea, or Russia, or Iran or any such place that considers torture an entertainment activity.

As seems to happen before every world conflagration, World War I, or World War II, Americans become complacent. Now though, we seem to remain complacent when attacked--- as if somehow we can hide in our houses when they come for someone else. Surely it won't be us.  Scary. I don't think we could get prepared for war if we had to as we did after Pearl Harbor.

Frankly, I am just as worried about the assaults on freedom of speech from within. Last night a friend brought up several subjects on the public radar. He told me that he is a socialist. Given the career that this man has had which he would NEVER have in a socialist (which usually becomes Communist) society, and given some comments that I simply could not remain silent over, I pushed back, ever so slightly, and to my shame, not as articulately as I would have liked.  He became enraged. He said "I can't talk to you."  I reminded him that he had raised a subject that I usually avoid so as not to be excoriated (I guess I am a coward too beaten verbally into submission) and that I had a right to my view. "Yes, you do," he said. But he wasn't happy about it.  He apologized later in the conversation.  He had other things on his mind as well.

 If we citizens of the United States don't believe that America is a good place, as compared with all the others as was more poignantly said I think by Winston Churchill regarding democracy itself, then we are doomed to a loss of our freedoms, every single one, squeezed from within and without.

Just so we are clear, this is




the Supreme Leader. He may look like a petulant child, but he holds the people of North Korea hostage and has reached into the lives of the American people tyrannically.

We think we are better than our forbears, not likely to fall into the same traps. But then we do.

Kim Jong-Un just mopped the floor with the "Western capitalist pigs who brought you Neighbors and This is the End."

Maybe it is the end.

Oh, I forgot, the Administration is going to respond "proportionately" to the cyber attack and presumably to the threats of terror if the movie was shown.  There is a word that begs interpretation.

Thoughts On a Saturday Afternoon

It is a shimmering day in Los Angeles, after a mammoth rain.  I got up exceedingly late, so late, I am embarrassed to say. I have a dinner engagement this evening, but up to that time, I had no plan, except to do my laundry and that reluctantly. "I Love Lucy" is playing on the television of the kids downstairs.  I am contradictorily, depressed and content. Don't know how that could be, but I'm going with it. Or: maybe I am moving out of a light depression toward contentment. Maybe praying helped, though I do that very badly, full of distraction and getting up and down.

Anyway, on the way back upstairs from my dungeon of a laundry room, walking past the slightly undulating pool and the plethora of palm trees outside on the street, in full view, I suddenly thought of my dad. But the thought was very specific:  that he had made it possible for me to have this languorous day in comfort and safety. And I realized that if he were still alive, I would likely still not be giving him credit. 

He would say, "I was right to convince you to work for the government, wasn't I?" I had wanted to give up the law entirely and become a television writer.  Or a radio host.  I wasn't an idiot. I knew I would need a job even to do either, but I also knew that once I started a legal career anywhere, I would become immersed and by default give up my dreams. And what I had seen of the "law" as mutilated by its practitioners up to that point had made me anxious and nauseous daily.

By the time he asked me one or another version of his question intended to obtain my concession to the wisdom of his not so gentle push on my psyche for practicality rather than what he perceived to be the fantastic, I had been working at the Bar as a prosecutor for well more than a decade. I would respond, "Well, we'll never know because I never allowed myself to take the chance on writing or radio.. I was afraid and I just gave in".(or some such reply). And we'd end up in an argument because while being a prosecutor at the Bar was possibly the ONLY thing I could comfortably manage, and keep a reasonably clear conscience (I found not possible as I worked for those in private practice before the Bar), it was, ultimately, 25 years of institutional and personal turmoil, the end result of which I found myself despite my consistent excellent reviews out on my ear with several other colleagues, also with consistent excellent reviews. It was a bit of an ignominious conclusion to dedication and loyalty, disposed of by those immortal words, "We're going in a different direction."

By the time that happened, Dad had been dead a bit over three years, and so I couldn't offer any "I told you so's". But here's the thing. By then and today, walking back to my apartment with my laundry, I didn't and don't want to.  By the time of the demise of my managerial state, I had worked my way up the ladder with concomitant benefits in status and pay, albeit not of the nature that one makes in big firms  (nowadays, as private organizations struggle, folks now suddenly envy the public sector with its lower pay but better benefits). I had become a good teacher and spontaneous speaker. I could survive without this job. Dad's remonstrations It about handling finances, also against which I railed, had hit their mark. I didn't want to hang up a shingle now, any more than I had when I was younger, after seeing what corners lawyers cut in order to make a dime (it is a myth that lawyers as a group make a lot of money; only a very small percentage do--the aforementioned big firms).  And the practice had become more debased by the time I was liberated from my job.

I did take some classes for voice over work, and I enjoyed it, and was good at it, but I wasn't up for paying a lot of money to professionals for the one in a million chance of making money. Maybe it is true as one teacher said that you had to have "fire in the belly" and I haven't got fire about such things anymore, having seen and heard things that suggest that even if someone has the fire, there are a lot of human machinations which get in the way, and can torpedo the aspirant. I have written a memoir, but it needs a complete revamping (I got some very good notes) and I just haven't been ready to tackle it.

The good news is that because Dad set me on a road to relative security in my dotage (assuming I don't mess it up which for a variety of reasons I worry I could), and assuming God will allow me a long life, I can still write, or try to be an extra at Central Casting.  Or I can just do my laundry without worrying where my next meal is coming from.

Either way, Dad made that possible. I am sitting on my terrace of the condo that dad bought over a weekend in 2002 and lived in for six years. It has a nice vibe this place. And somehow I credit that to him as well. Lots of pieces of him are here, photos, a diploma, a couple of maracas that he played ore than sixty years ago in the little apartment in the Bronx that looked like a night club.

The item that caught my eye as I brought in my laundry, was his mandolin.

This was the favored one.
The other has long since fallen to pieces and I had to throw it out. But this is the one that he would take up to accompany his favorite Greek, and Italian tapes.

He would be playing it now, in this very apartment, if her were here. His pipe would be in his mouth, ashes dropping to his pants, and somehow he'd manage to interpose the question again,
"Was I right about convincing you to go work for the Bar?".

Two peas in a pod that we were, equally resistant to being wrong, I would probably gripe a bit, and give him grudging credit.

But from this vantage point, today, the answer is, "Yes, you were right., dad".

I know he's heard me. He is very pleased.