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.

An Evening With Norman Lloyd

I'd love to say that I spent the evening having a little dinner and being regaled, just a few of us, by Mr. Lloyd, actor, producer, director, college of Orson Welles and John Horseman, this past Saturday. But, alas, though I was regaled, and charmed, by this entertainment legend who just reached his centenary year, I was one of a substantial crowd in the Aero Theatre in Santa Monica. I could not have him to myself to hear his stories.

In one five foot seven or so package, slightly bent, wearing a natty pair of gray pants and a double breasted blazer, is one powerhouse man of the old Hollywood industry, who for all of his age maintains a twinkle in his eye and a talent for telling tales of the 30s, 40s, 50s, 60s, 70s, 80s and even beyond. Whew!

There are two things I love about Los Angeles. The weather is a big one. The other is the existence of what used to be called the "Dream Factory".  Much of the film and television industry has emigrated to locales like Vancouver, but much still remains, and, one thing you have here is the ability to go and hear actors, writers, directors, producers talk about some of the greatest movies ever made. I have heard tales from Jack Lemmon, Shirley McClain, Janet Leigh, Charlton Heston, Elmer Bernstein, Carl Reiner, to name just a few. Every time there is both a pang of joy and a pang of potential loss, because as these folks age and die (as so many in this list already have), we can no longer hear the stories of those who were there in person. We do have archives, video, internet, audio.  That's great, but it isn't the same.

So, how did this all come about. I got an e-mail from Len Speaks and he said that Saboteur, one of Alfred Hitchcock's early American films circa 1942, (he did films in England before that) was running at the Aero, and Mr. Lloyd was going to appear and talk about his small, but seminal, first acting role, in the film. The movie starred Robert Cummings, who for some unknown reason, I never favored, though he was a fine enough actor. So, I had never seen the movie, despite my love of Hitchcock's work. But I knew of Norman Lloyd. For those who love the small screen, he was Dr. Auschlander in the long running TV show "St. Elsewhere" between 1983 and 1988. But he also produced, and directed the Alfred Hitchcock Hour and Presents. I mentioned Orson Welles. Lloyd was involved with the Mercury Theatre, you know the one that did the historic, "War of the Worlds" on radio in 1939. He called Hitchcock "Hitch".  Now, come on, that is downright cool!

As it happened I had just watched a movie in which he appeared in 1989, "Dead Poets Society" as the unyielding headmaster to Robin Williams' "Carpe Diem" English teacher, and listened to his memories of doing that movie with director Peter Weir. So, though I was feeling lazy about going out that evening, I said, "Sure."  And boy am I glad!

The man tell stories, and remember every detail, even what someone was eating during some momentary encounter. He told one story of Welles flicking expensive whiskey on his actors while they were on stage. He talked about meeting Welles many years after they had parted ways, and receiving a bear hug from the great man, as Welles said, "You son of a bitch!" with great love. 

The thing is, what I saw Saturday night was an ordinary man who did extraordinary things. As he talked I saw my dad in him. My dad would be 96 right now, so he and Mr. Lloyd shared a part of long gone time. Both were born on the East Coast, both sought out education and learned to speak and write and think well. They both went to New York University. I could imagine my dad, also an amazing raconteur, and, in his youth and even older age, having a matinee idol look, having taken a slightly different turn in his life. Dad had a chance to go into the entertainment industry. friend of his worked for NBC after the war, and offered to help dad get in there in some capacity, but dad was unsure of himself in those days, a lingering effect of his own background, and he declined. I remember thinking, "It could have been you Dad." Instead, it was Norman Lloyd with his gestures so much like my father, his love of women (when photos were being taken Mr. Lloyd was delighted to have his taken with a young woman and he beamed), and his ability to hold you in thrall over some encounter years in the past. I felt close to Mr. Lloyd and my father, at once.

The extraordinary things Norman Lloyd did are interesting to the ordinary me, a student of the entertainment industry that I once hoped to become part of as a television writer.  Like my dad, I was afraid, and chose a more certain, though not necessarily safer, occupational path, that of a lawyer. So, I admire those who took a path less well traveled, like Norman Lloyd and who have been the source of many wonderful and still lasting products of their talents and imagination.

Oh, and the movie was good too. Get it on DVD or Netflicks.

Things that Aren't Here Anymore, the Djinn Version

If you watch PBS as I do when my 400 other channels seem to be devoid of anything to watch that doesn't involve blood or sex or explosions causing either, then you might have seen the documentaries by Ralph Story, "Things That Aren't Here Anymore" and "More Things that Aren't Here Anymore" focusing on attractions, stores, celebrity haunts, family entertainment venues that were popular in the 30s, 40's, 50s, 60's and 70s in Los Angeles and its environs that are no longer part of its kitschy landscape. You know, like the Brown Derby on Wilshire Boulevard, or Tail of the Pup that used to be around La Cienega and Beverly, the Garden of Allah on the Corner of Crescent Heights and Sunset where the stars would covet and cavort with one another clandestinely. Oh, and Schwabs, also on Sunset, where Lana Turner was said to have been discovered.

I was driving along the other day and it occurred to me that since I came to Los Angeles in 1981, I too have seen many a Los Angeles venue pass on to it great reward, often to be replaced by a banal, square strip mall or banal, square apartment building named after the place it supplanted.

Speaking of Schwab's that is one of the locations that was disappearing just as I arrived in La La land.



Alas, when I saw it, it did not look like this.  It looked more like


  this and it was about to become one of those large malls, now housing movie theatres (albeit quite a good one, Sundance), and Crunch and Starbucks and the like. The stars and the crowds who followed them were long gone.

Another location, deteriorated in Dickensian fashion, was the Original Spanish Kitchen, but when Ii moved into my Fairfax District neighborhood, it still was an extant landmark.




It looked like this, decaying and the source of many a tale of its demise, for twenty years after my arrival in Los Angeles. What I heard was that the last remaining member of the original family that owned the land refused to touch it (leaving all the furniture and appurtenances exactly as it had been) after it closed abruptly in the early 1960s. Only when she died was it able to be in any way altered. There was one or more movies about the place, all speculating on what REALLY had happened (and naturally a sordid tale) to cause a successful restaurant to close overnight. Assuming any of the rumors were true, she must have died, as the space was ultimately made into a Spa. The only thing partially preserved was the sign off the top right of the picture. They kept the first three letters.

My very first experience at a trendy Los Angeles restaurant was actually several years before I moved here. It was 1977 and I had a week's vacation from law school in New York. I had not yet learned how to drive and so I was squired about by a friend (hello Dennis) who had a fellowship at USC. One of the first trips was down the 10, to the Pacific Coast Highway and then to Malibu, for dinner at the Sea Lion. If you were a fan of Johnny Carson, you might remember a skit he did on his show about a particularly bad storm that caused a wave to go right through one of those ocean view windows. That trip to Malibu was what sold me on California.  While the old Sea Lion isn't there anymore, the spot is still a trendy restaurant, Duke's, an outpost of the Honolulu Dukes. You can wave from one Duke's on this side of the Pacific to the one on Oahu.


One of my favorite things from 1981 to today remains the original Farmer's Market on Third and Fairfax. I can't say it isn't there anymore. It isn't there like it was, and while I have accustomed myself to the Grove (alas, perhaps, more than accustomed myself) that is the primary lure for tourists these days with its upscale shops and attractions, I miss the half that was razed in order to make the Grove.

 This side of the market is the site of the second parking lot and places like Maggiano's and Wood Ranch Grill. It used to house a bevy of kitschy souvenir stores, or should I say, the rest of the kitschy stores including an antique place, and truth be known the upscale David Orgell (now in Beverly Hills solely). To the right of that picture is the original Gilmore adobe, which has survived the Grove.  I was within walking distance of the Market for many years and I would go to the newsstand, buy a Hollywood Reporter (in those days I still thought I'd end up a television writer), and have a couple of slices at Patsy D'Amore. The family came from New York and so these were two pieces of New York pizza heaven.  I am no longer within walking distance, but I still go from time to time to the part that remains of the original market, which was helped financially by the existence of the Grove, buy Entertainment Weekly at the newstand and have a couple of pieces of Patsy's pizza.

I have been writing while at a volunteer job that had moments of quiet, and it's getting to that point where  have to wrap a few things up, so I pause here aware that there are so many other places to mention, that gave so much pleasure and are, in some cases, no longer available to be enjoyed by a new generation.  I will be back with my "More Things that Aren't Around Anymore."  Soon.

Lunch at the Chateau (Marmont)

Today is a rare day, even for the Djinn in retirement. After I served at Mass this afternoon, I was free to do as I wanted.  No important errands. No favor to be accomplished. No volunteer activity whatsoever.

I did pick up a tarp at the 99 cents store because we have been informed that it might rain in Southern California and I have terrace furniture to protect.  Right now, there is a significant breeze and errant rain like clouds overhead blocking the sun occasionally. So just maybe we will get the first of a rain for which California finds itself in extremis.

But a few hours ago, it was sunny and seasonable and I decided to do something I have long wanted to. I walked all of four blocks and up a hill to the Chateau Marmont and on an impulse had lunch in "The Restaurant". 

I think this comfort is a product of being at an age when I am largely invisible. I might well have been the eldest person there. And though I remain a bit of a wanna be, I am not presently vaguely in the entertainment industry. There was no one I recognized until Mark Ruffalo came handsomely breezing in, seeming like a very nice guy.

I found myself considering the look of the women. I generally don't share too much of my internal world in these pages, but heck, I am at that age now, also when frankly I realize that my internal world doesn't amount to a hill of beans in the scheme of things, so what's to hide?  I was looking to see in them what I have been told is missing in me, (and I don't quite disagree as it happens) although it might be nice if people did not feel that they have a right to make overt observations about me when I could make equally difficult observations about them I am certain they would be enraged to hear.  I was recently told that I look asexual, that I dress asexually, that I am fat (true) and that if it is true (it was my fault for saying that I wouldn't mind having a soul mate, but I meant just that a SOUL mate; I wasn't speaking of anything particularly sexual) I wanted a soul mate then I had to lose weight and go to Beverly Hills and change the way I dress. This came from a Hollywood (I mean Hollywood prime) friend who was on his way to rehab and who isn't looking his very best at the moment and my first reaction was to scream, "Are you kidding me?!" with all attendant expletives.

So, there I was looking at the women. Three in front of me, one of whom had the trendy hat, each with identical full pouty lips and ample well presented bosoms. The three men with them looked like slobs, but that seems to be the trend.  The women dress, the men wear track pants. Another woman, large, dressed baggily, even more baggily than I do ever and to whom the word asexual might apply, was with a fairly handsome man, and they seemed fully a couple. How different did I wearing a nice pair of black pants and a casual but frilly ish turquoise shirt look from them? Older to be sure, as I keep dwelling on, for I think the average age in the room was 30. What did I lack? The willingness to put my feminine self out there?  The promise of sex?  To say that there is more to life than the promise of the giving or receiving of sex is to be downright heretical in this society. There have been moments, Lord help me, that I have wondered whether I have been greatly mistaken in thinking there is more to life than that. That is the subject of someone's dissertation perhaps, but not mine, here.

By the by, though, I did not think that I fell particularly short in the looks department or the dress department among these kids. Is it possible that I am just who I am, just as I am, with positives and limitations, just like every one of the souls in this beautiful arched courtyard?

I wasn't overly preoccupied with these thoughts happily.  I had a blast in that space, two prosecos, and a chicken salad and cappuccino, without a care in the world for like an hour and a half, talking to the hostess (an army brat she said) and being well treated by Scott the waiter. No demands. No expectations.  Good enough and even better for it being as different from the life I knew in the Bronx as going to Venus might be. I paid my 45.00 plus tip bill and walked back down the hill to my West Hollywood apartment, where I tell you the tale.

This is a place I'd go back to. . .alone or with others. Surprisingly unpretentious for the attendance of the arguably pretentious or the potentially pretentious.  My neighborhood. Where Schwabs used to be. And the Garden of Allah. At the entrance to Laurel Canyon.  All in all, I am a lucky girl.

And when I came home, a message from my friend in rehab, letting me know why he had not been in touch (and talk about too much information) and reminding me that as he was getting himself together I was to do the same in terms of my, well, let's say, look. I think I might have committed myself to doing something. Well, it couldn't hurt to lose weight anyway! 

The clouds have rolled in fully. I am praying for the rain to relieve us from the drought. And thankful for a pleasant interlude before they did.

All the Small Crosses

 

The trees have been groomed these last two days courtesy of the City of West Hollywood.  This is lovely. There will be fewer hard falling fronds to dodge.

But the process was unmerciful as it combined with several other events in my living area.

Let me elaborate in my lament.

Last year, our condo redid half the building roof.  It was the only way to begin the too long put off work--which was needed even when my father lived in this apartment but minimize the already pretty steep assessment required of the homeowners. The other half had to be done, and the Board took a vote to do it now, before what they said would be a winter's El Nino. (We can only hope for that would bring the rain of which we are in dire need in California..)  For at least two days, cars would have to absent themselves from the garage so that the big truck of the roofers could be put in a spot for the removal and dumping of the old tar covering.

Meanwhile, for about the last month, a new building has been going up a few doors away, the concrete and other sundry trucks making an obstacle course amid the pounding of the ground and the yelling of the workers and the honking of the horns of distressed drivers. Meanwhile, the City decided that it was time to trim the high palm trees in the block, forbidding day parking on much of the street onto which our cars had been banished. Is that something like a hat trick in hockey?

I may be retired, but I have a variety of projects and activities that sometimes cause me a bit of stress.  I allowed myself, for example to take the lead on something for which there is turning out to be little consensus and even less approval and I see the handwriting on the wall that I am to be the bad guy, despite my intense best efforts.

So, when, yesterday, I woke up, uncharacteristically early, to thundering feet across my apartment ceiling (the thundering caused a glass cover on one of our common area lights to drop and shatter), and loud pulling and scraping of tools, combined with the thrilling sound of the as loud buzzing of tree trimming, and the usual sounds of trucks pounding through for the new building nobody in the block wanted that was forced upon the.citizenry, I was nearly beside myself with the need to escape what is usually my shoebox of solitude (it isn't big enough to be a fortress). 

While I was dressing for escape  to, as it happens, the dysfunction of my parish office where I volunteer, a friend called for advice on a subject of which I have little experience . I looked for some spot in my apartment where there was not pounding or scraping or buzzing, while I worried about getting my car out before the gate was blocked. I tried to be kind and responsive while desire to pull out my hair was overtaking me.

I am fortunate truth to tell. These are small crosses to bear. And yet, isn't it interesting that I fail to be grateful for the fact that, thus far, and I pray for the future, I am not faced with the panoply of hardships which beset friends and so much of my fellow men?  More than that I am an angry mass of loud complaint and raging woes to me!  At such moments, I find that the thing I should most do is the last thing I can imagine doing, praying. Perhaps it is the lack of a place of quiet. The disconnect within is disquieting particularly as I claim to be a member of a faith that posits the joining of suffering with the God who saved by suffering Himself.

I am not likely to change overnight and become sanguine with all the little crosses of my days.  But, as I sit here on my terrace, the orange of the sky backdrop to the darkening trees of a night to begin, and the blessed quiet of a work day ended--the buzzing and pounding is at end for the evening at least--I take in a deep cleansing breath and finally thank the Lord, whom I follow so poorly, for the beauty and peace of this moment.

Dennis Prager, Prophet

     I have been listening to Dennis Prager since 1982 when he was a radio broadcaster neophyte. My late father, a long time voracious consumer of late night talk way back to the days of Barry Farber in New York, introduced me to Dennis as "moderator" of a midnight Sunday show called "Religion on the Line".  Every week there would be a Catholic priest, a Rabbi, a Protestant pastor and, often, a representative of another faith or philosophy like Hinduism, Buddhism or Islam. They collegially discussed faith and its impact on daily life in the context of their own theologies, reflecting on the large similarities in values and distinguishing the differences in beliefs.

I am a pretty articulate person, but from the moment I heard Dennis, facilitating and questioning and yes, pontificating based on his broad education and, though he was then young and arguably inexperienced, I found myself wishing I could frame my thoughts as concisely and forcefully as he did. This was a contemporary (we are roughly the same age; as Dennis was starting his work in Los Angeles, like me a New York transplant, I was beginning a West Coast legal career that led to my becoming a prosecutor at the State Bar in 1986, which lasted 25 years) I could admire and emulate.

I looked forward to hearing Dennis before I went to sleep as much as watching the night time soap opera "Dallas". Now there is an irony.

Dennis always speaks something I have felt but could not frame at the moment of my experience. In a world in which I largely feel gaslighted by the public discourse and the demands of political correctness, he confirms that I am not in fact crazy to believe and think as I do on a variety of subjects.

He is passionate without ever becoming angry or nasty with those who disagree with him. That is a rarity with radio personalities of the left or the right. He doesn't demean the one with whom he disagrees. His motto is that he seeks clarity rather than agreement.

It is that clarity of thought in a world of psychological and verbal jumble that, to me, makes Mr. Prayer a prophet.  Today people think of prophets as augurs, like the people in those storefronts reading tarot cards and crystals.  No, this is like the men (alas, yes, they were mostly men, sorry political correct tyrants; there are a few women today who might qualify as prophets thought) of the Pentateuch who simply were able to sift from the forgive the word, "crap", of the societies in which they lived and find objective truth and try to warn the people of that truth in order to save their very souls. The men of old stood in the desert and shouted to the deaf. Dennis sits at a microphone and stands at podiums, and quietly proclaims and responds to questions of the thoughtful and the less than thoughtful, assuring those of us who usually feel at sea in the world that we are not, in fact, in need of a straitjacket, and keeping the truths of God and man and republic in circulation. A voice in the wilderness he is. 

There are many wonderful commentators on talk radio. But I can truthfully say that if Dennis were not on the air I would be bereft and might not even listen any longer. I would have to be satisfied with my reading only, for even my Church (I am a Catholic) is a victim of confusion and the preaching is geared to avoid offense. I haven't heard a single preaching on abortion since my former pastor retired (he has since died). Dogma and practice seem to be completely divergent. Dennis, my Jewish cousin, keeps me on track even theologically. 


It is rare for me to say that I wish I personally knew a "celebrity" (yes, Dennis you are a celebrity, a cerebral celebrity), but I would be honored, delighted to share a meal with Mr. Prager.

I live in California, in Los Angeles.  Dennis helps me to know that I am not alone. And that I should not despair.