43 Years and Counting (Every Second)

I remember little of that day, mainly of my soon to be mother in law fixing my tie right before I walked down the aisle. Even then I was not a capable person.

The years since just happened. No grand plan, merely two people doing what needed to be done. Strike that, one person doing and the other, well, something far less.

I sent my wife an email yesterday, setting out the number of years, months, days, hours, minutes and seconds since we exchanged I do's. I promised her that, if there was a God, her perseverance would be rewarded. But with her luck, who knows.

For those of you who continue to insist my inability is but performance art, that no one seemingly uncompromised person could possibly suffer such grave incapacity, I have one word in response: really?

I am what I am, or more accurately what I am not. 

And that means that most everything you can think of, I can't. Name a task. No, I can't perform that one. Try something simpler. No, even simpler. Still beyond my ken.

And through it all, stands my wife.  In some ways imperfect, for no one is without blemish. But in her willingness to shoulder the burden known as me for well over four decades, to perform the high wire act of life with no net, to get up each morning ready, willing and able to take on virtually every conceivable role of two people, she has been breathtaking.

I owe my wife much more than I have given her, much more than I will ever give her. But I am thankful every day that she has found the strength to persist in this endeavor, that she is willing to find adequate cause to carry on with a partner such as me.

I love her and my wish for her is that there is in fact a benevolent God.

43 years and counting.

The West Wing

This is so depressing. I am not sure how much more of this I can take.

Watching the President, day after day. Hearing him speak. Following the stated logic of his decisions. It is enough to make me cry.

Of course, I am talking about binge watching " The West Wing." Jed Bartlet, and those in his inner circle, all filled with insight, compassion, wit and searing intelligence. 

This is one of the casualties of the pandemic. Having run through a number of current or recent series in a desperate attempt to avoid anything resembling a show discussing either Donald Trump or Covid 19, I bumped into The West Wing while scrolling through the options which lay before me. It was something I occasionally brushed up against during its long run. I recalled it as a brilliant piece of writing. So why not now dip my toe into the water. What a mistake.

I am now 17 episodes into season one. Only another 139 before the swan song in season seven. I don't know how I will survive seeing a fictional government run so well.

Actually, we now have a fictional government in this country. No functioning Congress, members of the administration whose sole task seems to be to shine the President's shoes, a leader whose moral compass was lost at birth, whose lack of intelligence gushes forth every time his mouth operates, whose prejudices would have made Jane Austen put down her pen, whose errant conclusions outweigh the good ones by infinity to some figure less than zero, whose large fanny is the only way in which he fills the seat in the Oval Office. This is the antithesis of what The West Wing would suggest we are or at least what we can be.

The Bartlet family, at least in season one, ranks even above the Obama's I think. Well, maybe it is a tie. And then I focus on the Trump boys, on his favorite daughter and I get very sad.

There is no Fox News in this universe, at least not yet. There is hardly an internet. No cell phones acting as full on computers. No tweets. A President careful with his words. 

Maybe in the episodes to come everyone will get a little stupider, a little uglier in ways that will make me less uncomfortable with what I have to face each morning when I awake.

Maybe President Bartlet will consort with bad women, bad leaders, bad people. Maybe he will allow a virulent disease to run wild because he doesn't like how he looks in a mask. Maybe he will build a Wall, or tell immigrants from around the globe not to bother coming here. Maybe he will forget how to speak in coherent sentences or form a thought not fed to him by someone on his TV screen. Maybe he will become addicted to golf.

I can only hope so because this Jed Bartlet makes me want to hide under the covers for the next 104 days (and, God forbid, for another four years after that).

Does a Bear Poop in the Woods?

Does a bear poop in the woods? I am no longer unequivocal in my answer.

I spent a lifetime on this planet never having seen a bear up close and personal. Now I half expect one to pull up a chair next to me for breakfast.

Something strange is happening here. Not just the same "strange" that is impacting our entire planet, but the mystery of why bears seem to be showing up more frequently than deer on the streets in my neighborhood.

Yesterday, on a hike with family, my son noticed something moving in a field. It was not more than an ear sticking up at first, but soon it rose to full height. Maybe a month ago, this would have registered as an earthquake for me. Now it barely moved the needle.

I don't want to sound cavalier or dismissive of the danger, for these are not household pets. No matter how docile they seem, how much they appear to be more afraid of me than I am of them, I can't let my guard down the next sighting.

This was the sixth time I crossed paths with a bear in recent days. Twice within yards of us on our property, once crossing in front of me as I drove on local streets, once as I took an afternoon stroll, another time as I travelled on the highway and then yesterday's encounter, really the first where I could say that a bear does still likely poop in the woods.

I am sure there are explanations for this phenomenon. A late spring, an early summer. Too much rain in April. Too little rain in May. More garbage in each of our trash cans as we eat at home much more than before. Less garbage in the woods as we stayed put during all this weeks.

But whatever the reason, the result is astounding. A number of years ago I was hiking in a location where bears and moose were known to proliferate. I had been taught to react differently depending on which animal I encountered. I wondered what I would do if I ran into both at the same time. 

I saw neither during that time when I half expected I might. But until recent days, I never imagined bears might become a regular visitor to my world. Now I think they need to put "bear crossing" signs on every street corner.

Death, taxes and the answer to "does a bear poop in the woods" were the only certainties in this existence. But from here on, I will have to check the bottom of my shoes as I walk through town before I know whether or not the list is reduced to two.

Hiatus

It is funny how life sometimes gets in the way. I have not written to all of you in a while because:

1. My law practice started to get busier ( thank goodness) and thus my focus has been somewhat shifted
2. I began to sleep later ( to about 6 AM from 5AM)
3. My daughter returned home, and our computer was moved into the 'master' bedroom ( meaning I run the risk of awakening my bride from her slumber by my composing)
4. The Yankees have been uniformly unexciting.
5. The democratic nomination process has worn me out.
6. My fervor for writing these pieces has, for the moment, been slightly diminished.

Thus, to steal a quote, in case you were wondering, the reports of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. I hope to come back to you in the near future, stronger and better than ever. In the meantime, I guess you will have to look for other ways to fill up the few minutes in your day that you have been devoting to reading my mental meanderings.

I am signing out, but not signing off.

Reflections

Yesterday, I attended a funeral of the mother of a close friend of mine. She was 95 years old and had lived a long and seemingly happy life. My friend eulogized his mom in a simple and understated manner. He made her appear no more, and certainly no less , than a loving mom , grandmother and great-grandmother. Her life was filled in the small moments. I was struck by the simplicity of the speech and of the things that people remembered and cherished.

Afterwards, my friend and I spoke for a moment. After discussing his loss, my friend said that he had struggled to write the speech, and that it had taken him 3 days to gather his thoughts. He said that he wished that I had written the eulogy for him, as it seemed that it was easy for me to put together what I hoped to impart to others. While I was most grateful for his praise, I told him that I believed his speech needed no editing. However, the comments my friend made did get me to start contemplating the way that I believe people would most hope to be remembered after they have passed on.

I think back to my Dad, who is now gone almost 30 years. Not a day goes by that I don't regret that he is no longer here. I envision life for my Mom, with my Dad right up to the present. I see him involved in the lives of my sister and myself and our families. All my thoughts are of a man focused not on the greatness of himself but only on sharing his goodness with others. It is his goodness, not his greatness, that is implanted in my brain and in my heart.

I believe that my father was a great man in his accomplishments. He was an all- American fencer, a graduate of law school ( first in his class ) at age 21, an extremely intelligent and successful lawyer, and an athlete of note. But accomplishments are only accomplishments. They are not what we are , they are only what we have done.

What made my father a good man was the respect with which he treated life. He did not take his good fortune for granted and seemed to be imbued with the qualities that emanate from one who appreciates that he has given an opportunity to enjoy all the benefits that family and profession provided . There was a modesty about him , and a genuineness in his personna. There was no hint of ego in his manner. There was no bluster and no pretense. My dad had been given many gifts and he understood this.

I felt that my dad treated all others with courtesy and dignity. No one deserved to be looked on as anything but an equal. I believe that this formed a core for him, and allowed me , through his eyes, to see the value in all others. I find myself writing these days about the serendipity of my being given the privileges that I have enjoyed. I know that there but for the grace... It is a lesson I learned from a good and great man.

None of us knows when fortune will shine on us, or when it will turn its eye in another direction. However, as my friend's mom and my dad well knew, the riches we have are ours irrespective of our wealth.

The Perfect Foursome

It has been 9 years since this has happened. While it is an occasion that has been little noticed by the rest of the world, and has no impact on the daily lives of those of you reading this, it is of monumental import to me. If you had asked me 9 years ago of the possibility of this day coming to pass, the words remote and non-existent would have been the most likely ones I would have uttered. As of last evening, and at least for the next several months, both of our children will be living at home.

I had always told myself, and anyone who would listen, that I did not care where my children ended up residing. If they were happy and healthy, then whatever suited them was perfectly fine with me. Intellectually, that is exactly what I believe. We all want our children to be living productive and well adjusted existences. Where this happens is much less important then the fact that it occurs..

We live in an age where communication through the internet, by cell phones and by a myriad of other methods means we can be in touch with others at a moment's notice. Air travel affords us the opportunity to feel like we are not as far apart as the miles would suggest. The world is a smaller place and there is an intimacy to long distance relationships that grows stronger with each technological advance.

Alex has been living out in Utah for the last 6 months. We went out to visit her on 3 occasions.She was fine, well adjusted, and enjoying an unusual and remarkable time in her life. It was great visiting with her and always a little sad for me when we parted. Yet, I never felt like it was anything but the right place for Alex to be spending her time.

When she went out to Utah, she had no specific plans for her return to the East Coast. We spoke about the possibility of her coming back for graduate school, but it was just a discussion, and by no means a certainty. As events unfolded, the next chapter of her life will take place in NY, beginning in the fall, as she starts a Masters program in the city.

So, in the middle of last week, Joanne boarded a plane and headed out to Park City. Alex had finished her job at Deer Valley ski school. The day after Jo's arrival in Utah, she and Alex began a cross country journey in the same Subaru Forester that had taken Richie across the country to Berkeley in 2003 for his Master's program. That car had also been responsible for bringing Richie back to NJ after an illness prevented him from completing his program. Richie remains with us and still struggles to regain his energy and strength.

The Forester had travelled back out West with Alex this fall, and was now ready for its second long journey back to NJ. Alex and Jo, 2 women on a mission, were able to navigate the 2100 mile trip in 3 days. Last evening, at about 8:30, we were reunited as a family living under one roof.

All my intellectualizing the benefits of my children being on their own went out the window the moment we were once more a foursome. I know I should be at a point in my life where I find the pleasures of grandparenting to be more appropriate then being a reconstituted parent. But I have always been and will always be, one who finds the most joy in my life in times I share with my children and my wife beside me. I was the type of overindulgent parent who brought breakfast up to my children in bed before they went off to school in the mornings ( I know, I know). I always sent them off on their daily adventures in life with 'have a good day and a fun day'. When the kids went off to college and graduate school, that phrase was how all my communications with them ended.

With both Richie and Alex safely tucked in their beds last night, I stopped to think about the strange places life takes us. I do not know what tomorrow may bring, but I do know one thing for certain. If my kids ask, I will still bring them breakfast in bed, and I will still use my sign off to them as I head to my day at work. Welcome home Alex. Thanks for giving Jo and me the privilege of taking care of both of our children again. It is a good day and a fun day.

50

Not my age, but the number of posts on my blog. I actually have written 52 pieces since I started this exercise, but I have withheld one as I believe it too personal ( I know that is hard to believe, given what I have revealed) and another I have removed as I felt it might have struck a discordant note with one reader, and was not worth my risking that response.

What have you learned about me? You must have formulated some opinions if you have been one of the consistent readers of this blog. I actually am aware of how many people look at this blog on any given day. I don't know who you are, but I do have some idea as to repetition of visitors to the site, as well as new visitors. I know that some of you do make viewing of my pieces a part of your day. So what insights have you gathered as to the workings of my mind?

I find it interesting that I have revealed as much of myself as I have through the pages. Whether this is good or bad is up to you to decide. But it is clear that there is much of me that is open to public view. This may be my form of a psychiatrist's couch, but without the expense. You all serve as the collective doctor. You should analyze me and tell me as to the state of my mental health.

What parts of me ( mentally, not physically) still remain hidden in your estimation? If there were to be 50 more essays, where should they head? If you were directing the blog, what topics would you want to see discussed? Are my personal recollections of most interest, or entertainment value? Are my political ramblings of any merit? Are my observations of the human condition worthy of print?

I am sure I will go on posting my thoughts as they come to the forefront of my mind. They will undoubtedly cover the range of areas that I have touched upon in my first 50 pieces. I am hopeful that there may be a topic that captures me and carries me with it on a longer journey then just one short essay. I don't know if I even have the capacity within me as a writer to take such a journey, but I hope to get the opportunity to find out.

I am asking you to give me your insights and observations about me. You are reading this now and must have some thoughts in your mind about what you have read over the last 2 months. Have you thought that this is nothing but a narcissistic exercise? Do you believe that it has touched you or in any way made you think differently, or at least more closely, about any of the topics discussed? Has it changed your opinion of me, or of yourself?

I don't know if I am a different person from the one who sat down to write about Roger Clemens and Congress back in March of this year. I do know that I am enjoying the time spent in front of the computer screen trying to make my thoughts known to someone other than myself. In the long run, maybe the exercise of my brain is the real answer. Maybe what I have to say is less important than merely that I have created a discipline for myself in which I must address in a structured manner the issues that are taking up space in my head.

So, I take my leave of you now and head off to the rest of my day. I wonder if 100 is a possibility . I wonder if anyone cares.

Size Matters

I am 5 foot 7 inches on a good day. I wear size 8 shoes and my hands are pretty small. I am Jewish. But has every spammer in the world been discussing my shortcomings? Have they been getting into bed with me at night? Is there a candid camera hidden in the walls? How else can you explain the constant reminders to me that my private parts need enlarging?

It was bad enough when the information as to the sure fire ways to a bigger and better me first started getting through on the computer. I could laugh it off and believe that it was random selection and not focused attention. But when the onslaught continues on a daily basis and the message is repeated that I am less of a man that I can and should be, well I just don't know. Can 10,000 people, all delivering the same message,be mistaken? Am I really in need of expanding my horizons when it comes to expanding myself? Should I consider taking membership in the member club?

Recently, I was in my doctor's office (Frank, whom I sure you remember from some of my posts about other not so private matters). While I was waiting to be poked and prodded (don't get any ideas), I read an article that Frank had written about whether enlargement procedures were really effective. The conclusion, happily, was that these procedures are not worth the effort. I say happily, because if the issue ever 'arises' I can point to the article as proof positive that what you see is all that you are ever going to get.

The onslaught is endless. While filters and blockers and whatever other techniques are utilized to direct the mail, the messages keep coming. While almost all of it ends up in my spam folder, the sheer volume of what must be placed on the internet is staggering. There must only be a few men in the world fully confident in their manhood judging by the constant reminders I receive. How many men do you think really get these notices and say to themselves, I wonder why I didn't think of that sooner?

I don't mean to be grotesque (don't go there). I am just saying that I wish there were as many notices to me on how to cure my putting woes as there are on how to cure my putter. If I am having difficulty as I always seem to veer off to the left, I would like them to be talking about ways to straighten out my swing, and not how to straighten me out. I would love to receive an onslaught of PG rated mail that was directed at improving myself instead of improving myself. I want to be getting notices about applying for memberships in golf clubs and not about membership to improve my club.

I think I could go on forever with comments that amuse me, if no one else. But the point is that these notices have long since stopped being funny. After a while they became annoying and have since moved many more levels up the food chain of disgust. I am tired of being reminded of my inadequacies and I want them to stop. I only wish there was a way of getting the home e-mail address of every person in every business who tells me every day that I am not a real man. I would be happy to enter into a philosophical discourse with each one of them on the issue. Short and pointed would have a very different meaning on that day

But until that day comes to pass, I must suffer the slings and arrows reminding me of what I am missing. With age, it seems like our feet swell a little and our shoe size creeps up. If this continues, by the time I am 90 I can proudly announce I am wearing size 11 shoes. When that day arrives, maybe the notices will stop.

Uncomfortable Moments Update

I left you about 4 months ago having just received a phone call from my doctor telling me that the test results of my prostate biopsy were fine but that I would have to come back to him in about 3 months for a follow up visit. I did not heed my own advice to lose his phone number and address.

Several weeks ago I went back to Frank's office. Blood was taken to see if my PSA levels had gone down from the time of the first go round. I was feeling fine, and was certainly hopeful that I would get the good news I wanted. I had to wait a week for the results.

I was also, at this visit, scheduled to have a minor growth removed by Frank. Modesty prevents me from discussing any of the specifics relating to the whereabouts of the offending mole. With little mental preparation, I lay down on the 'operating table' and was shown, from a camera being projected onto a screen, the site where the work was to be done. I had absolutely no interest in watching the proceedings and suggested that the screen be used for me to watch a replay of the Yankee game from the night before.

After receiving a series of local injections, the dicing, slicing and splicing began in earnest. For several minutes, small pieces of me were taken away and deposited into receptacles, to be analyzed. Once this process was complete, and the offending parts removed, the stitching commenced. You would have thought there was a crater being sewn up from the number of stitches utilized. I would think my head and my feet were being tied together for this much work to be necessary.

Finally, the work was completed and I was sent home, to deal with my physical and emotional wounds, and to wait for the results of the blood test.

When Frank called the following week , he said that the growth was benign, as expected. However, the results of the blood test on the PSA levels were not as hoped for, which meant that I would have to go through round 2 of the biopsy . Frank said there was no rush, but I decided to do the procedure as soon as possible (last Friday).

The time waiting to go in for the procedure was painful on several levels. The recovery from the minor surgery was not as minor as I would have expected. I was not able to move about freely and had some level of discomfort. I also was envisioning my upcoming reunion with Frank and the instruments of torture.

The day finally arrived and the biopsy itself went very well. I guess, because I had been through it before, I was slightly more relaxed. Frank reported that I was not quite the tight ass I was the first time, and thus his work was a little easier. After viewing the pictures he had taken, Frank stated that the medication I had been ingesting the last 3 months seemed to be doing its job on the prostate. Yet, I would have to wait another week to get definitive answers.

Tomorrow would be one week from the biopsy. That also happens to be my birthday. By this morning, I decided to try to get an accelerated answer. I did not want to spend my birthday waiting to hear news I didn't want to hear. I called Frank's office, advised them of my birthday, and asked if there was any way they could try to get the results to me today. They said they would do what they could.

About an hour later, I picked up the phone. It was Frank, singing happy birthday to me. It was the best rendition I had ever heard. He then gave me the good news, and told me to stay the course with my medication, to try to fight off what appears to be no more than a stubborn infection. I am to repeat the song and dance with him in another 3 months.

I have 2 friends who are battling cancer. One has been sick for a while, and has handled his struggles with amazing grace and dignity. He is forever positive and is always upbeat in our conversations. When we speak, he is more concerned with talking about my issues or my son's efforts to get back to good health, then he is about focusing on himself.

The other friend has been recently diagnosed. He has avoided doctors studiously for almost 15 years until his health demanded his attention. He went to the doctors and was then rushed by ambulance to the hospital, where he spent 13 days. He had surgery done, and is hopefully on the way to a full and speedy recovery. Like my other friend, he speaks little of his own condition but deflects attention onto others.

It is not easy to face up to our mortality. These past few months have given me a small window into what waits for all of us.While I watch my friends deal with harsh realities in courageous fashion, I don't know if I would have the inner fortitude that they have shown. I hope it is many years from now before I have to find the answer to that question.

In the meantime, I will follow the doctor's orders and take my medication every morning. I don't want to have to be reporting to you , after my next visit, about round 3 of my biopsy battles. I would rather be reporting on the battles between McCain and Obama or the Yankees and the Red Sox. Until then, I will keep my fingers crossed and hope that any future 'contact' with Frank is just verbal.

Mix and Match Update

In a highly anticipated and much discussed contest, John McEnroe and Brett Kaplan squared off yesterday in a battle of legends. Kaplan admitted to nerves affecting his early performance, as he was broken in his first service game. After McEnroe held serve, the combatants traded victories in what was becoming a very evenly played match. Kaplan spoke of his belief that he was McEnroe's equal from the baseline throughout the set, but that he had trouble dealing with the lefthander's big kick on his second serve.

McEnroe eventually was able to prevail 6 games to 2. When a second set was discussed, McEnroe talked of his back tightening up. While we cannot be certain of the accuracy of this assessment, our conjecture matters not. After McEnroe's voicing of physical concerns, the players shook hands, and walked off the court. The question hangs in the air as to whether Kaplan's performance in the first set had buoyed his confidence to the point where he could take the better of the former number 1 player in the world.

We will probably never get the opportunity for a demonstrative answer. While the public (me) is clamoring for a rematch, there is evidently no talk of a regular Saturday game.

Great Barrington

When winter starts to fade, and the temperature begins to rise, I try to begin most weekend mornings with a walk for the paper. It is about a mile to the store. I walk past the heart of the main street of town. It is filled with restaurants, clothing stores, shoe stores, record shops and many other small businesses. On most weekends, it is busy in this part of town.

My journey then takes me past banks, churches and into a commercial part of town that has seen better days. Several buildings have no tenants, some places are in great disrepair. Ceilings have come down, leaving exposed insulation on the floor. It is an area that has long ago been forgotten and left to rot .

I walk past several small shops that have somehow survived the difficulties here to stay and fight another day. I finally reach my destination. It is a convenience store/gas station. The men and women behind the counter show the signs of hard lives. You can read the struggles in their faces. I greet them, sometimes enter into small conversations of no import, buy the paper, and then start my walk in reverse. I am in Great Barrington and this is my home.

My wife was always concerned that I would never be able to calm my senses enough to get comfortable with the cadence of a town like this. Living outside of New York City, in a part of the world that does not find slow in its vocabulary, I have been told that I don't know how to relax. While I may, to many, seem an affable , take it easy kind of guy, I have never been able to do nothing very well. I eat quickly, I play golf quickly, and when I am not doing something, I think I should be. So, you can see why a somewhat sleepy New England town might not be what I had in mind as the perfect getaway. But, it is.

We were lucky enough to be able to buy an apartment here last spring. Since then, I eagerly await each trip as it seems to me a vacation of the body and the mind. On weekend mornings in the Berkshires, we have been taking long walks with several close friends. It has become our new old tradition. At our appointed hour, we all emerge from our homes, and begin our trek. Up and down the hills, we converse about the events of our week, we talk of the housing market and whether there are bargains to be had in Great Barrington, we look at the beauty of the scenery, walk past the local lake and soak up the company and the surroundings.

On summer afternoons, there is a gathering of many of the apartment complex residents by the pool. There are 20 units here and most are occupied by people who are in the latter part of their lives. The area next to the pool is shaded by many large trees. Thus, when the heat of the day begins to fade, chairs are placed in a circle, and the crowd begins to fill in. With drinks in hand, they sit around and chat. It is a time of friendship and it is filled with comfort and good cheer.

This is a place where you can block out some of the distractions of the rest of your world. We all face the concerns of our businesses, our children's lives, our parent's lives, and the myriad other matters that take up much of our waking thoughts. But, there is a sense of calm and serenity that attaches to my life in Great Barrington. The issues that are so critical become just a little less pressing. The dilemmas I have to face will be still be there tomorrow , but today they are on hold.

The hours pass and day turns into night in my home in the Berkshires. If we have plans with friends, if we find ourself at Tanglewood, or at a local theatre, or if we are just hanging out, it is all good. I find that I don't have to map out a day of events to fill my plate. It is enough for me to just be here. It is a quiet time , a time for relaxation. As much as I never thought I would say it, I believes it suits me just fine.

Mix and Match

Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia, gives us 23 pages of the history and accomplishments of John McEnroe. McEnroe participated in 24 Grand Slam finals, winning 17 . He was a 3 time singles champion at Wimbledon, a 4 time singles champion at the US Open, a 9 times doubles champion in Grand Slam events and even a winner in a mixed doubles Slam. His epic battles with Bjorn Borg filled our screens and captured our undivided attention. His temper was legendary. He could infuriate us as he sometimes appeared nothing more than a brat, but as an elder statesman of the game he grew on most of us. John McEnroe will turn 50 next February.

Brett Kaplan graduated from Horace Mann and went on to Emory University.He was a tennis player of renown, albeit in a division 3 school. Second singles in his first college year, he was elevated to the first position his last 3 seasons. He was most valuable player on the team his junior and senior years, and garnered all-American division 3 honors in all 4 years of a stellar college career. He has since gone on to success in the business world. Most of his trophies from his days as a tennis star sit in his childhood bedroom.. Brett Kaplan is 29 years old and is my nephew.

This Sunday, McEnroe and Kaplan will square off in a match which I have been eagerly anticipating for many months. Brett is a member of the same New York tennis club as McEnroe. Months ago, Brett was able to work his way through some stiff competition at the club to win its annual championship. The prize for capturing the tournament was more than a pat on the back and a handshake. It was an opportunity to step onto the court against John McEnroe and compete against him.

This seemed to be a big deal for almost no one , except me. For the rest of the world, it was nothing more than a footnote. For McEnroe, and even my nephew, it was an afterthought. Time passed., while business matters, injuries and more pressing issues kept the match from moving forward.

I received a call from my nephew earlier this week. In the course of our conversation, he casually mentioned that he was finally going to be playing McEnroe this Sunday. No discussion of strategy ensued. After a few seconds, the topic of our talk turned to more mundane matters such as his mother's upcoming birthday party and preparations being made for this occasion. When I spoke to his mother ( my sister ) later that day, she said she didn't even know the match was happening.

As Sunday draws nearer, I wonder if Brett is even thinking about how best to attack McEnroe's game. As McEnroe is reaching the half century mark, it would probably help to drop shot him some. Make him move, tire him out. Get him going corner to corner, and make the rallies last until McEnroe can take no more. Brett's youth and vitality should help him scale the mountain.

While my nephew is probably more concerned with whether he has to pick up bagels before of after the match, my mind is focused on the image of Brett readying himself to serve to McEnroe for the first time. In my head, I hear the announcer calling out, " from New York City , New York, former All American at Emory University, Brett Kaplan". Go get him Brett.

Paths

I grew up the son of a lawyer . I loved and admired my father. I always thought there could be no better way to spend my career then sitting at my father's side. I would learn from him, and eventually, to the best of my ability, become what he was in his professional life. I never really got the opportunity to see that vision become reality.

My dad got sick in 1977, which was the year I became a lawyer. I spent the first year of my professional career employed as a law clerk in Bergen County. For one year, I listened to nothing but divorce cases. I absorbed what I could and moved on. I did not intend to,or see myself, devoting a good part of my future life in the pursuit of the best resolution of marital disputes.

When I went to work with my Dad in 1978, he was already in serious decline. He was no longer taking on new matters, and was unable to devote the time and energy to the practice that had been the cornerstone of his career. I was watching my Dad in a diminished capacity. Neither one of us was able to get the pleasure out of the experience that we longed for.

My Dad passed away in 1979. Unable to take over a sophisticated New York based real estate practice, I found myself marketing my only skill. I soon became a divorce lawyer. Over the next 15 years , most of my professional life consisted of listening to and trying to calm down, agitated and aggravated men and women. Wronged by their spouse, and uncertain of a system they did not understand and never intended to be part of, they were for the most part, polite to me and totally unhappy to be having to deal with me. I was an unnecessary necessity.

Slowly, the focus of my professional life began to shift. The real estate market in the latter part of the 1990's was booming. Opportunities seemed to abound in every direction. People were becoming brokers and doing nothing but listing properties. Many who had spent a lifetime trying to save a few dollars, now saw their net worth escalating by the hour. There was work for everyone in this exploding market, including me.

Over the succeeding years, I was able to move further and further away from my former career path. I found myself involved in many complex and sophisticated real estate transactions. I was actually moving closer to the vision of my professional life that I had contemplated in the 1970's. But the problem that I now began to encounter, with increasing frequency, was that the personality and psyche of my client base was not vastly different from those of the matrimonial clients. As the excesses in the market led to bad decisions and severe consequences, I too often found myself listening to and trying to calm down agitated and aggravated men and women. Wronged by a bad business partner, and uncertain of a system that they did not understand and never intended to be a part of, they were , for the most part, polite to me and totally unhappy to be having to deal with me. I was an unnecessary necessity.

So I now sit here and wonder where my professional life is headed. There are paths that I have gone down which were totally unintended. There has been a repetitive pattern to my professional existence that I could not possibly have envisioned. I have started doing daily postings on my blog, with no hope or expectation that it will lead anywhere. But if I have learned anything over the years it is that I cannot envision my future. I am going along for the ride and I can do no more , and no less, than go where it takes.me.

One

What makes me different from the 28 million Americans receiving food stamps or from the mother wondering whether to feed OR clothe her children?How am I different from the 1 in 10 African American males in our jails, or from their families that worry each night what the next day will bring? Why am I different from the 47 million Americans who have no health insurance and fear that injury or illness will wipe them out completely?

Am I any different from the woman in Darfur who has somehow survived this long and wonders why the world hasn't come to her rescue, or from the Tibetan monk who fears the ultimate reprisal for having questioned the authority of the Chinese to repress him, or from the villager in Africa who has seen his whole village systematically wiped out by the AIDS virus and who feels the loss in the deepest recesses of his soul? Am I any different?

Because I am able to sit here and write this essay on a clean sheet of paper, under bright lights, feeling warm and sitting in a comfortable chair, does that make me any different? Because I drive the right car, to the right places, does that make me any different? Because I have and they do not, does that make me any different?

If they are cut, why shouldn't I bleed? If they are hit, why shouldn't I fall? If they are scared, why shouldn't I tremble? If they are hungry, why shouldn't I be too? If they suffer, why shouldn't I know it and feel it?

If these questions aren't asked, then where is the future? If we remain in isolation in our own little world, where is the progress? If we don't have one mind and one heartbeat, then where will this lead us? If we never think as one, then what have we done?

Transformers

He wore a dashiki, a traditional African tribal shirt. It was bold, bright and beautiful. He was a bear of a man, with shock of blond hair. Well over 6 feet tall and weighing close to 250 pounds, he was an imposing figure. His voice was big. His laugh was bigger. He was hard to miss.

I wore a dark turtleneck and an even darker sweater. I stood at least 8 inches smaller and weighed a 100 pounds less than he did. I was bald, with barely any eyebrows, hardly any upper lip, and glasses that helped compensate for amazingly bad eyesight. We were in stark contrast.

We sat across the table from one another. We had come together as a group to celebrate the end of the ski season. We were old and older. The colors of our clothing, and the size of our personalities, were for the most part subdued. With one very large exception, it was a quiet gathering.

Then the oddest thing happened. For really no good reason, I asked the large man across from me to take off his shirt. Knowing he had a white turtleneck underneath, I did not concern myself that there would be the sight of a topless hulk parading around the room . With no question, and no hesitation, the dashiki was removed and handed over . I reached for it, and began to put it on. Like a rock star about to emerge, I saw the crowd get to its feet as one . A startling amount of interest seemed to engulf the room in what was about to transpire. As I put the shirt on, it soon enveloped my body. Feeling for something in the breast pocket, I found a pair of sunglasses that were large enough to fit over my glasses with room to spare. The sunglasses were very dark, and gave me the appearance, so I later heard, of Jack Nicholson.

I suddenly felt like Jim Carrey in the Mask. I became Danny Devito to Arnold Schwarzenegger in Twins. I began to have an out of body experience. My voice suddenly boomed. My laugh filled the room. The crowd , buoyed by the sight before it., became alive. Cameras started to click. People started to move towards me. I was someone, and something, entirely different.

But, as quickly as it occurred, it ended. Having been the center of attention for too long, I slid the shirt over my head, took the sunglasses off, and became Clark Kent again. My moment in the spotllight having faded, I sat back in my seat and resumed my old persona.

Yet , I know that somewhere deep inside of me is a big man, with a big voice and a big laugh. It may be hiding , but, having seen it for at least a moment, I believe it is with me forever. Next year there is talk of everyone coming to the gathering in dashiki and sunglasses. There is a part of us that rarely if ever sees the light of day that is asking for its time to shine. Move over big guy, you may soon have a lot of company.

The Two of Us

Dialogue. Discourse. Discussion. Interaction. Give and take. Yin and Yang. Pitcher and catcher. This is not supposed to be Penn and Teller.

Unfortunately and unquestionably, I am writing to you, in part, to stroke my ego. There can be no doubt that I am hoping to elicit tributes. A hidden talent, a burgeoning star, a part of you that lay dormant but is now in full bloom. I will accept any and all of these comments with much thanks and great glee. But, that is not really the purpose of this exercise. It is not really what this is intended to accomplish. What I hope these pieces bring forth are thoughts, good and bad , about the content of what is being said. To get you thinking, and reacting, to be part of an interactive experience, that is where this should be taking all of us.

So far, I would say it has been an abysmal failure. Apart from my lovely daughter, who is taking it upon herself to read and respond, the silence has been overwhelming. There have been a few e-mails of one or two sentences, giving cryptic praise and not much else. While all donations to my sense of value as a writer are gratefully accepted, tell me what it is that you think about the pieces you read. More importantly, tell everyone else who might find themselves drawn to these essays. Not everyone is going to agree with my beliefs. It is a given that I do not have the copyright on what the world is, or should be like. My opinions are my opinions, and nothing else. I am naive and unschooled in almost every topic I have discussed. The political essays are full of sound and fury, but I need to learn if they signify anything to all of you.

The personal recollections are the experiences we all have shared in one form or another. I have heard from my one avid fan ( it is good to have groupies) who has been particularly affected by one of the pieces, recalling a similar moment in his life. It is those feelings that I would ask that you put forth on the page. Don't be afraid to write . I am not, for better or for worse. If we can all join in this exercise together, it can become a collective activity. You can wake up in the morning, and become a writer. You can help make this something more than my rants and raves. This can become a living, breathing ,growing being. You can make this come alive.

If this doesn't happen, so be it. Everyone is busy, has their own agenda, and may have neither the time or energy to get involved in my fantasy. I may have unreasonable expectations. I may bring forth nothing from my ramblings. You may not get to this until late at night, or maybe this is sensory overload. Much is happening in everyone's day. What is critical to my life is not in yours. But , if you are at all drawn to what I say, and what I am trying to accomplish, stop reading this and start writing. Your comments, in the area provided for below, are worth more than gold to me. That is actually a hyperbole, and if you would rather just give me gold, screw the comments.

Man

Where did we go wrong? Every day destruction and murder are prevalent around the globe. People in all parts of the world are decimated, desecrated, destroyed,repressed, suppressed, depressed, left out, left behind, dominated, subjugated, sublimated, rejected, neglected, abused, confused and refused the basic qualities of life that each and every one of us wants and deserves. How are so many of us so morally bankrupt?

We want too much. We care too little. We criticize. We judge . We expect. We confront. We chastise. We accuse. We berate. We hate. We conquer and control. We dictate and demand. We take away and give nothing in return. We are the masters of your destiny. How can we act like this towards our fellow man? We are so much more than this. We are so much better than this. Is this the way it is supposed to be? Is this the way it has to be?

We feel we have the answers. We believe we know the truth. We are convinced we can impose our will on others and not have to reflect upon our actions. We are right. We are might. We are. You are not. Is this anyway to help improve our collective being?

With each revelation of trouble in yet another area, with each day we hear of the endless atrocities of man upon man, with each day that the body counts add up and the misery and suffering continues, we must ask ourselves what ends we are seeking. Can the only way to reach our ends be to disregard the means? We are being led to the end , and the bottom of our being , and for that there is a collective shame.

Where is our vision? Where is our perspective? Why can we not see beyond the world of our desires? Why don't we ever put ourselves in their shoes, see everything looking up instead of looking down? Who put us in charge and told us that we were the chosen ones? When is it our time to understand and to listen instead of to direct and dissect? How much longer do we, as a collective, let this go on?

So, as another day overtakes the night, we awaken to find the world has not improved. We are where we were yesterday, only one day further into the abyss. Someday we will open our eyes and see, far in the distance, a glimmer of light. It is the best part of each us , waiting to be discovered. If for just one moment, we can decide collectively to bring this part of us forward, to put away, for just an instance, all that darkness that overwhelms us, then the worst in us may start to fade, and we can stop and see a vision of a world , our world, in peace. I wait impatiently for that day.

Addictions

It's 5AM and i sneak out of bed. I know my wife does not approve of what I am about to do, but I do it anyway. She would rather I roll over, get another 2 hours of sleep and start my day at a civilized time. But, I am unable to help myself. It is my newfound addiction and I am hooked. I walk down the hallway into the next room. I turn on the light.I sit down in the chair and then start doing what I have been thinking about most of the night. I begin to write.

It is as though a part of my brain has awakened after being dormant my entire life. One day I was minding my own business, going about my day as I always have, when suddenly I realized I heard the whisper. It was like in A Field of Dreams where Kevin Costner was told to build it and they will come. Sit down at the typewriter and it will flow out. How could this be?

We often hear of how little of our brain we actually use. If we could tap into those segments that are not performing then the possibilities would be endless. For me, I feel like the possibilities are just beginning. With each day, I see a new story unfolding in my head. With each event that occurs, I now look at it a little differently, like it is an opportunity for me to begin a conversation, with myself of course, about its meaning and import. I find myself watching my environment with a slightly keener and more critical eye. If it can give me pause to think, then it can serve as fodder for my next essay.

It is a fun and exciting experience for me. . Finding a new best friend at the computer is, for me, a wonderful gift. Life does settle into routines. What we did yesterday, we do today and tomorrow. Certainly there are variations. But when something comes up and surprises you, and does so in a positive way, then it can really start your juices flowing.

I find myself often addressing political issues of the moment. I shake my head and wonder who it is that is expressing an interest in these events. I have spent my life studiously avoiding an involvement in, or a commitment to, anything remotely political. I say this not with pride, but merely as an immutable fact of my existence up to now. Yet my new friend has removed the lock that was preventing me from expanding my horizons. I now hear myself talking to other people about issues in which I previously demonstrated no concern. I wonder what I might have had to say about matters in the past if I had been awakened earlier.

So, I devote the first part of almost every day in exploration. I begin the adventure with the first word on the screen and I go where the words take me. I am certain that the journey will be exciting and will lead me to a place of interest . I don't know where my new friend may take me tomorrow , but I hope he has a special treat for me. I understand that I am giving up some sleep while I undertake this daily trek. Yet I am sure the trade off is worth it. Someday, maybe my wife will get up at 5AM when I awaken and ask where I am going. When I tell her I am going down the hall to take a little trip, if she asks to come along, I will eagerly invite her to join me.. That would be the best gift of all.

Motion Sickness

Why do I have to take 2 dramamine every morning? I am not planning on a trip across the ocean. I am definitely not getting on a roller coaster. I know that everyday life is full of ups and downs, but the experience I embark on to start each day is one that my system is just not equipped to handle. I am about to read the dow jones results from yesterday.

I am not a person who takes the vicissitudes of the stock market easily. I have twice pulled all of my investments out, only to plunge back in when it looked like the waters were calming. I know that my mom has remained steadfast in the market from the time the Dow was under 1000 but why do I feel like such an idiot every time there is a dip and I have not sold?

They tell us every day we are in a recession, the words of the president notwithstanding. I see oil prices jump, the dollar fall, mortgage foreclosures ever expanding while lending tightens, and yet I sit with my hands behind my back. Ride it out I tell myself. It is only a matter of time before the ship rights itself and then you will applaud yourself for your strength and patience. While gold soars over $1000 an ounce, my retirement date seems to recede further into the distance with every passing day.

When Bear Stearns performs a free fall the likes of which can only be attributed to the best sky diver, and investment bankers look nervously lest they be the next one tapped on their shoulder,I know where my money should not be. But where should it be? Whenever I speak with my son, he reminds me not be fiscally responsible at the expense of being socially irresponsible. The lure to invest in many commodities suggests a willingness to overlook human exploitation for the sake of personal gain.If I was to get in bed with the devil to increase the size of my net worth, at what cost to my own value?

I am the tortoise, not the hare. I am not a risk taker. Let me put my money in conservative positions. Let me instruct my financial analyst to split my investments between fixed income bonds, and a prudent portfolio of stocks which have traditional history of solid performance. One would think that this would be the formula for success. If that is so, then why am I so drained after reading the paper?

The market climbed over 400 points one day this week and even that did not make me happy. I am not a person of great highs and lows. I knew that this rise was but a blip on the radar screen. Given the fragile state of our psyches, and the pessimism that pervades the economy, it was only a matter of time until that upswing was merely a footnote. It took less than a few days for us to have a hard time even remembering that there was a good moment for the Dow.

We have all lived through these times before. Have a sense of perspective I am told. Don't just look at the moment. Yet, why does it always feel when we are in the middle of these experiences like it is different than before? How do we know this is not the tsunami? Before the great depression was similar advice being espoused by those in the know? Why is the situation now not what it was then?

I am not an economist. I am not a soothsayer. I don't have vision. All I see is what is in front of my eyes. The picture is not pretty. It is a jigsaw puzzle of a thousand pieces, none of which seem to fit. I listen to a president in whom I , and most of the nation, have no confidence, flounder to try to say anything to keep us calm, in the face of this storm.

Yet I will, in all probability, continue to restock my medicine chest with the strongest motion sickness pills I can find. I will go along for the ride, hoping and believing in the ability of this country to extricate itself from the dark moments. While I have a hard time seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, I am willing to gamble that those in the know can see at least the faintest light flickering in the distance. One day soon, I tell myself, the stock market will be at an all time high and I will congratulate myself on my fortitude. Until that day comes, I will just have to limit my reading to the comic strips and sport pages.

Slow Boat to China

'I think the car needs a tuneup'. Ya think? I was sitting in the back seat of the taxi, passing sideway glances at my wife, and not saying anything to the driver. As we were reaching top speeds of 40 miles an hour on a somewhat deserted Van Wyck Expressway at 6 AM, I was pretty certain the problem was something greater than the cab driver was suggesting.

We were just returning from a 'red eye' flight from visiting our daughter in Utah. Having experienced some back pain while we were away, and having just tried to sleep in uniquely uncomfortable positions during the plane ride home, I was not overly thrilled at the prospects that lay before me in this vehicle. Would we end up stuck on the highway, imprisoned in the back seat, awaiting a rescue? Was there one driver of another car, paying less than complete attention, who would not notice that the vehicle in front of him , IN THE FAST LANE, was doing his best impression of the tortoise and the hare? I envisioned all types of events unfolding, and none of them were particularly attractive.

Then matters got worse. As we got to the first incline in the road ( and , in most circumstances, it would be impossible to call this an incline) the car began to slow down. We began our ascent of this 'hill' as if we were climbers on a trek, going up the last 100 feet , trying to reach the summit of a snow covered mountain. Each step forward was labored. I am sure we were going no more than 10 miles an hour. As cars whizzed by, I again turned towards my wife. Words were not necessary to express what each of us was thinking. I certainly was not about to engage in light banter with the driver. So , I sat and watched, waiting for the disaster to continue to unfold.

Finally, we reached the 'apex' of the climb, and the car began to find renewed life. Soon we were once again 'speeding' forward at well over 30 miles per hour. This process of slow, slower and almost a complete stop, repeated itself several more times over the ensuing minutes. I began to look diligently ahead , to try to determine where the next incline lay, and how steep it would be. I also tried to envision the rest of our trip home, turn by turn , to think where each insurmountable task lay in front of us. It was, to say the least, not the most relaxing trip I could recall.

Then, the monster began to loom in the distance. We were approaching the king of beasts. As we came closer to the ramp that was to lead us off the Harlem River Drive , to the entrance to Route 95 and the George Washington Bridge, I saw no way that this trip was going to have a happy ending. It seemed to me that all the efforts expended by the car up to this point had been child's play. Now it was to face a real test, and given its recent efforts, I did not think it was up to the task. We began the tortorously slow ascent. We have all said at one time or another that our car was performing so badly that we had to push it up the hill. This was the moment where I was sure there would be more truth than fiction to that statement.

I couldn't understand why the driver had not put on the car's flashing lights, to warn other vehicles. Did he not think that this was an unusual experience? How long had this car been driven while performing in this way? It was incomprehensible to me that this car was on the road. But, it was, and we were being taken for a ride of a lifetime.

As the summit came into sight, and then was attained, the car once again 'sped 'up. Exhausted by its efforts, it reached a cruising speed of about 15 miles an hour as it crossed the George Washington Bridge. Soon we passed into New Jersey and were deposited in front of our apartment. I got out of the car, thanked the driver, kissed the ground like I was Columbus upon reaching America, and headed inside.

After taking a deep breath, I called the cab company to tell them of my experience. Shortly thereafter, I received a call from the owner of the company, informing me that the car had been mistakenly sent out and apologizing profusely for their mistake. Further, he said there would be no charge for the ride home. I got off the phone after thanking him for his action and his good business judgment. While I realized I had gotten home safely, and at no expense, I have decided that walking , not riding, is the wave of the future, at least for me.