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.

Going, going, gone

Dust to dust. I am not ready to say goodbye but what I think is of little moment. There are greater forces at work, that demand this occur. Everything has a beginning and an end. I know there will be millions who shed a tear when the time arrives. Millions of us will be forever left to share our memories and commiserate. There is an inevitability to this which seems so wrong. Yet there is nothing we can do to stop it. Yankee Stadium will soon be coming down.

There will be no funeral procession. There will be no coffin. And yes, there will be a newer, sleeker version of itself right next door. While Yankee Stadium is in its death march, it will stare at its replacement every day. It will know that when the new monolith is ready, it will push the old aside. The stadium must face its own mortality . There will be speeches to thank it, like the old guy being ushered out the door , handed a gold watch and remembered for years of exemplary service. There will be tales of its greatness spoken. They will show us pictures of Ruth and Gehrig, Maris and Mantle, Jeter and A-Rod and hope that will help it go gently into the night. But, it will not ever make us ready to accept what is about to occur. Yankee Stadium will soon be coming down.

It is more than just the House that Ruth built. It is the house that stores a half century of my memories. From the ball that Yogi Berra hit that was clutched in my Dad's hands, to the pandemonium on the field when Chris Chambliss hit the American league championship series winning home run, to watching the majesty that was Reggie that glorious day against the Dodgers, to seeing Jeter dive headfirst in the stands as my daughter and I turned to each in disbelief, to Clemens directing his fury towards Piazza with a bat, those moments deserve better than this. I want to retain forever the days of my son pouring water over his head to try to keep the heat from melting him, of my Dad ushering me through the turnstiles and of my tiny daughter knowing the confines of the ballpark like the insides of her own home. I don't want to let go, but I will have to for Yankee Stadium will soon be coming down.

We all live in a world where progress is a given. We all live in a time when the desire for the dollar drives us all. We understand that nothing and no one is greater than the demands of tomorrow. But Yankee Stadium is something more than that. It is something greater than that. It is more than a thing. It is not just another replaceable part. It has a glory and a meaning that transcends dollars and cents. It has a greatness that cannot be measured in revenue and luxury boxes. It is more than the sum of its parts. It is Yankee Stadium. And yet, Yankee Stadium will soon be coming down.

I stare out my window at the Stadium every day. At night, when the team is playing a home game, the lights from the Stadium illuminate the sky. While the lights will not grow dim in the coming months, they will one day suddenly be extinguished. The glow will be no more. It will give way to newer, and most certainly, brighter lights. But the warmth it radiates cannot be replaced. The feelings it generates will never be duplicated. The intensity it evokes will not be matched, no matter the wattage of its replacement. The new stadium may shine like a bright star, but it can never shine like the brightest star. And the world will be forever dimmer, because Yankee Stadium will soon be coming down.

I have secured tickets for the final home game of the regular season. This could be the last moment for its greatness to be seen. The images of the past 50 years will be carried with me as I walk inside for one last time. I want to bid my friend a fond farewell. I want to say thanks for everything it has given me and countless millions through the years. I know there will be a collective grief that we all will be experiencing as we sit in our seats that day. I am not comfortable attending funerals, as I have a hard time thinking of anything but the moments of glory. I will forever be grateful, and I will forever retain, within me, everything that is Yankee Stadium. So long, old friend. I will cherish your memories. Yankee Stadium will soon be coming down.

Electability

It was the lightbulb going off in my head. I was listening to the conversation and was struck by the simplicity of the concept. While the facts were being shrouded by the numbers, there was one unmistakable issue that I had failed to consider. What if all the young supporters of Obama just stayed home on election day if Clinton was the candidate for the Democrats?

There is an electricity surrounding the candidacy of Senator Obama. We hear talk of comparisons to President Kennedy. We know that there is a powerful charisma that attaches to him with every step he takes. He is a person who can fill up arenas. He radiates enthusiasm. He brings out an interest in many that has until now been nonexistent. Nowhere is this new found focus more evident than in our youth.

For many who have up to now avoided anything remotely political, they have always seen the system as cold and remote. For them, politicians were interchangeable parts. It did not matter for whom you voted. The train ran itself, and the conductor played little part in where it was headed.

But now there was something new and exciting. Finally, there was a fresh face, a new voice full of hope. There was someone speaking to the youth of America. There was someone speaking for the youth of America. It was a time and place to commit. For those drawn to the message, it was the beginning of their time. It was their voice that was to be heard.

So now, every day we face the drumbeat of number crunchers. Does Clinton beat McCain? Does Obama beat Clinton? Who abandons ship if X plus Y equals something other than Z. It is a math lesson that makes your head spin.

Yet one fundamental question is who stays home. For all the fervor that Senator Obama generates in the youth, there must be a palpable fear that this may dissipate and disappear if Senator Clinton emerges as the Democratic nominee. These are first time voters who are not committed to the electoral process but to a man. If Senator Obama goes, then maybe they go with him.

So , like the tree falling in the forest, if Senator Clinton is the Democratic nominee and the young stay home, the sound that we may all hear is the Democratic party falling flat on its face.

Across the River

I stare across the Hudson from the comfort of the living room in my apartment. At this time of the morning, everything is still. There is little activity on the West Side highway as most sane people are still sound asleep. The lights along the roadways, and those coming from the buildings are mesmerizing. . It is a time before that world has awakened It is a time of serenity.

In short order, the sun will come up and the world in front of me will alter dramatically. The activity from across the river has a palpable feel for me. You can touch it and sense it from where I sit. It is a large and glorious being, ready to explode with energy. As it now rests, it is just gaining strength for the travails of the day ahead.

I am not part of that world. My days don't go there. I head in the other direction when I leave the shelter of my shelter. If you think that I feel some sense of loss for not being a part of that being , you may be right.

There are always going to be people on both sides of every river. I don't want this to sound bitter or to suggest that those on the other side are luckier than I am. It is just that they are daily part of something that has an energy that is missing here. I just heard the familiar sound of a newspaper being dropped outside my door, and here that is an occurrence of note .

The sunrises over the city are often spectacular. It is as if the gathering force of the day across the river illuminates the sky in bold and dramatic colors. Another opportunity for something unique is about to unfold.

I will soon finish writing this piece and head to the door to pick up the morning newspaper. I will read , as I do every day, of things large and small that are happening across the river. Then , I will get in my car and head to my office, leaving the sounds and smells of that place to others. Some morning, I may find myself making a wrong turn and ending up on the other side of the river, just for a moment. Someday.

TV Time Out

The dumbing of America is complete. When Wheel of Fortune becomes an intellectual pursuit, then I know it is time to rethink the system. We are stupider than a Fifth grader. We do spend hour after hour and night after night hoping he picks case #2 instead of #3. We vote people off islands. We watch them ingest almost everything imaginable. We see reality in almost every reality. We, in the final tally, are the biggest losers.

We are entertained by everything Britney. We care more about what she drives than what drives our economy . Most nights it is impossible to find news on the local news broadcast. For the great majority of the time our television is on, our brains would have more stimulation if the screens went blank and we just tried to remember what we ate for dinner. We have flat lined along with our televisions.

We don't move from our seats because we have remotes. In this context , remote means far away and distant, as in its relationship to anything of substance. We have taken fluff to a new level. We have given meaningless new meaning. We have created nothing out of nothing. We have stopped trying.

We understand that we need to escape from whatever harsh truths we face in our daily lives. It is just that we don't need to find ourselves on another planet to be removed from the rigors of the day. There has to be someone out there somewhere who is , at this moment, calling up the ghosts of Network and saying "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore". There has to be some writer out in Hollywood who is pleading with the executives to give him his brain back. We have gone into the deep freeze .

There has to be a tipping moment, a time when the pendulum will swing back in favor of creating . There has to be a day when we will no longer be satiated by finding out whose dad can jump through hoops better than all other dads. There has to be a time when we will look back in wonder that we permitted the industry to sink to this level. There has to be because I refuse to believe that this is what we think we want and deserve.

Misremembering

To paraphrase the immortal words of Roger Clemens, Hillary Clinton misremembered. If she recalled incorrectly that she had been under sniper fire in Bosnia in 1996, there was little doubt that she would soon find herself under attack at home in 2008. It is not the season to be having senior moments. Yet, as we know, every politician is guilty sometime, someplace of misspeaking. Senator Clinton quickly pointed out that Barack Obama, clearly not old enough to blame his forgetfulness on his age, had portrayed certain past events in his life inaccurately. John McCain, for his part, had recently confused facts concerning Al Qaeda and Iran.. For,Senator McCain, over 70,a momentary lapse can be expected.

Every candidate is under an incredibly powerful microscope. There is not a moment that goes by in which each person running for the highest office in the land does not have to be careful in regard to verbiage. What one thinks may be off the record is not. What one believes is in private is not. The scrutiny is unrelenting. The pressure must be unbearable . Yet, it is they who choose to be in this forum. Each one of them has decided that the millions of words stated, and the thousands of action taken, are subject to dissection and discussion. It is not a place for the faint of heart .

What was somewhat jarring about this misremembrance was that it was repeated on various occasions over a period of months. The image of Ms. Clinton running for cover while in service of her country presented a particularly powerful picture This was a woman who was risking life and limb in pursuit of the greater good. In truth, she was , with great certainty, willing to take such a risk. I doubt anyone would suggest that this was not someone who would put herself in harm's way in pursuit of her dreams for the country. In the sad reality of our times, all the candidates should have a legitimate concern that they run a daily risk of sniper fire on the campaign trail. Yet a willingness to allow oneself to be a moving target, does not make it so. To fabricate for the sake of a good sound bite, only makes Ms. Clinton a type of moving target different from the one intended.

We all expect exaggeration from those running for office. What is a candidate if not the king or queen of puffery. Creating an image is something we accept as a given in our politicians. Each one must be able to leap tall buildings in a single bound to be able to lead a nation so in need of assistance. Yet we find ourselves asking everyday if some of the statements made are truth or fiction. We are naturally suspicious of everything we hear when a candidate speaks. We tend to clutch an honest statement to our chests and hold onto it as a prize. One only has to look to David Patterson's recent mea culpas to understand our love affair with a politician revealing the truth. It was almost like he had a free pass to tell us anything inappropriate that he had done if he did so honestly. Frankly, I don't want to hear or read of any more of his dirty laundry. But, Mr. Paterson appears to be almost heroic for being forthright about being less than heroic.

It is always so refreshing when we believe a politician is speaking from the heart and not the head. It is what often times makes Senator Obama seem so engrossing. While some would chide him for speaking of his visions for a better tomorrow, for me his words seems to resonate with belief and commitment. It is why the abstract seems to be so much more compelling than the concrete. Senator Clinton, try as she might, does not offer the verbal images that soar free from analysis and dissection. She is much more grounded in her rhetoric. Thus, for her, she may have to be creative in her remembrances to capture our hearts. While one can't blame her for trying to elevate herself and her candidacy, there are limits that must be in place. For a moment, Ms. Clinton stepped across that boundary For her sake, she has to hope the public doesn't misremember this at the ballot boxes in the remaining primaries.

Numbers

Numbers. Figures on a page. Just a concept. Nothing you can touch or feel . What is the reality of a number? It has no sense that there was something more. It has no attachments, and if it is erased, it doesn't realize what has occurred. 4000.

4000 is not a number. It is a statement. It is an unending commitment. It is a willingness to allow a larger number to replace it tomorrow, and still a larger number the day after. It tells us that we are taking away future possibilities. It is saying that there will be no doctor, no lawyer and no leader coming from it. There will be no more children or grandchildren produced by it. No longer will any laughter or any tears flow from it. 4000 is much more than a number. It is a declaration.

How much higher does this number become before it attaches to our souls? How many more lives will be forever removed before the abstract becomes concrete? When will we find the number is no longer one we can accept?

We know that for each number we produce, the number on the other side is staggeringly larger. People who have no part in our number have long ceased to be only because they happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.Their only crime was living where they shouldn't. And yet, for them, for no reason at all, they have become just a number.

Countless more are alive, but barely. Their world is forever altered. Their abilities forever diminished. Their time to demonstrate all that they have to offer forever gone. And yet, their number almost never is heard. It is almost as if they should be grateful. Why?

0. The absence of something. The ability to start at the beginning. The capacity to say I am here and ready to show you what I can do, what I can be. 0 is a number of endless possibilities. It is a number that lets us dream. It is a number with no past, only a future. It is the only number we should tolerate. Without it, we continue to lose each and every day. Let the losses and the number counting stop.

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.