tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78479903547211864202024-03-14T05:16:44.311-04:00Suburban FamiliarThe Art of Life through the eyes of a Pop Culture Diva, Suburban Mother and Educator with a teenaged son.CJ Cohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979435883379846667noreply@blogger.comBlogger68125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7847990354721186420.post-33516310805442346972012-03-09T09:17:00.000-05:002012-03-09T09:17:27.823-05:00Not the winner!<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I learned this week that I did not win first prize in the big short story contest I entered. Does that make me a loser? I don’t think so since I managed to actually enter and follow the rules by submitting a story that was under 1500 words and has a beginning and a end. You can judge for yourself and let me know in the comment section. </span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The Gloved One </span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8AopTiR54r9beNW9z4vy6T4jJiBmIILKnG4N5B8pAy5XptZD9BE-iBjzjC6JGuxVAM0T2JJTg91at1OgaOmSMbP3LX8NyQD_JjmAyyAHOOCNEVwAAeCwsIhdc9zyIFms84GnS2-TM80s/s1600/gloves.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8AopTiR54r9beNW9z4vy6T4jJiBmIILKnG4N5B8pAy5XptZD9BE-iBjzjC6JGuxVAM0T2JJTg91at1OgaOmSMbP3LX8NyQD_JjmAyyAHOOCNEVwAAeCwsIhdc9zyIFms84GnS2-TM80s/s1600/gloves.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">At a time when the size of a woman’s hand still mattered, she stood behind the glove counter sorting kid from cotton. The soft delicacy and undulating shapes of the long silk evening gloves were enchanting; the scent of leathers and suedes for daytime, intoxicating. Each pair was individually priced with tiny handwritten paper tags hanging by silk threads to hand stitched labels on the inside of the right hand glove. She was well suited to the tasks of quietly stacking and sorting her lovely merchandise behind the polish of the shimmering glass counter. It was as close to beauty as she might touch every day.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Ruth was a tiny woman barely four feet 9 inches tall; her delicate frame overpowered by the too large features on her face. Her thinning head of faded brown hair, which she put into the hands of the beauty salon on the 12th floor every Friday, was always in place, softly permed. She was proud of her position; of the job she took a bus to everyday from her little apartment on a less than fashionable block in East Orange, New Jersey into the bustling commercial center of Newark. Her world was encased in a 14-story building that filled an entire city block. The store had its own telephone exchange, a completely new idea in it’s time, which shoppers could use to order sporting goods, inquire about exotic merchandise imported from all over the world, or request services from the dry cleaner, pharmacist, watch and jewelry repair center, or even the butcher in the fancy meat department. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Men still wore hats, women as well. Nylon stockings and petticoats, girdles and long line brassieres were sold in the undergarment department discretely tucked in the back of the third floor woman’s department. Fashion in the late 1940’s was, then as now, heavily influenced by the glamour of Hollywood. But this was also the ready-to-wear age. There was no time for sewing. Post-war women were leading busy lives, some had jobs and required practical and simpler clothes for daytime. Women were even wearing trousers. Glamour was reserved for the evening.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnrREJDzolI0UHiHYZZEvlBMm6sO1pHsUXMIr7L73yZmGDT10RSMYu5gid5K7JG1XgA_82jHlMeiW5vEsQpTGB_Rh5mjqTjq8F9FI1Qi8IEyg8EyJ_jk3groXXFxf_dX5CeBWdAO2Uh_s/s1600/bams02orig.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnrREJDzolI0UHiHYZZEvlBMm6sO1pHsUXMIr7L73yZmGDT10RSMYu5gid5K7JG1XgA_82jHlMeiW5vEsQpTGB_Rh5mjqTjq8F9FI1Qi8IEyg8EyJ_jk3groXXFxf_dX5CeBWdAO2Uh_s/s320/bams02orig.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Back in the day </td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">But on the polished marble main floor where chill winds were masked by the double set of doors and there was a smell of damp wool and fur, Ruth would watch the flurry of active lives, once removed. The hustle and bustle of the crowds provided great opportunities for a people watcher. The two banks of manned brass elevators near the glove counter might provide the way to a rendezvous in one of the dimly lit small private dining rooms that surrounded the oak paneled main banquet halls on the 5th floor. Or it might take visitors to the sixth floor where all kinds of beautiful music, that tiny Ruth could barely hear, came from. For beautiful music filled the air on every floor, piped in from the orchestra, broadcasting live daily from 6th floor center court. It provided a soft popular or classical soundtrack to the shopper’s experience. The original idea was to create an actual broadcast in the store to help sell radios, but the station became so popular that it was eventually sold to a major conglomerate and even continued to operate as an independent AM radio station well after the Korean War had ended. On a large raised platform there was a magnificent grand piano draped with a brocade cloth for protection, surrounded by seats for an ever changing group of musicians under the direction of that month’s guest conductor or band leader. Shoppers could relax in chintz-cushioned sofas during the afternoon concerts and sip tea served from silver service on carts that noiselessly rolled down the deep red Aubusson rugs pushed by white-gloved waiters.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was a comfortable place to be a spinster. By 32, Ruth was no longer considered marriageable material. Her dreams were dashed when her family rejected Harry, the shy waiter from the popular Tavern restaurant as not good enough for her. She had liked the way he had kept their baskets filled with fresh rolls and brought the snappy blue and silver seltzer bottles right to the table, as soon as they sat down. When The Tavern had first opened in 1929, you could have a five-course lunch for sixty-five cents or dinner for a dollar. On Thanksgiving in 1944, the restaurant was closed to the public, serving free dinners to all the servicemen and women from the neighborhood. The press had reported that almost 3000 dinners were served that evening. Like her beloved store, The Tavern was a neighborhood fixture, a symbol of its time. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The years passed quickly. Ruth stood behind that counter for over 35 where she continued to daydream about her day off, Sunday, when she could take herself to the movies and see and hear magic. Ruth was profoundly hard of hearing and had been since birth. She wore a large beige hearing aid in her left ear with a strand of wires connected to a receiving device, which was usually clipped on to her bra strap or the neckline of her dress. It was rather unsightly and she fiddled with it incessantly. The other adults in her family often joked that she needed to turn it up, since she always seemed to miss when someone asked her a question or her agreement on a particular matter. But at the movies, she never missed a single word. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This was her one great joy, the Hollywood that was peddled in fan magazines like “Confidential: It tells the Facts and Names the Names” and “Modern Screen” and “Silver Screen”-- glimpses into the sordid and steamy side of Hollywood that cost twenty-five cents apiece at the local newsstand. Designed with garish covers of color-tinted black and white photographs of stars like Elizabeth Taylor, Debbie Reynolds, Frank Sinatra, Ava Gardner, and Rock Hudson and flimsy black and white interior pages printed with ink that came off on your fingers; they represented the beginning of the end of the stranglehold studios had over the press. Ruth’s younger brother Milton teased her about it and nicknamed her Hollywood so her adored young nieces called her Aunt Hollywood. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy7kKLLLYqz4a7t5xGafPM7bmMNcm33ZWdsycshQEhDB35GTpNGq_RG40MlSOjw0uNh6GSuGzaUFevbkoP26o_NllWbvAKSqcLuQw3foyiPbmzN3H817TrDkhS7e2O0aO9lx2g2tOTmwE/s1600/Conf99-99_jul.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy7kKLLLYqz4a7t5xGafPM7bmMNcm33ZWdsycshQEhDB35GTpNGq_RG40MlSOjw0uNh6GSuGzaUFevbkoP26o_NllWbvAKSqcLuQw3foyiPbmzN3H817TrDkhS7e2O0aO9lx2g2tOTmwE/s320/Conf99-99_jul.jpeg" width="237" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Collectibles? </td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">The headlines on the covers of these magazines screamed things like, Exclusive: Why Liberace’s song should be Mad about the Boy or Liz will adopt a Negro Baby. No other news outlet carried these stories. There were the original celebrities for celebrities sake -- the glamorous Gabor Sisters; Magda, Zsa Zsa, and Eva who collectively were married at least 19 times. The charming British actor, George Saunders had even married two of them. It couldn’t get any better than that! These slick publications were chock full of the scandals and sexploits of Hollywood’s hottest stars. For a single middle-aged woman, like Aunt Hollywood, living such a cosseted life, what better daydream fodder than the magic that was post-war Hollywood, where courage was always rewarded, criminals were always punished and all the lovers lived happily ever after.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Aunt Hollywood shared her devotion and secretly, her lurid reading material with her oldest niece Joan, taking her several times a year to New York City, to the opulent and most wonderful Radio City Music Hall. They saw the stage show and then a movie, frequently starring Doris Day. Even then, a 10-year-old Joan knew these were just awful -- but going into New York City with her aunt and the glamour of seeing something in that magnificent movie palace was seductive. The theatre itself with its resplendent art deco architecture, massive golden chandeliers and aroma of freshly popped popcorn, was the best part. Ruth always thoroughly briefed Joan on the bus ride into the city, recounting the latest scandal as reported by her tabloids, all written to keep movie fans returning to the plush seats in the “Now Air-Conditioned” theatres for more. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So from Pillow Talk, and Please don’t Eat the Daisies and Lover Come Back, all starring the perky, annoying, Doris Day -- to adored Hayley Mills as the pixie Pollyanna, Ruth treated her niece to her magical world. But it wasn’t all silliness. When Aunt Hollywood took Joan to see A Dog of Flanders, a lovely film about a poor orphaned boy with aspirations to be an artist like his idol Peter Paul Rubens; little Joan wept inconsolably and had to leave the theatre. She sat on the great staircase in the lobby sobbing, while poor Aunt Hollywood, unsettled and unaccustomed to the frailty of little girls and their silent dreams, tried gently to console her. Grasping hands, their eyes locking; they pledged never to speak to anyone else of this moment when the images of the silver screen could provoke such a deeply felt emotional response. In this, they were united, a pair. The little girl and her tiny maiden aunt had bonded; the gloves passed on to another generation. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<!--EndFragment-->CJ Cohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979435883379846667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7847990354721186420.post-26673423336123167052012-03-03T17:36:00.000-05:002012-03-03T17:36:58.609-05:00He went that a way<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><i>Upon the occasion of my first obituary</i><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He went that a way<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He was a complex man, more scoundrel than saint. He died this week at the ripened age of 84, stubborn as ever, hanging on for days longer than expected as I sat by the phone, posted inanities on Facebook for distraction and corresponded with siblings (real and by marriage) in the long distance death watch of our father.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">His passing was long expected. He suffered from Parkinson’s for the last 10 years and rode around his little town in Oregon on his Hoveround<b><span style="color: black; font-family: "Lucida Grande";">© </span></b>when he was able. I know little of that time and it’s just as well. He long had another family with who, on his second try, seemed to eventually fair much better. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For a man with a talent for both procreation and amassing women with children, he was probably most disappointed that none of his brood was an athlete as he was. Awarded a full scholarship as a baseball player his senior year in High School, he spent two years at the University of Richmond before he was drafted at 18 in the last gasps of World War II. He spent a year as a private, marching around Paris highlighted by attending a John Wayne Western where the sub-title read “Whoa Chevaux!” (En Français - this rhymes!) <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He returned to his studies, finished his business degree and met and married my mother. They started their family, moved to the Jewish suburbs from their Jewish neighborhoods in Newark and finally divorced after 21 years of wrestling in bitter wedlock.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A compact man just 5’9”, he was drafted by the farm leagues and played a couple of seasons in Baltimore. He was an athlete first and foremost and loved playing paddleball more than anything else -- including working -- and so he did. I’m sure that’s how he sold insurance -- when he did. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My father was not what one would call a great Daddy. He was an immaculate and well-groomed man and I think he was uncomfortable with the sticky fingers of children. He was always competitive. He didn’t just win at Monopoly, he relished in slaughtering us. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He shared his passions as he could, dragging his crew of then three plus my mother to every Revolutionary or Civil War battlefield within an 8 hour driving radius of our home. I remember car fights and Jamestown. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He was never much of a financial success. He knew more about spending money than earning it. Once when the electric bill had not, yet again, been paid, and my mother had taken to bed in protest, we ate Chicken Delight© by candlelight. The side of cranberry sauce came in these little clear plastic rectangular packs, much like the jelly and jam assortments at your local diner today. He was impatient opening his and when he did, he was splattered in face. We held our collective breaths anticipating his rage. His temper was legendary -- only mollified by blinding headaches later in life. But instead he burst out laughing at himself and it became for me, a joyful memory. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpU0ozCqYA9sbFsiYS0eIz1R05wO_VFSmLGnpIfK8ZqJcTSoBikngM9f-bwGXonHzZTwdCkgjfIxkqvUR_IVwBklyQDBU2-ao_Xvc-7qGM4Uo5ejZUMkqx3o-k8lFhTjDyE9I_2Sufd4s/s1600/388349_10150413202137791_730282790_8741528_1544404095_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpU0ozCqYA9sbFsiYS0eIz1R05wO_VFSmLGnpIfK8ZqJcTSoBikngM9f-bwGXonHzZTwdCkgjfIxkqvUR_IVwBklyQDBU2-ao_Xvc-7qGM4Uo5ejZUMkqx3o-k8lFhTjDyE9I_2Sufd4s/s320/388349_10150413202137791_730282790_8741528_1544404095_n.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">What does one say about a man who moved to California to follow his Hollywood dreams and amassed Barco loungers as a professional game show contestant (but a winner nonetheless!); who actually won over $5000 on Jeopardy? When I was 28 or so, visiting the sales department of the company I worked for, I saw him in a television commercial as a butcher. I never knew how or where he might pop up in my life as a source of laughter or pain. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Our nuclear family is long fractured. Such is the gift of divorce -- the gift that keeps on giving. As the eldest of a clan that at one point numbered eleven children, mine was frequently the inappropriate disclosure. Thanks for those guys. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My brother and sisters established their own relationship with him, that’s not mine to tell but none rushed to his bedside or attended his funeral. I had not spoken with him in over a dozen years after the final crossed-the-line disappointment. My instincts were to protect myself and new child, away from the toxins in which my father chose to swim. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When he and his wife moved to Oregon from Southern California, as his illness became more debilitating, he was in his way giving me the gift of not having to tend to or care for him in his final years. Oregon provides most generously for death with dignity. He was never a burden, as they say. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So this, my friends, is a formal closing of a long chapter in my life that was already mostly shut. The finality of it has brought with it a flood of memories and feelings and the ability to articulate what was and will forever be, the first man I loved. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><!--EndFragment-->CJ Cohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979435883379846667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7847990354721186420.post-48821284715248499892012-01-14T11:52:00.001-05:002012-01-15T10:53:17.957-05:00From the Left<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">On Writing...</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Funky Chelsea</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was very friendly at one time with a couple who lived at the Chelsea Hotel in New York City. He was a writer of sorts producing scripts and speeches for a variety of corporate clients for live and video taped events. He had a then to me, curious habit of walking every morning to a favorite expresso bar ( this was pre-Starbucks) and spending several hours writing and sipping several cuppas. I didn't understand this behavior at all, but I was not at the time, doing much writing myself. I hired writers when I needed one. </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Now I am writing; daily and for several hours whenever possible and I have a greater understanding of both the process and practice. For example, right now I'm sitting in the cafeteria in the massive hospital complex that is St. Barnabus in Livingston, New Jersey. My mother is resting in recovery having gone through a serious and discomforting procedure. She's fine for the moment. I am relieved. </span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnnFtmClZ9-V45kDiERlGi5OimGdzWZJi5_LHmCWAAUOoqbUkIyfbpZPuciTZaHZknIWce40l5NhD9wcHGrrSpL3Ss4a-HZBd1T7vinYGH2SlRtHchGX4NlKLyqJvlk_50HYuqWNqnaJY/s1600/AmericanDadTurk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnnFtmClZ9-V45kDiERlGi5OimGdzWZJi5_LHmCWAAUOoqbUkIyfbpZPuciTZaHZknIWce40l5NhD9wcHGrrSpL3Ss4a-HZBd1T7vinYGH2SlRtHchGX4NlKLyqJvlk_50HYuqWNqnaJY/s200/AmericanDadTurk.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But here I sit, surrounded by a sea of chattering humanity many of whom are health care professionals. You can pick them out by their white labs coats or sea foam green scrubs. It's lunchtime. No one person captures my interest for very long. We take no particular notice of one another. Conversations around me are peppered with words like social workers, track meet, my desk, ultrasound, social media and Aruba. They are bits of conversations you might hear in any large nice American cafeteria but for the sea of green and white which helps distinguish the nature of this place -- that and the number of hip pockets with stethoscopes.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There is, I have discovered over time, a kind of comfort I experience when writing in a room like this, a room filled with others going about their lives. While my rich inner monologue continues at full speed ahead and my writing continues unabated, the focus required to do this, in spite of the fuss around me, keeps me company. I think I understand why my friend did his writing in an expresso bar. Writing is a solitary experience but has the advantage of being more transportable than other artistic habits. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvtQ3lc1w710AisOU__0w3Rs4Xzjg-yhk7cRWi-drFNTr6tmrz1e0v5UZ7hV_R0O_p49U3X2Rwf5bffk-vnCsoovn_lUqvj1P6URpVW8MG-RkdTbNFfDDzs3pa-6cDNXqnHd1mAOifdUA/s1600/4503875_f496.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvtQ3lc1w710AisOU__0w3Rs4Xzjg-yhk7cRWi-drFNTr6tmrz1e0v5UZ7hV_R0O_p49U3X2Rwf5bffk-vnCsoovn_lUqvj1P6URpVW8MG-RkdTbNFfDDzs3pa-6cDNXqnHd1mAOifdUA/s200/4503875_f496.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sam I Am -- Not.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I am reminded of a Dr. Seuss book, Green Eggs and Ham. Sam I Am eventually discovers he can eat them anywhere with anything. I can write that in a car, stuck in tar, in a bar. Well, you get the idea. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I entertain myself and may be a curious sight, smiling and making faces, squinting as I sit here with my ever present black and white composition book open to the wrong side of the page as I fill them back to front to ease the flow and pressure of writing long and left handed.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’ve always had to compensate in some way for being a lefty.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The world is counter designed to our needs.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">(I loved Ned Flanders’s Lefties Emporium on <i>The Simpsons</i>.) Perhaps that’s why lefties lead shorter lives; we always have to swim against the tide.</span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’ve just noticed how much it has quieted down here since I started writing this entry. The noon lunchtime rush has thinned out considerably. I suppose I should get to eat myself but I’m not really hungry. My hand is tired though. I’ve put in a couple of good hours exercising my craft since I arrived here early this morning. It’s been a brilliant distraction from worry.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I have been in the company of others without having to tend to anyone’s needs. I’ve been writing about all kinds of things, which always lift my spirits, and moves me forward, including this little epiphany. For this all to brief moment, all is well. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>CJ Cohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979435883379846667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7847990354721186420.post-91876934617785434222012-01-08T09:33:00.001-05:002012-01-08T17:13:47.645-05:00Watching the Defectives<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV-sku-f2H3Bps8PgONouytz2dVcz0ODyq6nKSoRNu0RPCcbVAsmXK8X64SRp7wfA88F7dIpthBnvKHbfcoLRFsu8ez53VTHsRXnM_Wl_ybe1R1ZLGX1SQpTnCIm9wdy577zQ1W39N9ks/s1600/Mitt-Romney.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV-sku-f2H3Bps8PgONouytz2dVcz0ODyq6nKSoRNu0RPCcbVAsmXK8X64SRp7wfA88F7dIpthBnvKHbfcoLRFsu8ez53VTHsRXnM_Wl_ybe1R1ZLGX1SQpTnCIm9wdy577zQ1W39N9ks/s1600/Mitt-Romney.gif" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p> In many, if not most households across this great land of ours, family evenings are frequently spent in front of the television hurling support or insults towards favorite and despised sport teams and players. In our home, the sport of politics is our addiction and our teams generally lean left -- but it would be delusional and presumptive to say our team is Team Truth since that is in the eye of the beholders and there are at least six in our household at any given time, not including the animals. Each has its opinions and own ideas which makes for lively and infuriating debates at dinner time, sometimes with ourselves. The title of this blog does not necessarily refer to the illustrious Republican field this season, however fitting that might be, but might also be used to describe we, the impassioned viewers of the bloody sport we call politics. So, what makes us so addicted to this Battle Royale in which real victory is never decisive in spite of there being a winner? </o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeEpdgOozYnFbgKVVKhF5mumyYWYm3xp2EVSfaLWoSL7JATnwwAYRMx4Uusfl6DIhqnZG9hdCbMytCslwmHw167HQFw1uwwxMP-hMWHCcZiSXHVp9sWyKcHqX-ylNnnqkfC2_ZED0Ifwg/s1600/Ron-Paul.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeEpdgOozYnFbgKVVKhF5mumyYWYm3xp2EVSfaLWoSL7JATnwwAYRMx4Uusfl6DIhqnZG9hdCbMytCslwmHw167HQFw1uwwxMP-hMWHCcZiSXHVp9sWyKcHqX-ylNnnqkfC2_ZED0Ifwg/s1600/Ron-Paul.gif" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">I lay the blame for this addiction squarely upon our matrilineal lines. Both my mother and mother in law are members of the Fretful Democrats, a distinction earned by both age and temperament. I’m not suggesting that either possess the prescience of Cassandra, as learned as that might sound; but that both like Ms. C, believe our nation’s actions are all going to take us to hell in very near future. I’ve come to understand that part of this belief stems not so much a deep understanding of how the world operates per se, but rather from a deep discomfort with a world that changes – a natural occurrence which both toddlers and the elderly find disconcerting to adjust to. Just when you think you get the lay of the land, some dagblasted new fangled War or Conflict or Social Crisis comes along to shake us to our very core. We need to prepare them with transition time! And so, in politics just like in many professional sports, we have the Preseason. Let’s face it, this election year has been filled with lots of interesting players, many of whom have already been sent back into the locker room to collect their gear. I miss them and I don’t. They’re like the pregame show, sometimes entertaining but really adding nothing to the great confrontation about to take place on the actual playing field. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg56Qwj1UJ9cLZfxZKao1SPtQJ_vAT1R6ZuNN0MRJtLttOvPzxAUU8W46__KZtqxLfySgFvXQgQfEOeGGc99u2foWshurX3i7nSYlQ5tc0wMsZJ-ZzeDTsxnn7uNlY9abehs3Br2frXhaQ/s1600/Rick-Santorum.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg56Qwj1UJ9cLZfxZKao1SPtQJ_vAT1R6ZuNN0MRJtLttOvPzxAUU8W46__KZtqxLfySgFvXQgQfEOeGGc99u2foWshurX3i7nSYlQ5tc0wMsZJ-ZzeDTsxnn7uNlY9abehs3Br2frXhaQ/s1600/Rick-Santorum.gif" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Last evening, we three gathered round the flat screen and watched the rather tepid Republican debate armed with the universal team mascot, the laptop. Mine was fixed on the Twitter feed following the snarky and inane and occasionally insightful. My son was engaged in an on-line battle in cyberspace since only he possesses the ability of the young to occupy two mental platforms simultaneously. My husband was following the news feeds on the more legitimate sites and reading informative technical stuff. I was the only one laughing.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOop6IPsYeqBPJA5S5Ge3FuPnDQcIdn8yEHM9gQNm8x9oka5kJB4NOeoXXH3-FHkKcrIcXxhRIl89s-XnMuxPNoS6NWBwuSyWhU-ssqiv26UXpaagss2yOGzEMJcPtbOqAfRo8b-aucCo/s1600/Rick-Perry.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOop6IPsYeqBPJA5S5Ge3FuPnDQcIdn8yEHM9gQNm8x9oka5kJB4NOeoXXH3-FHkKcrIcXxhRIl89s-XnMuxPNoS6NWBwuSyWhU-ssqiv26UXpaagss2yOGzEMJcPtbOqAfRo8b-aucCo/s1600/Rick-Perry.gif" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">With the invention of Twitter and particular hashtag feeds, I was able to flit between and betwixt my regular crew of malcontents and miscreants, the #NHdebate feed and the #GOPdebate feed. If you watched the debate or have read any post-debate analysis, you know by now that the field was occupied with a more courtly and polite crew of players then has been seen in past confrontations. You know that there were lots of artfully played dodges and defensives moves. And you know that the anticipated victor easily won. You may even know that along the way were some wacky and clearly unanticipated plays. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Please allow me to share a few of my personal Twitter highlights with a bit of context, which you may have missed.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Tweet of the evening:</i><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Huntsman makes a quip in Chinese. Mitt should answer in French. And Ron Paul in Klingon.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Paul Begala <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Columnist for Newsweek and The Daily Beast</i><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Context: Mitt attacked Huntsman for working for Obama to further the Democratic agenda on trade while the Chinese are stealing intellectual property. Huntsman quips back that Mitt is naïve and says something in Chinese no one understands. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Running a close second:</i><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m bored now. I think I’ll have a drink as well as a joint. GOP Debates are a gateway drug. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Bubblegenius<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Random funny guy coming from Burbank.</i><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Context: About 30 minutes into the debate with nothing on the economy, jobs or healthcare touched upon. It just made me laugh.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>From my regular crew: <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuKJriDG6v4gnT1bElT1MFDwHSNGdwJpZxECExOGTGwTNag7moqEZ8dhlbmMMrIvW20bq48uLBltB4uI_QEKkjd4So8b166whvC-MwinmPPLc0QYBW3InQTIyrv30n9XB2NQluU1uH2LQ/s1600/Newt-Gingrich.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuKJriDG6v4gnT1bElT1MFDwHSNGdwJpZxECExOGTGwTNag7moqEZ8dhlbmMMrIvW20bq48uLBltB4uI_QEKkjd4So8b166whvC-MwinmPPLc0QYBW3InQTIyrv30n9XB2NQluU1uH2LQ/s1600/Newt-Gingrich.gif" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Why is a thrice married adulterer lecturing on the sanctity of marriage? Gingrich is the biggest hypocrite on this.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>JoyVBehar -- Comedienne </i><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Context: In a protracted dialogue with all candidates about gay marriage (They’re all against it but some believe a civil union is ok – no surprise.) <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Perry never met a country he didn’t want to re-invade. He’s still pissed about the Alamo.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>JoyVBehar</i><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Context: In response to Perry’s unsolicited remark that he would go back into Iran and George Stephanopolis has a Barbara Walters/Herman Cain reaction – as in What?? <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When Gingrich talks about “moving to a 21<sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">st</span></sup> Century model”, Callista better watch her back.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>BorowitzReport<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Andy Borowitz -- Comedian</i><o:p></o:p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal">Context: Newt pontificates, Andy responds. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>From the Mainstream media:</i><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Gingrich tackles Ron Paul’s ‘chicken hawk charge’: ‘That’s part of his charge.” Then Paul stands by the charge. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Washingtonpost </i><o:p></o:p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpILnn37ao4iNViyha1esE3rJntjsj1RVe8ny3Dd3wraOXV8zdWr88S4PFPHtRA_CaIuumphOYq-XywfUOBjyWVfuJZJSo8_-BlIAr6XLtOu5kYgkH8vuTs9Y3mo0r5hedqi84TUbLlmc/s1600/Herman-Cain.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpILnn37ao4iNViyha1esE3rJntjsj1RVe8ny3Dd3wraOXV8zdWr88S4PFPHtRA_CaIuumphOYq-XywfUOBjyWVfuJZJSo8_-BlIAr6XLtOu5kYgkH8vuTs9Y3mo0r5hedqi84TUbLlmc/s1600/Herman-Cain.gif" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Context: The best and most vivid moment of the debate when discussing the role of the president as Commander in Chief and whether actually having served in the armed forces is important. Gingrich on the defensive about his deferment and Paul shoots back that he may be against war but that he served when he was called to serve and he was also married at the time with two children. Gotcha Newt! <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What a game I watched! <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You can follow me on Twitter as popculturediva2 where I retweet and tweet when the mood strikes.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>CJ Cohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979435883379846667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7847990354721186420.post-26527413678628953502011-12-18T09:00:00.001-05:002011-12-18T09:06:21.319-05:00FAIR AIR PLAY<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9sqgI8joML52TggY_Jk_bM1zqADiWL892sRxc1_103aKlp-Ea-sC7KpuhqcpQEblpd6elvYBtr93hVmJnQCfamTut5D6G6Bf0C6YQlNfhKTyhFblCY3mZZRQMGrO_69SgtD5HFHb9_Us/s1600/saturday-night-live-season-1-20061204000844519.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9sqgI8joML52TggY_Jk_bM1zqADiWL892sRxc1_103aKlp-Ea-sC7KpuhqcpQEblpd6elvYBtr93hVmJnQCfamTut5D6G6Bf0C6YQlNfhKTyhFblCY3mZZRQMGrO_69SgtD5HFHb9_Us/s200/saturday-night-live-season-1-20061204000844519.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Tucked away in the corner of the business section of a recent edition of The Los Angeles Times was a small piece attributed to Reuters entitled “FCC to erase 83 outdated media rules.” </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The article contained the following: “Among the rules being eliminated are Fairness Doctrine Regulations that were intended to promote honest, balanced discussion on controversial issues, when introduced in 1945.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The rationale for its elimination is the proliferation of both Broadcast and Cablecast channels, which have provided the diversity of viewpoints that the FCC sought to ensure. Clearly FOX News and MSNBC are great examples of this spectrum. It is both comforting and disconcerting that the polarized spectrum of our political debate is manifest in each, without overt public disclosure. Neither outlet is “fair and balanced”, in spite of claims made to be otherwise.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIIZMqDbGzehLjZIxA3YVWmV4T07aW_cjefJuRNsmXspZICADM3BL7MucU2jFDC3mVZvQly5nipCgdzEM6oG03NuzGG-arAdL8BgtV5el7tx1eTf0hpKw1pWSWqH5PnKrEzvYcJmJtTAc/s1600/abc47.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="147" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIIZMqDbGzehLjZIxA3YVWmV4T07aW_cjefJuRNsmXspZICADM3BL7MucU2jFDC3mVZvQly5nipCgdzEM6oG03NuzGG-arAdL8BgtV5el7tx1eTf0hpKw1pWSWqH5PnKrEzvYcJmJtTAc/s200/abc47.jpg" width="200" /></span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Television news was not without its bias and opinions from the early days of broadcast news. Growing up in the 60’s in Suburban New Jersey I can still remember the station managers of the local network affiliates (NBC, ABC and CBS at the time) doing editorials and rebuttals as part of the daily programming mix -- each time with the disclaimer that the opinion expressed did not necessarily reflect the opinion of the employees and management of the station. I’m not even sure that I truly understood the full content or context but these singular opinion makers were my heroes in those days. I was always interested in hearing what they had to say. We had no “critical” or editorial reading in school and no newspaper delivered to our home with any consistency or with parents suggesting I might actually read one. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Most memorable of these broadcasters was one Kenneth H. McQueen, manager of the ABC (Channel 7) station in the New York Market. (The network outlets in the New York, Chicago and Los Angeles markets were O&O’s, or owned and operated by the corporate entities since these were and still are the largest markets or the ones with the most Television Households vs. affiliated stations in smaller markets.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_kH5nT7JPyKYPvYEF2GNBMeVrZNUsICrr4OHgw_M4NIT1LeV9dkSHg6rKUZvF7mLXvSRSwd1i0ccIK95kDRWCpPaTYWHui4cIDjsERmHWiof-_8zLcyFHPeU799i6cDqTDbpN8IhaPFk/s1600/9745502_2_l.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_kH5nT7JPyKYPvYEF2GNBMeVrZNUsICrr4OHgw_M4NIT1LeV9dkSHg6rKUZvF7mLXvSRSwd1i0ccIK95kDRWCpPaTYWHui4cIDjsERmHWiof-_8zLcyFHPeU799i6cDqTDbpN8IhaPFk/s200/9745502_2_l.jpg" width="173" /></span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Mr. McQueen appeared on the screen one evening wearing a big red fireman’s helmet and I recall he spoke about something related to the New York City Fireman’s union demands and how they should be supported. I’m sure I barely understood the context but his beautiful diction and impassioned language made a lasting impression. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Fast forward many years and I had to occasion to meet and work with Mr. McQueen on his inevitable descent down the corporate ladder, a victim of alcohol abuse and age. He was still the handsome articulate man I remembered from my childhood and I told him so. He was, after all, the station manager during the tenure of my greatest news hero of all times, the unrepentant and incontrovertible Roger Grimsby. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">If there had never been a Roger Grimsby, there would never have been a Chevy Chase doing the news on Saturday Night Live and certainly no John Stewart. Grimsby begot Chevy who begot John.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4DQrrXoZnYi37YUjqnh_A606iNFhoaZK9IDoMBWe5vE4oGm6aXc6ZWdN376e0guiW0mzaDJXrs6PxItwKwaVJD45GqPfvDywkU7qKU71AN7_SZYtyAkoQFOlnW_4CMdkfs3kkGCAlbj8/s1600/beutel_3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4DQrrXoZnYi37YUjqnh_A606iNFhoaZK9IDoMBWe5vE4oGm6aXc6ZWdN376e0guiW0mzaDJXrs6PxItwKwaVJD45GqPfvDywkU7qKU71AN7_SZYtyAkoQFOlnW_4CMdkfs3kkGCAlbj8/s1600/beutel_3.jpeg" /></span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I started watching Grimsby in 1970 when he was paired with the charming Bill Beutel. WABC Eyewitness News was my go-to news spot for the next 15 years. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Every evening he began the show with “ Good Evening, I’m Roger Grimsby, here now the news” </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">and ended with, "Hoping your news is good news, I'm Roger Grimsby." In between, his broadcasts were frequently filled with wisecracks delivered with a deadpan delivery, later mimicked by Chevy Chase on SNL, and he had an on-air running feud with Howard Cosell, Jerry “Geraldo” Rivera and Gossip queen Rona Barrett. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjCcEjvUYmf1FAOUBM9_t2Z-UOg_vh6K1yynjW-Qllz4BhKvHJkPDa5d5e1WySMj0mpfJxtBTC32VY5XY0Sf92c9yB-85kx4Q_RcdBIflBYAp5h46oeosbQQKh0tSY52LgufteCKc49GU/s1600/rona-barrett.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjCcEjvUYmf1FAOUBM9_t2Z-UOg_vh6K1yynjW-Qllz4BhKvHJkPDa5d5e1WySMj0mpfJxtBTC32VY5XY0Sf92c9yB-85kx4Q_RcdBIflBYAp5h46oeosbQQKh0tSY52LgufteCKc49GU/s1600/rona-barrett.jpg" /></span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">He once segued from a report on a garbage strike to a Rona Barrett gossip report: "Speaking of garbage, here's Rona with the latest . .<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Another time, after a series of scandals had been reported in Newark politics he quipped, ” If Diogenes were to visit Newark these days, he’d put out his lamp.”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHRwuHh2U7c6D-rk-SN5XWk-jMJA_Cq0LPgtyIVGnmV3kMHpPGaLVF9mYNA0sVd_lG9Yir5P2_L4pa4PTJ7HRf4IfNa1KLnZANv1LPfQHoUfm81Kl8APDP3zXm5Otl6crGrCI1GlNfaPs/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHRwuHh2U7c6D-rk-SN5XWk-jMJA_Cq0LPgtyIVGnmV3kMHpPGaLVF9mYNA0sVd_lG9Yir5P2_L4pa4PTJ7HRf4IfNa1KLnZANv1LPfQHoUfm81Kl8APDP3zXm5Otl6crGrCI1GlNfaPs/s200/images.jpeg" width="150" /></span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Introducing Howard Cosell for a sports report one night, Mr. Grimsby said, "And now let's go to the president of the Howard Cosell Fan Club."</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> Howard had a huge ego and </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">after days of snide comments exchanged on camera, Cosell launched into a nasal diatribe and over the top attack on Grimsby. When he finally finished, the camera cut to Roger is sitting there, eyes closed and snoring, pretending to be asleep. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">His quips were legendary but he was sensitive. He was the ONLY American news anchor in1977 to visit and report on South Africa's racial and political strife, following the tumultuous summer of 1976. In "Adoption: Who Are My Parents?" Grimsby, himself an adoptee, focused on the search of adoptees for their real parents. Both shows earned him Emmys. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Roger Grimsby made several movies including Woody Allen's </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Bananas</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Ghostbusters</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The Exterminator</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> and </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Nothing But Trouble.</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> He also had a bit part in the move </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The China Syndrome.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">My personal favorite Grimsby tale - After a studio wide-shot caught his colleague Mara Wolynski using an extended middle finger as she finished an argument with someone off-screen, Grimsby, with a straight face</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">, looked into the camera and quipped, "Well . . . as Mara Wolynski would say -- 'We're number one.'"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And indeed they were. Eyewitness News changed the personality of News forever and Roger will always be numero Uno with me. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">ABC fired Grimsby on April 16, 1986 after 18 years on the air in the largest television market in the country, most as the leading evening news show. No one has come close since. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 19.0pt; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
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</div>CJ Cohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979435883379846667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7847990354721186420.post-59137801667135684672011-11-22T17:27:00.001-05:002011-11-22T17:53:38.911-05:00Top 2nd Grade Chef!<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL3V187lUHA_ngW0puihewDhizv20VQEYND4fuvh0ukH4BBHbLOVSfkEgzVOk3fVZsWLI6JHQXTiTVn0utwkFbRRkBnww79TjNcUYFxatbIjTxznTgLYRhHdv-J5jnW2mqdwDHS_KLvGw/s1600/hand-turkey1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL3V187lUHA_ngW0puihewDhizv20VQEYND4fuvh0ukH4BBHbLOVSfkEgzVOk3fVZsWLI6JHQXTiTVn0utwkFbRRkBnww79TjNcUYFxatbIjTxznTgLYRhHdv-J5jnW2mqdwDHS_KLvGw/s200/hand-turkey1.jpg" width="163" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Traditional Turkey </td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal">I have written before about food and cooking in several <i>Suburban Familiar</i> blogs. I have included the general attitude toward cooking in my childhood home where Peg Bracken’s “I Hate to Cookbook” had a place of honor. Our vegetables and crescent rolls came from a can. My mother baked something called Hot Tuna Cups, which was absolutely disgusting, in spite of spawning an excellent rock band just a few years later. We occasionally had those horrific TV dinners -- sparking sibling battles because no one wanted the Salisbury Steak version, even after they added the coveted Apple Brown Betty desert. Friday nights we had Chinese food or pizza delivered but in her defense, my mother did squeeze fresh orange juice for all of us every morning, believing it possessed amazing restorative powers. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In spite of such inauspicious beginnings, I love to cook and I am a terrific cook but I wasn’t always one. (I still feel I need to apologize to my brother and his friend Steve for almost poisoning them in the early 70s with an inedible meal from my first Wok.) But I practiced over the years and my evening audience is usually thrilled with the results. My repertoire now encompasses a gluten-free twist on favorites, no small accomplishment in my humble opinion. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTdjDTDa9Q-acVOw0ldErya4hinCVUa2-GasVkv0aJuuVAplOq8wZWet6YIUaT-Khih_qZxbcizSrZBmpHBcFfZrOxptBvh_KwyuQbVHSRAdx7Mr5m2cpBhAEYV9voPE0EE828RXCnIOA/s1600/craft-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTdjDTDa9Q-acVOw0ldErya4hinCVUa2-GasVkv0aJuuVAplOq8wZWet6YIUaT-Khih_qZxbcizSrZBmpHBcFfZrOxptBvh_KwyuQbVHSRAdx7Mr5m2cpBhAEYV9voPE0EE828RXCnIOA/s200/craft-3.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Looking for something to do with all that leftover <br />
Halloween candy?</span></td></tr>
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There is, at least in my household, no holiday, which revolves around food more than Thanksgiving. I make a great turkey but I am always open to getting tips and ideas from others. So it is in this spirit that I present the following Thanksgiving recipes, carefully transcribed from a festive bulletin board I happened upon, outside a second grade classroom. Only the names of these 8 year olds have been changed to protect the innocent.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On the making of Turkey: <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>First, shoot a turkey. Next burn off the feathers and take out all the insides. After that put it in the oven for 6 hours at high. Last, take it out of the oven and eat it. Enjoy! </i> </span> --Andy<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>First, buy a Turkey at Whole Foods. Put it in the oven for 7 hours at 60</i><span style="color: black;"><i>°F. Then let it dry for 3 hours. Finally, get it out of the oven and enjoy it. </i> --Julie<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;"><i>First, buy a Turkey at Kings. Then, c</i></span><span style="color: black;"><i>ook it for 2 hours at 250°. After that check to see if it’s the right temperature. Take the turkey out of the oven. Last, eat the turkey.</i> --Eva <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;"><i>First, you get your Turkey. Then you put it in the oven for 6 hours. Next, you shoot some seasoning into the Turkey. Then you eat it.</i> --Mack<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdR2rM9Gh3jVhdyu2CCE83yyAp6WTzaxx0HRiA36Amzz3I8TUjmgW50jseX6YpVODOhXacwHRzSV7tgT3Ppprl_KFrDugYRnaIATU3lqAFKV3le67vD2GT3UDW9BskcR-Q2_IFj_7Ahis/s1600/paper-bag-turkey-thanksgiving-craft-photo-475x357-aformaro-0066_476x357.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdR2rM9Gh3jVhdyu2CCE83yyAp6WTzaxx0HRiA36Amzz3I8TUjmgW50jseX6YpVODOhXacwHRzSV7tgT3Ppprl_KFrDugYRnaIATU3lqAFKV3le67vD2GT3UDW9BskcR-Q2_IFj_7Ahis/s200/paper-bag-turkey-thanksgiving-craft-photo-475x357-aformaro-0066_476x357.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Another Traditional Interpretation </span></td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">Are the side dishes your thing?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">Cranberry/Raspberry/Strawberry Sauce<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;"><i>First get jelly and cranberry juice and mix it together. Next put a teaspoon of sugar and add cranberries, strawberries and raspberries and mix it together. Then, put it in the refrigerator for 5 minutes. Then, enjoy!</i> --Brie<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">Sweet Potatoes and Marshmallows<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;"><i>First, get sweet potatoes. Then cook it in the oven for 4 hours at 120° F. Last, put marshmallows on it and enjoy! </i> --Jack<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">Mashed Potatoes<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;"><i>First, get some potatoes at the supermarket. Next, take the potatoes and cut them into little cubes. Then add milk and mash! </i> --Leif <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">So no matter how much cooking you do or don’t do this Thanksgiving, remember writing clear directions for your recipes is an important part of the celebration. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">And to all of you, dear readers, a very Happy Thanksgiving! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>CJ Cohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979435883379846667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7847990354721186420.post-90364163920192601952011-11-17T19:47:00.000-05:002011-11-17T19:47:50.210-05:00The Crafts of Creation<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV0qK7_GrseWsLDwKdjIHiqb9XF6sEBhfBrnxKdCU6BjlMSWoTYgIyCvlMz4iC0FNUb-sZuG-Uzhv4ObbyauIXKC90n0EXlUk0lRA7FLmrhAxtfGsU2LMBjIA_vC6NFTBKQl1oTNirKYc/s1600/79295-3d-Typeset-Word-Blog-Version-1-Poster-Art-Print.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV0qK7_GrseWsLDwKdjIHiqb9XF6sEBhfBrnxKdCU6BjlMSWoTYgIyCvlMz4iC0FNUb-sZuG-Uzhv4ObbyauIXKC90n0EXlUk0lRA7FLmrhAxtfGsU2LMBjIA_vC6NFTBKQl1oTNirKYc/s1600/79295-3d-Typeset-Word-Blog-Version-1-Poster-Art-Print.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><b>COLD TYPE AS CLIPART</b></i></span></td></tr>
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</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For the many of us who have worked in the communications arena in the last 40 years, we all witnessed the dramatic diminishing of the soiled-hands processes of creation. There was something greatly satisfying about manipulating type, one letter at a time, in the curtained chamber of a machine called a typositor. You would look through a viewfinder at a kind of filmstrip that floated over exposable paper. You would then line up the right character in the right place, adjusting the knobs to move the letters closer or further apart, or adjust the slant of the italic, or raise or lower the bottom of the letter – all measured by eye – press a button, expose the image, and out came a strip of the most elegant and crisp version of a particular font you could possibly imagine. Such were the headlines I created back in the day. It was a painfully slow process, akin to chiseling type on a tombstone, yet remarkably fulfilling. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Once you had your headline, you would move on to the body type, which was created in a much more boring mechanical manner. Then it was time to prep your boards used for printing. All those words needed to be put in their place. For that, we used rubber cement. You might end your day covered with gobs of it, using it to make scars on your arms and the back of your hands. It was a nursery school finger painting moment. Whee! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGXOTmxHtP0mVDRik0WoVIwH2EkG1EMxCj0tPaPAs4bNNnVbP9vU8osH1Ri2Gwd1FZ3rQwObQ0PoFB6Ju6zZpbT_g_dfKrjmDWWKAwdz-0mGIOmG9IE8Ao9pRA4RenXfQ9JurhtqHS4X0/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGXOTmxHtP0mVDRik0WoVIwH2EkG1EMxCj0tPaPAs4bNNnVbP9vU8osH1Ri2Gwd1FZ3rQwObQ0PoFB6Ju6zZpbT_g_dfKrjmDWWKAwdz-0mGIOmG9IE8Ao9pRA4RenXfQ9JurhtqHS4X0/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><b>OUR GORGEOUS ABCs </b></i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Whether you were compiling a fancy brochure or completing the layout for a quick flyer or an Ad for a local paper, the skills and tools required were the same. There were days when you mistakenly sliced off letters or burned yourself using the new fangled wax machines that quickly replaced the very inefficient but endlessly entertaining rubber cement. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And then there was a time I turned a middle-aged man into a zombie with my heavy-handed efforts with black and white retouching paints. It was all in learning curve of mastering your craft. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As my career blossomed, I spent less and less time doing hands-on work and became a supervisor of these efforts, which expanded to include video production. I now had more to do with the ideas behind the production than the actual physical creation. But having the actual hands on experience enabled me to speak to and direct the designers, artists and video crews with a real understanding of the processes and their limitations. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In this supervisory capacity some years later, in a be-careful-what-you-reap episode, I quickly learned the importance of providing these kinds of services within a large corporation. I had been on the job for less than 14 days; working in a converted strip mall along Florida’s Hwy 90 in Clearwater Beach, Florida. With a minimum of orientation and a maximum of responsibility thrust upon my young executive shoulders, I had, as one part of my charge, the supervision of a small in-house graphics department which provided services to a wide variety of corporate marketing and communications needs. The staff consisted of a typesetter, 3 paste-up artists and an Art Director. The typesetter was from Chicago, over 60, and really funny and the rest of the crew was local and barely out of high school. The company had not yet commenced its national rollout, was not yet known coast to coast -- exploding in one year from gross revenues of $10 million to $780 million in the next. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I was there. It was madness.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijZK4tXSnfrhFu5YVrOxsX4MWuiskN7buiQ16enKru08w4JQmN6ZQmCuvGmQjk-ALkwH7pBSRhFWVKkKVsiCTwFyxi1XjjhGlH6J0bV31tqDAl4FZuHeVL8qOkAGuFqELuGK-1mAvTuhg/s1600/tv_camera.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="125" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijZK4tXSnfrhFu5YVrOxsX4MWuiskN7buiQ16enKru08w4JQmN6ZQmCuvGmQjk-ALkwH7pBSRhFWVKkKVsiCTwFyxi1XjjhGlH6J0bV31tqDAl4FZuHeVL8qOkAGuFqELuGK-1mAvTuhg/s200/tv_camera.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The company broadcast or cablecast 24 hours a day of live programming to homes across Florida and a few cable systems in adjoining states in the south. We had just started broadcasting in the New York market. (For more chuckles on how that all worked out and then some, check out : <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://suburbanfamiliar.blogspot.com/2010/07/wing-nut-commander.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">http://suburbanfamiliar.blogspot.com/2010/07/wing-nut-commander.html</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">from July 2010 <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://suburbanfamiliar.blogspot.com/2010/08/its-calamity.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">http://suburbanfamiliar.blogspot.com/2010/08/its-calamity.html</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">from August 2010)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We sold “schlocky” merchandise to those who called in to a massive sales room, housed in another building along Route 90. Those who called in and were lucky and somewhat articulate, were selected to speak directly to the “Show Hosts”, providing an endless supply of banter or “testimonials” about the merchandize and this new fangled experience of shopping via television while the camera remained fixed on the item for sale. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1vRGIPz_CXLUy2fBJzFTuD8haEnzWb2Tm9ccSMwTumU1jMXvuliZPRVAlBdsyioWalxJ11yTVYuzAgQtVxUVfR03Tp3bqClcKU6ewgvJ9u6eLwUWKigBcKWal28yo88z3mPhm_m0uR3g/s1600/fifty_years01b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1vRGIPz_CXLUy2fBJzFTuD8haEnzWb2Tm9ccSMwTumU1jMXvuliZPRVAlBdsyioWalxJ11yTVYuzAgQtVxUVfR03Tp3bqClcKU6ewgvJ9u6eLwUWKigBcKWal28yo88z3mPhm_m0uR3g/s320/fifty_years01b.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><b>EARLY SHOP AT HOME PROTOTYPE</b></i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Part of the pitch frequently included showing Ads from catalogs, displaying much higher prices than we were charging for the same item. Part of what the in-house graphics department did -- was actually create these catalog pages. I didn’t know this yet. But one day, when I walked into the studio, the art crew was in stitches. Our offices were filled with television sets so we could all watch the programming wherever we went, usually with the audio off. I think it was part of some kind of mad indoctrination thing, that and the pale green shag carpeting was enough to make you insane. Anyway, the camera was fixed on a “catalog” page for an item -- I cannot recall what it was --that had just been comped up by one of the sloppier paste-up artists and apparently the type was not adhering to the board. My little art crew was yelling and laughing, “Stop the close-up! You can see the cut marks! Oh no, the type is lifting off the board!“ It was only then that I began to understand what they were talking about. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I called my boss, the Senior VP of Marketing. He returned my call several hours later suggesting I mention this to our new in-house legal counsel who suggested I come over to his office, which was housed in yet another and much fancier office in a much much larger converted strip mall further south along Highway 90. I drove over in my convertible, music blaring, top down. I spent the bulk of my free time that year growing a tan while I drove from department to department. The corporate campus was still two years away. As I explained to Mr. In-house Counsel how we were creating “sales collateral” for the show, his face kept getting redder and redder. He was brand new to the company as well. I explained that up until that day, my third week with the company, I didn’t know that we were producing this material, that we were, in effect, actually defrauding the viewers. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That was the last time we created this kind of material for the shows. No one in the Art Department had any sense that what they were doing might be wrong—or if they did, chose not to say anything about it. In the long run, the company didn’t need to do these Ads. There was enough money and endless credit in those days for anyone who wanted to buy something they saw being hawked, to just pick up the phone and call us. And they did. Creation can be crafty. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><!--EndFragment-->CJ Cohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979435883379846667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7847990354721186420.post-14148579086428731912011-11-12T12:11:00.000-05:002011-11-12T12:11:58.598-05:00Hello again, It's me.<!--StartFragment--> <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNAo4k66KaoDK8Q_JkF0amEEFRVg_jTumrTHVzMpC_nNy5NLIWKJ9v7d4r7jRaVl1AR4C0N02VwhKZF6kyvhYMj2Zd6lnf1TKJhe9iqnkzNuyuOuaZmC90LtPXCUBPiBWcIkkhDa15b1g/s1600/high-school-reunion-diet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNAo4k66KaoDK8Q_JkF0amEEFRVg_jTumrTHVzMpC_nNy5NLIWKJ9v7d4r7jRaVl1AR4C0N02VwhKZF6kyvhYMj2Zd6lnf1TKJhe9iqnkzNuyuOuaZmC90LtPXCUBPiBWcIkkhDa15b1g/s320/high-school-reunion-diet.jpg" width="207" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fantasy advice I needed</td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">There is without doubt, a sweet pleasure in seeing long lost faces from an idyllic childhood after many years. We were a tribe of little children united by our geography and similar socio-economic conditions. Like any other tribe in history, our connection was temporary. The ebb and flow of our shared educational experiences brought us together and apart in the intervening years. We grew up in the woody suburbs in New Jersey at a time when most of our Moms could stay at home and we played outside with our neighborhood friends till the sun began to set; a rite of passage that has come and gone in this post 9/11 world. But for one too brief night in an overdressed hotel, we were transported back to those beginnings; the occasion, our 40<sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">th</span></sup> High School reunion. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Some were faces I had not looked at in over fifty years, never even expected to see again. Some evoked poignant memories long forgotten. While those moments may be fleeting, they are the touchstones that chisel and define us in our journey. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I could write about the memory of singing “I’m ‘Enry the Eighth I am” on the blacktop with my classmates or sharing a fascination with those handsome men from U.N.C.L.E.. I could write about learning the truth of the birds and the bees with my playmates Linda and Jayne from a new girl on the block seeking our friendship, from whom we were then collectively forbidden to play with. I could relive with witnesses that moment in Mrs. Berg’s fifth grade class when we learned our beloved President Kennedy had been shot and we saw that our teachers could cry. There were the field trips to Becker’s Farm, the air raid drills where we hid under our desks to avoid deadly nuclear fallout, the brightly colored S.R.A. leveled readers or the gender defining assembly when all the girls and their mothers watched “Growing Up and Liking It”, a salute to menstruation and none of the boys were invited. But there was barely time to say hello again, how are you? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj46NYGCGSaygjGIGk3bJMfwkGy-vs1jlIz6T2QhiAq4C3HSRzCf_GpHQQWN3lHMA05bMh8oXE5D-rF2wngjfL3Q5qh917Rgmfxz8bRv1fFYbmt9BwTHBND7v-m72u6XsSbxT8aigD60WQ/s1600/graph_recurringreunionq.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj46NYGCGSaygjGIGk3bJMfwkGy-vs1jlIz6T2QhiAq4C3HSRzCf_GpHQQWN3lHMA05bMh8oXE5D-rF2wngjfL3Q5qh917Rgmfxz8bRv1fFYbmt9BwTHBND7v-m72u6XsSbxT8aigD60WQ/s320/graph_recurringreunionq.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">We were some of the last representatives of the Baby Boomer generation at a time before political correctness had constrained the structure of public education. There was no dyslexia, no ADD, no processing issues. There were only kids who were dumb -- evidenced by our trading in our grammar school meritocracy for an academically stratified Junior High School with three other tribes from neighboring schools. It’s hard to imagine what was in the minds of those educators who thought chopping all of us up and labeling us 7-1 (the brightest) to 7- 10 (the least) was somehow beneficial to all the learners. This first demarcation into haves and have nots was based solely on what our teachers thought our potential and destinies were to be. Those relegated to 7-10 became the dropouts and the bullies. How else might one defuse the humiliation they must have felt being placed in the “dumbest” class? We all knew what the numbers meant. We had spent hours in classrooms with these children. Awkward! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiudR3gWafs_5mdupnVmniYeZ7-E7ByvZBG_MydablRZo5gn1xkqEEAz3I4JXnCvHw6HysvOqpBiOnz_I9OTw10JMkDgsfon4Dp6k9B97u8lWZHT3qd0sD5kUrcG_ofbUk19YedEiI199s/s1600/379---Sept-28---Oct-4%252C-2008---high-school-reunion%255B1%255D.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiudR3gWafs_5mdupnVmniYeZ7-E7ByvZBG_MydablRZo5gn1xkqEEAz3I4JXnCvHw6HysvOqpBiOnz_I9OTw10JMkDgsfon4Dp6k9B97u8lWZHT3qd0sD5kUrcG_ofbUk19YedEiI199s/s320/379---Sept-28---Oct-4%252C-2008---high-school-reunion%255B1%255D.png" width="235" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Thankfully, in high school the tracking was somewhat mitigated by our after school interests. The competition for grades or scholarship had nothing to do with these experiences. It was here that we might find like-minded friends. As the Art Editor of our High School Newspaper and Yearbook, as well as a very active member of the Drama club, the friendships forged from these efforts were ones that I carried forward. It was the in the spirit of collaboration, of teamwork – whether on the field or not – that a person’s true mettle might be measured. It is no surprise that those are the people I most wanted to see at this event or continued to see or had already reconnected with somewhere down the line as our lives went off in all kinds of different directions. There were too few of you there on Saturday night, but we will talk again soon. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1E5tiG9Nw3cGwu_Vpay-ZJVSnRciTKeMyZjskqAEsvr8X5bBU0aTHs_f58940p4s1cAs4HFizuDo16xhDwjFamL_P-PCqM_xU377kLFMP_So-VSGH6znt6ucVwixoZejX40abOhA9SZ8/s1600/facebook-high-school-reunion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1E5tiG9Nw3cGwu_Vpay-ZJVSnRciTKeMyZjskqAEsvr8X5bBU0aTHs_f58940p4s1cAs4HFizuDo16xhDwjFamL_P-PCqM_xU377kLFMP_So-VSGH6znt6ucVwixoZejX40abOhA9SZ8/s200/facebook-high-school-reunion.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">A classmate remarked at the reunion that it was like Facebook LIVE! And I think for many it was just that. Facebook took away some of the surprise as well as some of the need to reconnect. We came armed with information about one another already. What was really left to talk about? I was “friended” by close to 30 of my former schoolmates before I even walked into the stuffy hotel. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Nonetheless, seeing all these faces again, in one small space was sweet for they are the keepers of your early memories. Reliving moments with first loves, first play dates and sleepovers is a special treasure while we still have the health and good spirits to do so. Nothing is funnier than laughing about our crazy neighbors (We had so many!), kooky siblings, and wacko parents with people who experienced them as you did. This is a time to share those we lost in the intervening years as well. There is no small comfort in this. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">My advice? Should you choose to attend your own 40th reunion, come with an open heart and mind. Be kind. Be thoughtful. Stay in touch with those who touched your heart and reminded you of those sweetest times. Don’t bother with those who hurt you or offended you. Life’s too short. Then go home and hug your family. And remember, your kids will probably be laughing at you at their own reunion. <o:p></o:p></span></div><!--EndFragment-->CJ Cohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979435883379846667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7847990354721186420.post-44209881017824852372011-11-01T19:47:00.000-04:002011-11-01T19:47:35.672-04:00Occupy THIS!<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">"Democracy doesn't come from the top. It comes from the bottom. Democracy is not what governments do. It's what people do." </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 17px;">~ Howard Zinn</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 17px;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUVx0XBfda8uHl_AzVuQKFqCf3juDi6Z_HLj5RtWR81wuJDUGbUtvHJ-1yWFwbM5tPOHFc2xKBtsNJL-Bkv6MVFKrLxjmvAW6UC-qo4iMNxgftdoTaj9EiJEV-wrie47brqXNcoPSjMOc/s1600/NYPD-OWS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUVx0XBfda8uHl_AzVuQKFqCf3juDi6Z_HLj5RtWR81wuJDUGbUtvHJ-1yWFwbM5tPOHFc2xKBtsNJL-Bkv6MVFKrLxjmvAW6UC-qo4iMNxgftdoTaj9EiJEV-wrie47brqXNcoPSjMOc/s400/NYPD-OWS.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm old enough to feel a deja vu<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 17px;"> <!--StartFragment--> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Having successfully reached what is euphemistically called middle age provides one with a wider berth and a broader and hopefully more informed perspective on the world. So I watch the OWS sit-ins with both anxiety and hope for our collective futures. I’m a parent and that comes with the territory. I know enough about the history of the world to reflect that all great changes in any society began as a disorganized, rather disjointed effort to refocus values and sensibilities. I also know that real change takes time, often decades, to infuse itself into a culture, of the mindset, and that it is never an easy path. The media has provided us with a group of political pundits, who take great pleasure in devaluing and minimizing the OWS group by pointing out its lack of leadership, its convoluted message, and general disorganization. But it is these very factors that give me pause, that make me take this committed collection of malcontents seriously. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I also know that except in times of crisis, like the Great Depression or a world war, government leaders are paradoxically too responsible for things as they are, too invested in the status quo, to actually take on the responsibility for making changes in the “system”, however inequitable or malfunctioning they may be. It takes the unrest of the educated but under utilized, under employed, and under valued masses – the people – to demand change. To those in control, those for whom equilibrium is essential, that is discomforting and frightening. In that group I would include all of the following: Politicians, Economists, University Presidents, Power Brokers, and Bankers. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ppvhXCQa1aswLePNe8QsZ5nkoXdE85FefChbZmRLvbyk9s2ikOBISS3aV59ZFqM8Ku0lQdDTQch3WtELfYTGPwTRxybG2Zp4Rhf1EhVaKhx4gVLX2N-QGWq0RzJ2uBa16BFBasNvfbo/s1600/ows2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="93" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ppvhXCQa1aswLePNe8QsZ5nkoXdE85FefChbZmRLvbyk9s2ikOBISS3aV59ZFqM8Ku0lQdDTQch3WtELfYTGPwTRxybG2Zp4Rhf1EhVaKhx4gVLX2N-QGWq0RzJ2uBa16BFBasNvfbo/s200/ows2.jpg" width="200" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I love Political Graffiti! </span></span></td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I wonder if they understand that history is not destiny -- as much as they would like it to be. Certainly our war efforts have made money, just like it did in World War II, only this time not for the American worker. Privatizing the efforts directed profits only to those companies able to participate. History doesn’t ever tell us where we’re going, only where we have been. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I’ve thought a great deal about the responsibility that historians take on. Imagine the daunting responsibility for interpreting the past through the lens of the present! How does history and our definitions of progress, peace, growth, and development, change through time? Just consider how Christopher Columbus is treated in schools today versus forty years ago. Today he is presented as the person who is responsible for the genocide of millions of Native Americans. In my time, he was treated like a hero. Is that a form of Progress? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Consider first the notion of “Peace” as a worldwide concept. John Lennon’s “Give Peace a chance” kind of Peace. When I was in grammar school, we had drills where we hid under our desks in anticipation of some imagined worldwide nuclear attack from our red counter super-power, Russia. How many of our neighbors built bomb shelters in their suburban backyards? Today’s public school students, who have actually died in their local schools at the hands of classmates, conduct mandatory lockdown exercises every month. A real threat may be sitting in the next desk. What does Peace mean to this generation? What did Peace mean to my generation? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHsz0rwqs_HIWptOzYBz05SnOi6jSMFckASRNhGOur-wJ7AaHki5ZEKjfbYD16QKHuWMbESlo_WXAqDYtTPuEe6Isp0mm0bmhAQFVKnyvG5V2idwLbo8dy5AQkyz8cp0z7ddlwYWgplGU/s1600/tumblr_lj815oae991qf35ako1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHsz0rwqs_HIWptOzYBz05SnOi6jSMFckASRNhGOur-wJ7AaHki5ZEKjfbYD16QKHuWMbESlo_WXAqDYtTPuEe6Isp0mm0bmhAQFVKnyvG5V2idwLbo8dy5AQkyz8cp0z7ddlwYWgplGU/s320/tumblr_lj815oae991qf35ako1_500.jpg" width="320" /></span></span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I might have defined Peace as military alliances between nations under threat from mutual enemies. It was -- Us versus Them. But is that definition of Peace still relevant in a world filled with millions of more literate and diverse populations living within single nation-states? Are our borders going to remain even relevant when technology links us all in an instant? Will our distinct cultures provide a better demarcation of on which side of any political question we may fall? Should we allow ourselves to be reduced to our differences? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">More fundamentally, isn’t it less expensive to live in a peace filled world than in a world at war, and shouldn’t that be the goal of our leaders whose vision must transcend the needs of the few for the needs of all?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Even kids know this. Since I frequently have the opportunity to work with teenagers, I asked a random collection of 14 to 17 year olds how they would define Peace and Progress. Here’s a sampling: <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Romi age 16 –“I believe peace is economic and societal stability. I believe progress is expansion and a fairer but looser system that protects workers from the decisions of big banks but also allows those who are driven to make a profit from their ideas and talents. Progress also allows those less fortunate into the market and to have a larger hand in the economy.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Ellen age 15- Peace is… “When there is no war because war costs money. Progress is when new aspects of technology and business are created. This allows the world to move forward and grown into a new version of society.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Dan age 16 – “Peace is no involvement in wars inside or with foreign nations. Progress means competition in inventive technological and practical developments. Keeping checks and balances in commerce and avoiding monopolies.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Greg age 14 – “There is no war, no draft and all militarys (sic) home. This is an obtainable progress. The government has achieved the goals they set forth. Progress is a state in which the economy prospers and commerce increases. A state in which money and assets are generally equally spread out and most are content.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMCnrA00vUrCHWHFGUpA7C7yAmqh5mz0kwr1MxCU7VZoo5ZYRroAxP0Ez1dPc5Cr2T_2hZmgt76VSPdKmk8DtCcsSA2HmMTriPlF57lZQW_aIblAnq0m7Po3sUNlJG4jaUVvI59qz7YlQ/s1600/Why-did-Thomas-Paine-Write-Create-Common-Sense.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMCnrA00vUrCHWHFGUpA7C7yAmqh5mz0kwr1MxCU7VZoo5ZYRroAxP0Ez1dPc5Cr2T_2hZmgt76VSPdKmk8DtCcsSA2HmMTriPlF57lZQW_aIblAnq0m7Po3sUNlJG4jaUVvI59qz7YlQ/s320/Why-did-Thomas-Paine-Write-Create-Common-Sense.png" width="208" /></span></span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Those participating in OWS protests across the nation and the world are, I predict, only the first wave in what will be a long hard road to a new future in which Free Trade becomes Fair Trade and in which education stresses collaborations and critical thinking to build a better tomorrow for everyone. Our youth already understand this. For everyone that leaves the site of a protest, I predict that they will be replaced. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In 1792 the brilliant Thomas Paine said, “My country is the world and my religion is to do good.” </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The time will come when leaders will emerge, when the message will be heard, and real changes will happen, because that is what history is. And it starts now. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><!--EndFragment-->CJ Cohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979435883379846667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7847990354721186420.post-82826677738531876272011-10-27T18:56:00.000-04:002011-10-27T18:56:47.734-04:00I drive me crazy<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYSNoo5NZDerObP_fp96nBylBQgOQoZay1H-7GHILgORhjC03Cni8_3ZCseQulDihik-uOYNdy-M6rhKKsBietcXEKaNvyPAwXTq2EC2NzHPB1WSUgPdz8GAjy9CDhkORd1rvMBeBhyphenhyphenuA/s1600/Pimp-My-Ride.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYSNoo5NZDerObP_fp96nBylBQgOQoZay1H-7GHILgORhjC03Cni8_3ZCseQulDihik-uOYNdy-M6rhKKsBietcXEKaNvyPAwXTq2EC2NzHPB1WSUgPdz8GAjy9CDhkORd1rvMBeBhyphenhyphenuA/s320/Pimp-My-Ride.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Classic 80's Graphics was SO cheesy!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">I’ve been hearing about America’s love affair with the automobile for years and I must admit, there are moments when I see a car that makes me want one of them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But honestly, automobiles have been one of three things in my life: The shortest distance between two points, something else that I don’t understand how it operates, and a place to listen loudly to music that I’m the only one in my nuclear cluster likes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not sure that’s what the American automobile industry wants me to take away from their efforts, but it is what it is.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p> <!--StartFragment--> </o:p></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUw1u0qx6QursAtviob09IiyQVFsjW4ueQ8ziE9stgzUHmtcyNvUTeZG8rNcLFPTVgpLr0mwdFqB-iE1djG9vsotsWky32TTu6sXWm-J2oIU8K7IkN3Pr41UG64eqPDVehyiHQ6n-ZtK4/s1600/speedracer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUw1u0qx6QursAtviob09IiyQVFsjW4ueQ8ziE9stgzUHmtcyNvUTeZG8rNcLFPTVgpLr0mwdFqB-iE1djG9vsotsWky32TTu6sXWm-J2oIU8K7IkN3Pr41UG64eqPDVehyiHQ6n-ZtK4/s200/speedracer.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thank you Johnny, my Speed Racer!<br />
<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">I learned to drive after most people my age.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was always a late bloomer and it wasn’t until I graduated college that I actually got around to getting my license and learning how to drive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have to thank my younger brother for this. My first car was a slightly used little red Toyota Celica with a stick shift. I had no idea how to use the stick but my then 14-year-old brother apparently did and he became my driver’s ed teacher. We drove around for hours until I mastered the technique. I still remember being in the middle of an intersection somewhere in Livingston and being unable to get the car into gear. My brother was in the passenger seat screaming at me and I was laughing so hard, I was crying. I could not for the life of me, get it into gear. Once I mastered the technique though, I loved driving a stick and the control I had.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p> <!--StartFragment--> </o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Later on in life I bought a white on white Volkswagen Cabriolet convertible, also a stick. I loved it. It was the perfect beach car for those years I lived in Clearwater Beach. I still owned in when I moved back to New York City in 1989 and would put the top down and blast the heat in the middle of the winter driving down 5<sup>th</sup> Avenue with the top down and the music up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wheee! <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWqqMd3YNJti7vS8r6ALpvOt5SRIXK5dfKXgy4lWNsnWVry810A0jRD4-vsdasu2B3Xk3SjYXeE6iO5qt-xNnjj5FQ-K0DKG1WHpyy4U5g3mZZ976BbNs6n1iRt0I09F8LWyqzSqoahWs/s1600/Knight-Rider.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWqqMd3YNJti7vS8r6ALpvOt5SRIXK5dfKXgy4lWNsnWVry810A0jRD4-vsdasu2B3Xk3SjYXeE6iO5qt-xNnjj5FQ-K0DKG1WHpyy4U5g3mZZ976BbNs6n1iRt0I09F8LWyqzSqoahWs/s200/Knight-Rider.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Hoff and K.I.T.T. -- still cheesy! </td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">What I recall most about the horror of car ownership, and it continues to this day, is the headache of registration, licensing and license renewal at the Motor Vehicle offices. When my husband and I left Manhattan to come to the burbs about 14 years ago, we had to get New Jersey licenses. That meant taking the written test again. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><!--StartFragment--> </div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0nQmG9lo3LeBAJdfmp5ckQw6JNbXVRe384p04rebjA_UTEgLunRdAgrirRnCaegvYIjwBL6ISJDacyiqIAWew4y5gL1lsAujtPAYNW9mZTD1O17J4ahpcQMo3zGoUH0Iio8u64F7VnXY/s1600/movie_future.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0nQmG9lo3LeBAJdfmp5ckQw6JNbXVRe384p04rebjA_UTEgLunRdAgrirRnCaegvYIjwBL6ISJDacyiqIAWew4y5gL1lsAujtPAYNW9mZTD1O17J4ahpcQMo3zGoUH0Iio8u64F7VnXY/s1600/movie_future.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">DeLorean made it cheesy, not Doc Brown.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Now that my son has reached the age of permit, another series of visits was required to get all the forms and tests completed. On a recently Saturday morning I was back at Wayne, our closest MV office, to pick up the red tags that we needed to affix to our license plates to indicate there was a “student driver” at the wheel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fact that an in-person visit is required to do this, rather than an online order process ($4 per car) just shows how backwards and user unfriendly this system is. The offices open at 8 a.m. so I was in their parking lot by 7:20, anticipating only a small crowd.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve seen that line wrapped twice around the building and it’s not a pretty sight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the hour drew near a jovial face appeared at the door with a pencil tucked behind her ear. With an efficiency that would be envied by any branch of the military, she had this motley collection of now about 50 coffee-starved souls, sorted and assigned to various positions flanking the front door. Then she announced, “ I’m sorry, we have no pens in the building. If you have one with you, fine. Otherwise I would recommend that you go to your cars now and retrieve one.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><!--StartFragment--> </div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi__pLlP0mXpnyDYC91xeBbMDX-FEiJ2Qt9DziLNV-AmuvJMhn6vMjlLYC7Me408ReB6Lvn9E9d5zofX5LCGYDaUItirbeJAVm-uUHkfhLhJ5zHWAuYRtOE9t3B2gw97B1pXNp2zaClWck/s1600/movie_ghostbusters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi__pLlP0mXpnyDYC91xeBbMDX-FEiJ2Qt9DziLNV-AmuvJMhn6vMjlLYC7Me408ReB6Lvn9E9d5zofX5LCGYDaUItirbeJAVm-uUHkfhLhJ5zHWAuYRtOE9t3B2gw97B1pXNp2zaClWck/s1600/movie_ghostbusters.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Who you gonna call? </td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Standing behind me (I was placed in the first position by the door since my request required no paperwork! Oh, happy day!) , was a well-groomed young man who turned to me and said in thick Germanic accent, “I thought this vas a first world nation!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No,” I replied with shame. “You’re in New Jersey, the most densely populated state in the country and our Governor has apparently reduced the pen budget.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Aha!” he replied. “I have a driver’s license for Hong Kong, for Europe and even one for parts of Africa but I have never seen anything like this.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Welcome to the new poorer America my friend. It will drive you crazy.” <o:p></o:p></div><!--EndFragment--> <br />
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<!--EndFragment-->CJ Cohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979435883379846667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7847990354721186420.post-75783526556681382792011-10-18T18:31:00.000-04:002011-10-18T18:31:02.503-04:00It's Reunion time!<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9dzJSfxS0_QLuD9Tev2f_x93zhZ52X1FTUp__w_GKqGpOUNJV6WbeCqysNlp9ivuxXVKrHvUeALGWOaRUhfLodHHHxDyltkpcXGHlzd3tCj62HH__251lBYh-i_1h5O44hjuwNAehsAM/s1600/HighSchoolReunion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="146" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9dzJSfxS0_QLuD9Tev2f_x93zhZ52X1FTUp__w_GKqGpOUNJV6WbeCqysNlp9ivuxXVKrHvUeALGWOaRUhfLodHHHxDyltkpcXGHlzd3tCj62HH__251lBYh-i_1h5O44hjuwNAehsAM/s320/HighSchoolReunion.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coming to your future. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>In about three weeks time I will be joining a group of people I haven't seen, for the most part, for more than twenty years and in many cases, more than forty years. Yes, it's High School Reunion time again. I have decidedly mixed feelings about attending. What distinguishes this meet-up, besides my growing older and wider, is the playing field is somewhat more leveled by our respective ages. While we refer to ourselves and are referred to as solidly middle-aged, reaching two years shy of sixty seems a bit further along on life's journey than midpoint.<br />
<br />
There will be those attending who have aged well. There will be those attending who have, with surgical assistance, maintained a more youthful countenance and there will be those who, suffering from a combination of ill health, genetics, plumb bad luck and questionable lifestyle choices, have crept closer to the decrepitude that comes with old age.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEHCvUqRhre1cUolo066gjhNFRopiqek0ztVh-fjQxFw4yj0NAh9LvXnwvGJkkiIXmJL62bt49p3X3OAVQrNWT_J0yPO49IE0Ce53E6vKOUWLSVHEVHOYkUSH7fJkrFWW_yGNeEalYpxk/s1600/iStock_000006428030XSmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEHCvUqRhre1cUolo066gjhNFRopiqek0ztVh-fjQxFw4yj0NAh9LvXnwvGJkkiIXmJL62bt49p3X3OAVQrNWT_J0yPO49IE0Ce53E6vKOUWLSVHEVHOYkUSH7fJkrFWW_yGNeEalYpxk/s320/iStock_000006428030XSmall.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dressed for Dinner.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Lest you think I'm being cynical, I can assure you, old age is not for sissies. I see examples of about once a week when I visit my mother in her nursing home. I try to time my visits around meal times. I do this for a variety of reasons. First, because it provides my son and I with an opportunity to engage others in conversation with her and we are then not bombarded with or limited to her repetitive repertoire of complaints and intimate ailment inventory. Each meal there serves as a kind of reunion of sorts. Names and faces that may have been forgotten are recalled, though they very well might have last met less than 24 hours earlier.<br />
<br />
Some residents dress for dinner, some scream for it and some silently wait for their meals draped in their lobster bib-like accessory, mandatory dress code for both lunch and dinner. Her tablemates are an eclectic assortment of aged and infirm, joining us on their own steam supported by metal walkers or rolling in on their self-propelled four wheel carriages. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeePNOZR8g-eshz1NddklD1dMjEoBAz8qZUaonYcVqsSf8wY-02pUS5qXIspfzcZOUUULf59ynINnPj1TNtqH444ER53_veNnEoITsJCmNA0TWdwN4vNNYx7-DLRyOM7KynWOQKe9qaSE/s1600/costco.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeePNOZR8g-eshz1NddklD1dMjEoBAz8qZUaonYcVqsSf8wY-02pUS5qXIspfzcZOUUULf59ynINnPj1TNtqH444ER53_veNnEoITsJCmNA0TWdwN4vNNYx7-DLRyOM7KynWOQKe9qaSE/s200/costco.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Most have trouble hearing and I wonder if after all those hours I spent at rock concerts, driving with blasting car stereos and now listening to my iPod, will have an early deteriorating effect on this most fragile sense.<br />
<br />
In some ways it might be better. The hate speech and vitriol that fills and fuels what passes as News today frequently feels toxic. Perhaps in not being able to hear it, I might finally reach that Nivanian state of bliss, aka ignorance.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNCOgcE4PEqXXXfcaLW-bnrS310m3os7vZAVJ1orqoWq9T3q-UV3NPCY1R_9S_mkSgr7GIbxAtpFo0M7U21nX3myTbRcCU5JIONv0ShF8OaEYwai0CiWGbygB14gh22UsLNaCaw2Bujo0/s1600/Dobby__Harry_Potter_by_Abydell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNCOgcE4PEqXXXfcaLW-bnrS310m3os7vZAVJ1orqoWq9T3q-UV3NPCY1R_9S_mkSgr7GIbxAtpFo0M7U21nX3myTbRcCU5JIONv0ShF8OaEYwai0CiWGbygB14gh22UsLNaCaw2Bujo0/s200/Dobby__Harry_Potter_by_Abydell.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Poor little Dobby</td></tr>
</tbody></table>When my mother first arrived at her new home, my son and I joined her at her first dinner. All meals are served in a spacious dining room and seating is assigned. As I stood behind her, at the next table a wizened woman who resembled Dobby, the house elf from Harry Potter, peered up at me from her power wheelchair.<br />
<br />
"Hey", she cackled, " You're new here. Why are you here?"<br />
"This is my mother"I explained. "She just arrived today."<br />
"Really? Why did you bring her here of all places? This place is awful. The food is disgusting. It's a hellhole!"<br />
"Really?"<br />
"Yes, yes it is. How did you find this place?"<br />
"I just googled hellhole."<br />
"Aha hah hah."<br />
<br />
Those hard of hearing residents in the vicinity could hear well enough to "get" my response and appreciate it. It was comforting to learn that while our hearing may fade away, a sense of humor appears to be eternal. I do hope we all bring it to the reunion.CJ Cohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979435883379846667noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7847990354721186420.post-45186891173511437802011-10-09T11:52:00.000-04:002011-10-09T11:52:56.351-04:00iCarol<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDP326OjfEelcTtHSK2bjdW-lVgxyHBsU5eeKR6ECKnaTr3XRUzrFsYm_dhyphenhyphen3zgDmq5E5isYGW7KXGa-V_4JukT9UoXgB0x4yOzuD7uykkaHznK4jNvko_IHsLicJokomja7P35Qno6OI/s1600/Stevejobs.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDP326OjfEelcTtHSK2bjdW-lVgxyHBsU5eeKR6ECKnaTr3XRUzrFsYm_dhyphenhyphen3zgDmq5E5isYGW7KXGa-V_4JukT9UoXgB0x4yOzuD7uykkaHznK4jNvko_IHsLicJokomja7P35Qno6OI/s1600/Stevejobs.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">iCEO Jobs and his iPhone</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: 0in;">This week we all lost too early, a brilliant and brusque visionary, Steve Jobs. Others have who knew him have written beautifully of his contributions and human foibles. I’m not going to do that. I am just going to point out his affect on me and that’s why this is iCarol.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: 0in;">What I’ve been thinking about is names; mine in particular and others in general. Consumer products with names like the iPhone, the Pentium Chip (see this week’s New Yorker magazine to learn more about how this name came to be.), and Kleenex exist throughout their lifetimes with occasional modifications, marketed as improvements and iterations, but we don’t get that chance. I am and was Carol. Not Carol, new and improved or Carol One or lowcal Carol. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: 0in;">I think that’s a huge missed opportunity for humankind. All the other Carol’s that I meet are at least 50 years old. It’s the name of an old person. It didn’t age well. I resent that. I didn’t even get to have a vote on my name. No focus groups were held to determine whether Carol was the right brand name for me. If we are being told today, we are our brand, I don’t want to be saddled with a name that puts me in a doddering package.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: 0in;">And clearly, I am not the same as I was 50 years ago even if my name was the right name at the time. I want a new and fresh name, something that captures who I am right now, that has aged well.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia_iA1XCB8-rZa-A2yodzmAg9lhYH3ocH5GpjQdfmsV2azUSq4an415C4m43YkAg6de6pZdudnUHaTzPTndoftcX6M1XuaUWG42lOU7TwyG75UmexU5hrdimSL_S-4qFLeTvAaS2NhZFw/s1600/icecreamcones.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia_iA1XCB8-rZa-A2yodzmAg9lhYH3ocH5GpjQdfmsV2azUSq4an415C4m43YkAg6de6pZdudnUHaTzPTndoftcX6M1XuaUWG42lOU7TwyG75UmexU5hrdimSL_S-4qFLeTvAaS2NhZFw/s1600/icecreamcones.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cousin Ice Cream Cone</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: 0in;">I experiment with this notion when I work with young children. My married name is Cohn, as in Ice Cream Cone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is not the two syllable Cohen or Co-hen. Just the short and sweet cone so I tell the little ones that my name is Mrs. Ice Cream Cone. I do this for both practical and educationally sound reasons. Practical because it’s likely they will remember my name and educationally sound because research shows that happy learners actually learn more and that success breeds success. Part of what makes learners happy is being successful. In this environment, Mrs. Ice Cream Cone clearly works for me but I’m not sure it’s right anywhere else. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhORXKsO-uPHSR11dLWSJOC6FYqCc7h0XQlj4wGcVOACR4D4qHeDlmEBxpZSfy8l9FB2iPmQrfje3lqHtau1uBU2-EVvY7cS3bOLjqiS3TQWT0tKdvl5m_VVCgcUJ2yGjYxU3MTtsKHoqU/s1600/trafficcone.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhORXKsO-uPHSR11dLWSJOC6FYqCc7h0XQlj4wGcVOACR4D4qHeDlmEBxpZSfy8l9FB2iPmQrfje3lqHtau1uBU2-EVvY7cS3bOLjqiS3TQWT0tKdvl5m_VVCgcUJ2yGjYxU3MTtsKHoqU/s1600/trafficcone.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Uncle Traffic Cohn</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: 0in;">When I was pregnant with my son, we did get lots of helpful and not so helpful ideas for names from friends and acquaintances. In no particular order or preference these included: Gengis Cohn, Shaka Cohn, Traffic Cohn, Kubla Cohn, Ice Cream Cohn, Safety Cohn, Waffle Cohn, Soft serve Cohn, Pine Cohn, and Snow Cohn. Our favorite came from a friend of my brother’s who suggested Jimmy Crack Cohn. While entertaining, we rejected them all and went with Miles which appears to be working just fine and seems like a good fit.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: 0in;">So for those of you who know me only as an adult or know me best from childhood or those adolescent years, please don’t think of me as a Carol. Suggestions and recommendations for an updated, better name are being collected right now and I welcome your input.</div><div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpLast" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><!--EndFragment-->CJ Cohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979435883379846667noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7847990354721186420.post-15533488348650013342011-08-01T12:48:00.000-04:002011-08-01T12:48:42.830-04:00Help! My 16 year old is calling from a Mexican Prison<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq0oZFvWdAbDWfDyBEpSixGZKSjmsl5Ugbp7QRXCaHW2dTXdqZM3K58q_krdKYde0Ftjcwho4SBtqL99t0G_oPLF7EBLVDTYUCaSWPhBHwL9owEU4Bz7GdbMVermwIqGHvq_Z-E3lth5s/s1600/prison.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq0oZFvWdAbDWfDyBEpSixGZKSjmsl5Ugbp7QRXCaHW2dTXdqZM3K58q_krdKYde0Ftjcwho4SBtqL99t0G_oPLF7EBLVDTYUCaSWPhBHwL9owEU4Bz7GdbMVermwIqGHvq_Z-E3lth5s/s320/prison.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Visions of Terror </td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">I’m sure all of you at some point have received an email from a diplomat or wealthy foreigner in Nigeria who is asking for a mere $300 to help them move millions of dollars from his homeland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He graciously offers a percentage of this as a reward for helping him in a letter typed in all caps with gross spelling and grammatical errors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Here’s the latest twist in our too connected world and it happened to us just this week. My In-laws live in Southern California. We live in New Jersey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My In-laws are independent and both over 85, God bless them. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Imagine my mother-in-law’s surprise when the phone rang in the middle of the day and it was a young man who said, “Hello Grandma?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s Miles (my son’s name). I’m in Cancun.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My mother-in-law has had the good fortune of traveling just about everywhere in the world and launched into a chat about her visiting Cancun before the fancy hotels were built and how interesting the ruins of Tulum are and not to miss them.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then this young man, my supposed son, said, “Listen Grandma, I’ve got a problem. I went to Mexico with a friend of mine who won a free 4 day trip to Cancun and took me with him.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“How terrific!”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Well the thing is, his cousin picked us up at the airport but we were stopped by the police as we were leaving and his cousin had a little bag of pot that the police found. I didn’t have any drugs and I only get one phone call and I don’t want to call my parents and upset them. “<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh my.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At this point another person spoke, identifying himself as someone from the consulate office (really, in Cancun?) and assuring my In-Laws that Miles was not in any serious legal trouble, but he needed to post bail so he could leave the country. They were told that they could wire $3400 from their local Western Union, which they knew was in a Rite Aid drug store very close to them. Yes, the callers knew this ahead of time. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Miles” now got back on the phone with my Mother-in-law and begged her to please not tell his parents. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXcfFEEgAA_A2wtQKty5_DqBpn4BCiZkgtBMow1P5c8a9sc4EkuddqbPjnymaj8zlvsfaKoz_tQZAXvHzfuFrrXTE1t2umS19oKctsuR-4bGjubwNW3GKvqmX7JVm5ul-hLiZmkCC7uSg/s1600/0_61_012008_drug_cartel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXcfFEEgAA_A2wtQKty5_DqBpn4BCiZkgtBMow1P5c8a9sc4EkuddqbPjnymaj8zlvsfaKoz_tQZAXvHzfuFrrXTE1t2umS19oKctsuR-4bGjubwNW3GKvqmX7JVm5ul-hLiZmkCC7uSg/s1600/0_61_012008_drug_cartel.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Walk of Shame</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">My mother-in-law assured him that she “crossed her heart, she would never tell them and noted that “Miles” sounded different.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“That’s because he’s been crying M’am” the other voice on the line said. He then instructed her to wire the money to the Western Union office in Mexico City.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Why Mexico City if you’re in Cancun?” she asked.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The gentleman told her that Miles' lawyer, a Mr. Goldberg, had his main offices in Mexico City but if she had any further questions, to please call him and gave her a phone number. He added that since “Miles” had no drugs he could get out but they shouldn’t say anything about drugs when they send the money to Mexico because it could be put on his record</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She then went to my father-in-law and recounted the whole tale. My father-in-law picked up the phone and called the number she had been given.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This gentleman answered the phone and when my father-in-law asked if this was a scam was told,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">“No sir, it certainly is not.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, my very addled in-laws drove to their bank, took out $4000 in cash (anticipating fees and incidentals their dear grandchild might need) and drove to their local Rite Aid per <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>instructed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unfortunately, there was no parking available so they drove down the block as bit to their local Trader Joes. This lot charged for parking but if you got your ticket stamped at Trader Joes, parking is free. So naturally my mother-in-law went into Trader Joes and bought a bottle of wine to get her ticket stamped. I should mention that they are both Depression babies and watch what they spend very carefully.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">They were naturally very upset about the whole and had a conversation about whether they should call us or not. They didn’t want to tell my husband that his son is in trouble-- since my Mother in law swore to “Miles” they would take this to their grave -- but they decided to call and check to see if Miles was out of the country without revealing why. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">While she was in the store, my father-in-law called my husband.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Ric, Hi! It’s Dad. I’m just calling to make sure you got the package I sent last week.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh, hi Dad, how are you? Yes we did, thanks. ”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“So how is everybody doing?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Everyone is fine. We’re excited about coming to visit you in two weeks. Carol is out grocery shopping and Miles is at his friend Richie’s house.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Really?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s not in Mexico?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What are you talking about Dad?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMq7HXO_THVP6aMFE7TGKXK1MEfLxGngmFnXa1yR_eWWU9SIaH4qDzxmk6bZDOo5RZJeMf1VAINe2Pm1GuGAuM7XokMSvcC0epmlNQ4Gv2PwUvrfkGs4SpvzOIrDkJwxfQEpgfNbniRiU/s1600/The_Frito_Bandito_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMq7HXO_THVP6aMFE7TGKXK1MEfLxGngmFnXa1yR_eWWU9SIaH4qDzxmk6bZDOo5RZJeMf1VAINe2Pm1GuGAuM7XokMSvcC0epmlNQ4Gv2PwUvrfkGs4SpvzOIrDkJwxfQEpgfNbniRiU/s1600/The_Frito_Bandito_7.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A gentle villian </td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">And then the cat was out of the bag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So if my father in law hadn’t made the call or my husband not happen to be home, some guys in Mexico would be $4000 richer.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When my son heard the story he called his grandparents and thanked them for helping fake Miles out. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Hey, if you were willing to send fake Miles $4000. Would you like to send it real Miles?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Ha! Only if you’re calling from a Mexican prison kid. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><!--EndFragment-->CJ Cohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979435883379846667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7847990354721186420.post-80341885165440736882011-07-16T06:13:00.000-04:002011-07-16T06:13:23.058-04:00That which is Sublime.<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgetLzsH3hV0Fv2hSwyuX1AfQEHyGF2lETlOs8_8n3hBzLpE9fHiNMr9loTZcpK0-GA8tdJYyfXaUoZr4Do8VmQ2iayjeE6pcMusO6IHHhqb9Ro_xSlkSu9WMLVu_n863Bneh_kLK_pGW4/s1600/the-tree-of-life-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgetLzsH3hV0Fv2hSwyuX1AfQEHyGF2lETlOs8_8n3hBzLpE9fHiNMr9loTZcpK0-GA8tdJYyfXaUoZr4Do8VmQ2iayjeE6pcMusO6IHHhqb9Ro_xSlkSu9WMLVu_n863Bneh_kLK_pGW4/s320/the-tree-of-life-2.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">I have great respect for language.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I worship at the altars of great writers who craft each sentence as part of an assemblage --- which when we step back, takes our breath away. How do they know which words belong? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is my intention when writing my little blog, to respect my readers and give them something worth reading both in thought and deed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whatever the subject, I try to provide my readers with honest and comfortably digestible copy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve written about the power of music, the joys of theatre, the engagement of movies, becoming a Mother, honoring friends, celebrating artists and even the weather. I’ll write about almost anything that strikes my fancy in the moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Writing a blog is like exercising. It keeps my skills sharp for the big projects.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I’m not kidding myself. These little vignettes are not great literature. I’d like to produce great literature someday and I’m working on that, slowly. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgF7s4TrFMs5b5Fyzkbi6Dh74qPt4wMlEc0P31Nzo-joxoY_P1elbBKDaWdAUMvBN1lyLSa9s8zN5Tv07azVjSEC0SAUBDtJXVcJsHCPaLP9UccUg3lC6eXV-Bu8kaYA5GZW1sRakxHQ4/s1600/snwstorm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgF7s4TrFMs5b5Fyzkbi6Dh74qPt4wMlEc0P31Nzo-joxoY_P1elbBKDaWdAUMvBN1lyLSa9s8zN5Tv07azVjSEC0SAUBDtJXVcJsHCPaLP9UccUg3lC6eXV-Bu8kaYA5GZW1sRakxHQ4/s320/snwstorm.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">JMW Turner's Snowstorm at Sea</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">When I was in college, I took a class entitled “The Philosophy of Painting”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was an introduction to the philosophies of Aesthetics. My professor, whose name I cannot recall, was a rather round Danish fellow who obsessively paced the floor and never made eye contact with any of his students.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have a vivid memory of his pastel scarves, long blonde hair, fierce blue eyes and rather sweaty forehead. He spoke with flourishes and passion while his ten students raised their eyebrows. He was absolutely bonkers and Ludwig Wittgenstein was required reading. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you are unfamiliar with Ludwig, I would certainly understand. While he is considered one of the great philosophers of this century, most of us don’t have the time or inclination to include Philosophy in our Must Dos.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I include him in this blog because what he said provides a framework for talking about <i>The Tree of Life</i>, the actual subject of this blog. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">Here are three of his gems:<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>1. A picture is a fact.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">How can we deny that which we see?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wittgenstein talks about vision as a personal experience. He famously asked, if I see (the color) Red and you see Red, how can we ever be sure we are seeing the same color? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does my vision of Red look the same as your vision of Red?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is the actual color relevant? <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE6af9ZaM3h2jlULeIKihXRm_E8vcHfEHTwGs9L-rH1NrkKOr4v_1fO1iRch22eomb7yFh43no1rkTfSP33eAOuLEuRga0kBELUmJ3W2g7pez77VZXRhsAHe5RtbFde_IgMFa67P964WY/s1600/Sunset_JMW_Turner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE6af9ZaM3h2jlULeIKihXRm_E8vcHfEHTwGs9L-rH1NrkKOr4v_1fO1iRch22eomb7yFh43no1rkTfSP33eAOuLEuRga0kBELUmJ3W2g7pez77VZXRhsAHe5RtbFde_IgMFa67P964WY/s320/Sunset_JMW_Turner.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">JMW Turner's Sunset</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">2. What can be shown cannot be said.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">One might consider this a more profound consideration of a picture being worth a 1000 words. Wittgenstein considers that what we see is unconstrained by the limitations of language, that there is a distinct visual vocabulary.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">3. The limits of my language means the limits of my world.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">This is my personal favorite because it helps me to recognize the limitations of a single culture as constrained by its vocabulary. If a particular phenomenon does not occur within a culture, does it even require a name or if there is something that has a profound impact or presence in a culture, is just one name for it enough? One example, Greenland has 38 words for snow. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBx4B6EQx7MwJAv6axprz21vU9tkRThyphenhyphenAOGDPpMDSukcc6WSzNk6xD4D8yPceSM5G_2JLqYllTZpKkOc_5mri437fNLGZn2dK2tB4Hx553AsORWE_8zIP200LBpd28OPZ8fjhZxEPfLnE/s1600/tree-of-life-photo-sean-penn2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBx4B6EQx7MwJAv6axprz21vU9tkRThyphenhyphenAOGDPpMDSukcc6WSzNk6xD4D8yPceSM5G_2JLqYllTZpKkOc_5mri437fNLGZn2dK2tB4Hx553AsORWE_8zIP200LBpd28OPZ8fjhZxEPfLnE/s320/tree-of-life-photo-sean-penn2.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sean says little</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">So here’s my dilemma – I don’t want to diminish the experience of <i>The Tree of Life </i>by reducing it to words.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I cannot possess the vocabulary to do it justice. As I sat in the theatre I so wanted to capture my experience of seeing with my words, to be in the moment, to be present.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not often that a word like beatitude or transcendent are experiential or even appropriate. Yet there they were on the screen in front of me. There is Commerce and there is Art and the difference was never so apparent to me as it was witnessing this film, a haunting and melancholy and largely narrative-free depiction of the selective nature of memory, of the profundity of loss, of the complexities of love, of the scars of disappointment, and the miracle that is creation. Yes, I’m talking about a movie. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">It’s not a film for everyone. It’s two and a half hours long and will not make for a great social exchange at its conclusion. I would never call it a date movie. It speaks to each viewer intimately. It is more like standing in front of a Van Gogh or JMW Turner or walking into a Cathedral or witnessing the landscape of Yosemite and your breath is taken away and you want to hold on to that feeling in silent solitude. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtvZnw3ERkF0TRCPBTjGNOSxROl7NfHgbJ0gSTgNpuEv7Ak8z83kINueTeymnk3slA5zZxpBTeaNVW5Z3noL5UwG8R24KmodsdyIchDXIWAPaEyVlDmWhnjltVVfpf3OxJfOTk7Q4A-ZE/s1600/0606-lrainer-movie-film-review-TREE-OF-LIFE_full_600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtvZnw3ERkF0TRCPBTjGNOSxROl7NfHgbJ0gSTgNpuEv7Ak8z83kINueTeymnk3slA5zZxpBTeaNVW5Z3noL5UwG8R24KmodsdyIchDXIWAPaEyVlDmWhnjltVVfpf3OxJfOTk7Q4A-ZE/s320/0606-lrainer-movie-film-review-TREE-OF-LIFE_full_600.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brad the Dad -- unlimited by words </td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">They are those few moments in life when what we witness fills us with a sense of wonderment, and demonstrates the presence of a higher being or power, an intelligence which surpasses our expectations of understanding. We bask in that profundity and recognize genius. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">There are very limited moments when we can take the marvelous word sublime off of its special mantel and apply it. <i>The Tree of Life</i> is one of those moments. It is that which is sublime. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Philosophy is a battle against the bewitchment of our intelligence by means of language.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>– Ludwig Wittgenstein <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><!--EndFragment-->CJ Cohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979435883379846667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7847990354721186420.post-7717458301177410882011-07-08T20:37:00.001-04:002011-07-08T20:42:47.330-04:00On the FRINGE!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqphfnN1XZHLh1sDb3_u_AeibDjjTXufuPK_rkkzGlsifs17vfiBcPxkDJq2ogIKEYG3knGDhPlCE1Ej-nwQ9dZD-tmqmOBQQxfSTnxJ947OkVAZ2Y9iq80sZVx12C2gBVFpPMyU-qEJE/s1600/images-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqphfnN1XZHLh1sDb3_u_AeibDjjTXufuPK_rkkzGlsifs17vfiBcPxkDJq2ogIKEYG3knGDhPlCE1Ej-nwQ9dZD-tmqmOBQQxfSTnxJ947OkVAZ2Y9iq80sZVx12C2gBVFpPMyU-qEJE/s1600/images-1.jpeg" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">I am frequently drawn to crazy and if you are a Facebook friend of mine, it should come as no surprise to you that I am slavishly devoted to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">FRINGE,</i> a science fiction television series created by J.J.Abrams (creator of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">LOST</i>), Alex Kurtzman (co-writer of the most recent and wonderful <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">STAR TREK</i> and upcoming <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">COWBOYS AND ALIENS</i>) and Robert Orci (writer and producer of television standouts, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Alias</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Xena:Warrior Princess</i>).</span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px;"> With these three extraordinary talents combining forces behind the scenes to create </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">FRINGE</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px;">, the results are an intelligent, clever, engaging, original show with strong female characters in a genre usually dominated by male heroes. It has been described as a combination </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">X Files, Twilight Zone </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px;">and</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Altered States</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px;"> but what </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">FRINGE</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px;"> possesses that those three did not, is a campy awareness of itself and a broad sense of humor. As earnest and sincere as these scientists and investigators of the "Fringe Division" are; charged with the task of saving our world, the writers relieve the tension with juvenile jokes and character self-parody.</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoBodyText"></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Consider this exchange between mad scientist Dr. Walter Bishop and his son Peter:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Peter Bishop: You brought your own sweetener? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Dr. Walter Bishop: Don't be ridiculous. My medication. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Peter Bishop: You're not on any medication, Walter. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Dr. Walter Bishop: Of course I am. I've been making it myself in the lab. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Peter Bishop: Oh, I wish you were joking.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhruCaUfzpA7HoSLpG-euEV_e6nUKzFo3b7oTvCF4cFHmHkL6OXt6vqcupWopTR4PKs-hBn9lZL7JpfnQxjY67tDvkUrwMm-UC46ScJwWZLPhpc-Nk8kF-tLUIg-KQZsTwxeSpzQDBccSM/s1600/Excellent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhruCaUfzpA7HoSLpG-euEV_e6nUKzFo3b7oTvCF4cFHmHkL6OXt6vqcupWopTR4PKs-hBn9lZL7JpfnQxjY67tDvkUrwMm-UC46ScJwWZLPhpc-Nk8kF-tLUIg-KQZsTwxeSpzQDBccSM/s320/Excellent.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dr. Walter Bishop, brilliant madness</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Or this with a young child:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Dr. Bishop: When the Victoria, the last surviving ship, return to its harbor of departure after the first circumnavigation of the earth, only 18 of the original 237 men were on board. <o:p></o:p></span><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Small Child: What happened to them? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Dr. Bishop: They all died, young lady. Horrible and most likely painful deaths. You see, when you open new doors, there is a price to pay. Now imagine... tonight, you look under your bed, and, lo and behold, you find a monster! And you're immediately eaten. Now, if you hadn't looked for the monster, you wouldn't have found it and you'd still be happy in your beds, instead of being slowly digested in the stomach sack of the creature. But, with any luck, your sister or your brothers might have heard your screams, and your endeavor will serve as a valuable lesson to them. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOpY8LVIMzLUYvPNu8cURgITj9WWiSl2Ey4dM__bqqERfiQ1kQtP9XuE15PAxYDh6JrGUzZh2bJ32p3jpRT9E0USJtQhyphenhyphenrL8fgwDVA6JF8JdSkibTBlFvu1R1tAp6KMh5xpwti8EEfrnw/s1600/denethor_closeup_tn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOpY8LVIMzLUYvPNu8cURgITj9WWiSl2Ey4dM__bqqERfiQ1kQtP9XuE15PAxYDh6JrGUzZh2bJ32p3jpRT9E0USJtQhyphenhyphenrL8fgwDVA6JF8JdSkibTBlFvu1R1tAp6KMh5xpwti8EEfrnw/s200/denethor_closeup_tn.jpg" width="143" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Noble Actor</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">The characters and their counterparts in the other world that coexists with ours are wonderfully complex and nuanced -- none more so than Australian actor John Noble. You may recall John from <i>The Lord of the</i> <i>Rings </i>trilogy as King Denethor. Perhaps you were a fan of <i>24</i>, when he portrayed Russian Consul Anatoly Markov. In <i>FRINGE</i>, John gets the juiciest, wackiest roles (Each actor has a doppelganger in an alternate world.) on television, that of Harvard educated mad-scientist Dr. Walter Bishop and his other world counterpart who is the Secretary of Defense and billionaire owner of Massive Dynamic. Dr. Bishop is a brilliant mad scientist who with his partner, William Bell (portrayed by Leonard Nimoy!) did a bit of ethically questionable experiments for the U.S. Government. This included testing a drug called Cortexiphan on a group of children; including the fair Olivia, the beautiful blonde leader of this Fringe battalion. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTcsfJgQmlq70yntTSlDuqB_850eVQrbAJhfhHEk0orkqwHEwv8KrbRemeTPUWh-HY0fcynC8kPLQDrgs0ypjgu2nswRkMr3qwl4qPWZLDtb6aGhhLMk_f5myLg5352HOv2G0l7CrgD1A/s1600/FRINGE-fall-FOX-great-shot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTcsfJgQmlq70yntTSlDuqB_850eVQrbAJhfhHEk0orkqwHEwv8KrbRemeTPUWh-HY0fcynC8kPLQDrgs0ypjgu2nswRkMr3qwl4qPWZLDtb6aGhhLMk_f5myLg5352HOv2G0l7CrgD1A/s320/FRINGE-fall-FOX-great-shot.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Fair and Strong Olivia </td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">When Walter’s son Peter was a little boy, he died of a terminal illness, leading the fine doctor to travel to this parallel universe to steal Peter's double. Each actor portrays himself in our world and the alternative world where the Statue of Liberty is made of Brass and the Twin Towers still stand, except for singular Peter.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Walter Bishop spent 17 years in Saint Claire's, a mental institution, following a lab accident that resulted in manslaughter charges while his partner (Leonard Nimoy!) in this world betrayed him and built Massive Dynamic. Dr. Bishop was released into the custody of his son Peter to solve a series of unexplained phenomena, called Patterns, which were taking place around the world. His memory is sketchy because his brain is missing parts that he supposedly asked William Bell to remove and he has a pet cow in his lab. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">William Bell, as portrayed by wry Nimoy, is as muted and understated as he should be. The bromance between the two, in spite of his betrayal, makes for great silliness. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq03WOYHNkfKrjcOTaVakNtYYII825iAnMe40Rym3Xx_nchC_Ud6bP5gGUYGE2RH7qEqsKjQ2OcTySY1XqY03Lx-W2FzAB3bqRBY9Vnt2g5wtVB6EkS_oJ6cd1Sa54D5zMKJ-jCa4bQVc/s1600/william-bell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq03WOYHNkfKrjcOTaVakNtYYII825iAnMe40Rym3Xx_nchC_Ud6bP5gGUYGE2RH7qEqsKjQ2OcTySY1XqY03Lx-W2FzAB3bqRBY9Vnt2g5wtVB6EkS_oJ6cd1Sa54D5zMKJ-jCa4bQVc/s200/william-bell.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">William Bell - Spock</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">As I consider these two having much too much fun together I have to consider how well prepared they both were for these parts. In the case of John Noble, he already went off the deep end in Rings and devolved from a stern tyrant to madman much like the duality of his characters in Fringe. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">With Leonard Nimoy as William Bell, I have to ask myself if his portrayal of Spock has added some gravitas to his scripted brilliance in <i>FRINGE</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">The big questions is does an actor benefit from his previous roles and the perception they created with his viewers? Is there a legacy in an actor’s series of fictionalized characters that provides a certain gravitas to his subsequent performances in ? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">If you want to sample Fringe, I might suggest you try the episode: <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"><i>Lysergic Acid Diethylamide </i> <br />
(It’s available online at <a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=7847990354721186420&postID=771745830117741088"> "http://www.fox.com/fringe/"</a> for your viewing pleasure.) <br />
It will delight and surprise you. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">I will close with one of my favorite Walterisms:<br />
“We're all mutants. What's more remarkable is how many of us appear to be normal.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</span>CJ Cohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979435883379846667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7847990354721186420.post-38631177278922138912011-07-05T23:32:00.000-04:002011-07-05T23:32:27.118-04:00Wha?? Not guilty.<!--StartFragment--> <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Gloved One</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">It was my mixed fortune to give birth to my son right at the start of the OJ Simpson Trial.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So those first most tender weeks were spent glazed and blissed and nursing my new son while Marcia Clark and her investigators spent 133 days stumbling over one another and ultimately allowing a cold-blooded murderer of two people go free.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was not my intention to necessarily follow the trial but I was living in New York City, taking time off from my business and home all day long with a colicky baby. Simpson and his team of truth stealers were dominating all the air-time and in 1995, it was the best Reality TV out there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The murders also took place on my birthday, which was very annoying although my dear friend Anne, whose anniversary is on 9/11 has much more to complain about -- should she choose to.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">I remember watching the trial and knowing it was doomed and I knew the same was true for Casey Anthony.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The parallels between the two cases are remarkable and bear mentioning.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Consider, when first informed that his wife had been killed, Simpson did not ask how, when, or by whom. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Consider, that the police had accumulated enough evidence indicating Simpson's guilt in the murders and obtained a warrant for his arrest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His attorney, Robert Shapiro negotiated an agreement where Simpson was to turn himself in at police headquarters by 10:00 on the morning of June 17, the day after Nicole's funeral.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He didn’t show. He was driving around Orange County in a white Bronco (what a perfect car to be chased!) with over $8000 in cash, a fake beard and mustache, a loaded gun and a passport in the car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does this sound like the behavior of an innocent man?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Casey Anthony spent 31 days partying and dancing and getting tattooed, all while her daughter was still “missing”. Her labyrinth of lies to the police, her parents and reporters were ridiculous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She lied about being employed at Universal Studios. She lied about leaving Caylee with a baby-sitter. She told police about two imaginary people she had told that Caylee was missing. She even lied about receiving a phone call from Caylee (who placed the call?) the day before she was finally reported missing. Does this sound like the behavior of an innocent woman? <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivuny8d81_lre9j_14xioS7l2doGthSqj3CKlycLoplYPQUISLzCNZEv2-wOjyRqdRH-NsQVY_I5HEipPqdx4ln45ceiKqSWg3I2ycSf5TzTCtYyjE4cicyYHAE6prRztQR63M3UrEnDY/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivuny8d81_lre9j_14xioS7l2doGthSqj3CKlycLoplYPQUISLzCNZEv2-wOjyRqdRH-NsQVY_I5HEipPqdx4ln45ceiKqSWg3I2ycSf5TzTCtYyjE4cicyYHAE6prRztQR63M3UrEnDY/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here's Johnnie!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">What did the glove matter to the Simpson case? Nothing, but it was bandied about just like the duct tape that couldn’t be used to indict Casey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were distractions that had no meaning but to distract and confuse the jury -- just like the incest and molestation charges Casey made about her father. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There was also confusion about the chloroform and why it was so important. Chloroform is a chemical compound that can be used to knock someone unconscious and also is found in human decomposition, but prosecutors failed to make clear exactly what role it played in little Caylee's death or what it’s presence meant.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It all brought back the testimony of forensic criminalist Dennis Fung, who Barry Scheck painfully eviscerated on the stand. It was this testimony for me that sealed the outcome of the trial. Fung was painfully unprofessional and incoherent. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">All in all, the prosecution lead by Ms. Marcia Delusional Clark put forward 72 witnesses. Consider that for a moment. 72? Are you kidding me? At the OJ trial, the jury was so exhausted from listening, that they spent only three hours in deliberation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Casey Anthony’s pathetic excuse for an attorney, Jose Baez, came out swinging; laying blame and recasting the crime in a variety of guises with a variety of conspirators both named and unnamed, mostly Casey’s poor shell-shocked family. Again, it was all too reminiscent of Johnnie Cochran’s summation for the defense in which he compared the prosecution’s case to Hitler’s campaign against the Jews; blaming racist cop, Mark Furman, as though he had committed the crimes or at the very least, planted evidence. Never proven, only wildly claimed, just like the claims made about George Anthony.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">In today’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Daily Beast,</i> Marcia Clark claims that the Anthony verdict was a bigger calamity than the OJ verdict. No Marcia, it’s not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We can all see through your delusion. They are both equally embarrassing, even disgraceful because the prosecution on both cases did such a pathetic half-assed job that the jury was left with no choice but to let the killers go free. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>-- And oh so shameful because the innocent victims will never get their fair day in court. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><!--EndFragment-->CJ Cohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979435883379846667noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7847990354721186420.post-4018352025489900332011-06-24T15:34:00.000-04:002011-06-24T15:34:26.017-04:00Iterations of Sondheim<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhujKasGMRYxlqdIe_A0oUfOOuh9tO08POo5-gquEmR1cR93-bhZeKWxve7Xg06_cDQ1xGnNpxOm5vZb-0_w2t16Aknvmk89U2IAN0ngiy0a0rHPivbUQXefigKL6YJ7X3svwOkxK6wKtc/s1600/company.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhujKasGMRYxlqdIe_A0oUfOOuh9tO08POo5-gquEmR1cR93-bhZeKWxve7Xg06_cDQ1xGnNpxOm5vZb-0_w2t16Aknvmk89U2IAN0ngiy0a0rHPivbUQXefigKL6YJ7X3svwOkxK6wKtc/s200/company.jpg" width="197" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;">Seeing the movie of Stephen Sondheim’s </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Company</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"> that was made of the four performances at Lincoln Center was a shock to the system. I am an over-the-top Sondheim fanatic and while not every show hits it out of the park, my senses were first jolted by a performance of </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Company</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"> in 1970 at the Alvin Theatre in New York City. I was a young impressionable teen and I had never seen anything like this.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
All my musical fare to date was limited to Rogers and Hart (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Boys from Syracuse</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pal Joey</i>) and later Hammerstein (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oklahoma!, Carousel, South Pacific, The King and I</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Sound of Music</i>), Lerner and Loew (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Brigadoon</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My Fair Lady</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Camelot</i>), and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bye Bye Birdie, Hello Dolly</i> ( Carol Channing was amazing but I also saw it with Pearl Bailey and Cab Calloway!), and the operettas of Gilbert and Sullivan.<br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
All were great shows with many memorable tunes and wonderful sequential stories with easy to follow plots - stories that were structured the way you would expect them to unfold. But <i>Company</i> was/is something else entirely – a series of vignettes revolving around one central character, a single man in a sea of married couples. This was, in it’s time, groundbreaking. I remember that didn’t walk out of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Company </i>feeling happy and satisfied<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> or </i>humming anything in particular, but I was dumb struck.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiwmSNbOZkMUADPYYpSeDqgWT7D42oJ7D-LWbOf8PBaSKxVwU-aOc3xxUfdz9BrzANRxwVH3FxVhKCVRcbcb7hpKmiT2r51qFZvsS1WG2lWgVBlWUuIwUjcGvLUpou3RoOg-GvhfRDo78/s1600/patdress.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiwmSNbOZkMUADPYYpSeDqgWT7D42oJ7D-LWbOf8PBaSKxVwU-aOc3xxUfdz9BrzANRxwVH3FxVhKCVRcbcb7hpKmiT2r51qFZvsS1WG2lWgVBlWUuIwUjcGvLUpou3RoOg-GvhfRDo78/s200/patdress.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mandy -- Born to sing Sondheim </td></tr>
</tbody></table>I’m sure part of my shock was that it talked about marriage as adults might talk about it. This was clearly a show with music written for adults. In my own childhood home, marriage was combative and ugly, ending in divorce. For a very long time, I didn't know it could be otherwise<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. Company</i> incisively captures the highs and lows of these relationships and is both uncomfortable and brilliant. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The other thing that made me catch my breath was it’s ending. I had never seen a show that ended without a resolution; that was left open to interpretation, to the viewer’s projections. It was not the what (Bobby seeks out his own life, leaving his married friends behind.) but the why. Why did he need leave them behind? I was too young to understand. No show with music had ever left me so bereft.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwz7WvFIx48gjycsNISnAVV9EQkb7rA3io5RI_zHHWUxwseTivMVvfR0Hdn3TOBYlL2WzyoMPkMDFLe9649J3L-o08k5842zVOdeXUOy_0jRa_sw2mzmhpNEDX0lmJdpf5ts5mZXFPA-w/s1600/2sweeneypgm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwz7WvFIx48gjycsNISnAVV9EQkb7rA3io5RI_zHHWUxwseTivMVvfR0Hdn3TOBYlL2WzyoMPkMDFLe9649J3L-o08k5842zVOdeXUOy_0jRa_sw2mzmhpNEDX0lmJdpf5ts5mZXFPA-w/s1600/2sweeneypgm.jpg" /></a></div>In the years since then I’ve seen <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Company</i> twice more, not including this latest iteration. I must confess to you dear readers, that there are a few shows that I have seen a few times. At the top of this list is <i>Sweeney Todd,</i> another Sondheim production and IMHO, his masterpiece. I've seen at least five versions of the show.<br />
The first was the original with Angela Lansbury and Len Cariou (1979) when the theatre was transformed into the bowels of London. Then there was a filmed version of the Broadway show. The third was an incredible revival with a ten-person cast (2005) who each played an instrument. There was no orchestra but the music was played in new Kurt Weill/Bertolt Brecht-like orchestrations (They of <i>Three Penny Opera</i> fame.) This rather stripped down bare Marxist twist on the production starred Patti LuPone (Mrs. Lovett - Tuba & percussion) and Michael Cerveris* (Sweeney - Guitar). I just loved learning that Ms. LuPone had played the Tuba in her high school marching band! Some years ago we took our son to a local theatre camp production starring a seventeen-year-old Sweeney with an unfortunate lisp. The family then watched in wonder at Tim Burton's interpretation starring Johnny Depp. I call these: Sweeney Todd, Teeny Todd, Der Schweeney Todd, Ss-weeny Todd, and Burton Todd ( the opposite of Liz's encounters) -- just to keep them straight in my head.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_KV2FlDXB-Ra_3wJlg7MJMorb8UB6QOheic2HgvuBpWqddEt8nmfuCEalM0lqaNTjRbAHfTTUq_1Ng5MrJEBvzWRwHNulUyi-XFmQwxZGe3aGnjOeG2gtw5JlNpFH3zjYXnwhrM87TgM/s1600/c310e_2.155379.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_KV2FlDXB-Ra_3wJlg7MJMorb8UB6QOheic2HgvuBpWqddEt8nmfuCEalM0lqaNTjRbAHfTTUq_1Ng5MrJEBvzWRwHNulUyi-XFmQwxZGe3aGnjOeG2gtw5JlNpFH3zjYXnwhrM87TgM/s320/c310e_2.155379.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Patti pulls it off and then some! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>But this film version of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Company</i> was unlike any other musical I’d ever seen on film or stage. Part of it was that the performance was taking place at Lincoln Center for the audience at large, not the screen viewers. As such, each gesture and expression was done for those “out there” while the camera captured each performer up close and personal, so close in fact that you could see the amount of pancake make-up in their pores. This put each actor under unusual and untypical scrutiny. It also created a special intimacy with the performers that I really liked. The joy of performance was etched in their high definition faces. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: 2.5in;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBNTbgliGCkA-78WoBr8Wa3lk9VB6s6-7vGo52P_U8gD255zt08YiIPIQehP2tdLij7tPvMDmrWr12gWCTTlmRT3BWCtEF2uSUAQnjXsjHnfAVjYZ1VJ-FBmyaINs66p26B4Ps1Bx5KI0/s1600/CompanyColbertandMartha.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBNTbgliGCkA-78WoBr8Wa3lk9VB6s6-7vGo52P_U8gD255zt08YiIPIQehP2tdLij7tPvMDmrWr12gWCTTlmRT3BWCtEF2uSUAQnjXsjHnfAVjYZ1VJ-FBmyaINs66p26B4Ps1Bx5KI0/s320/CompanyColbertandMartha.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look at the joy in these faces! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>I was very anxious about Patti LuPone being able to pull off <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Ladies who Lunch</i>. Elaine Stritch has owned it forever but she blew the roof off! No one does pain like Patti. Neil Patrick Harris is adorable and has a nice voice but he’s no Dean Jones or Larry Kert. It was a treat to discover that Christina Hendricks has great comedy chops. Some of the other minor players like Martha Plimpton and Jon Cryer, to name two of the celebs in this production, are just a delight. Stephen Colbert is so happy to be part of it all but his vibrato is frequently in search of the right note. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: 2.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: 2.5in;">That said, the very best thing about this production was the sound! Wow. You’ve got the New York Philharmonic and the latest in audio film technology combining together in a small dark room with great speakers and Sondheim. His music has never sounded so majestic and rich! That made it all worth it.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: 2.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: 2.5in;">For a $15 ticket, this was a new and exciting way to experience Broadway and to reach an audience that can’t make it to New York City or can’t just drop $150 plus parking for a ticket to see a show. (Tickets for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Book of Mormon</i> start there.) Yes, I do love going to the theatre in New York City. There is nothing like live theatre, I know I know, but this is great show, an amazing bargain and there are no bad seats. The run was limited but paved the way for more. I know I’ll be back for the next one. <o:p></o:p><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: 2.5in;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQTgHq_sJrgxfXjI2-gXpUhzRJ1sD8weqkCV8yTib-4QDlweTiSqfCuFKVW2Q_zkcuiGReVlKt0wc4XGG_zWWNCA-UN4iVHHMuAryvPd5iNDJmj1Vu2RbVBXe9X-5ttFEWlMtivd9asHo/s1600/6a00d83451c17f69e2011278de1eae28a4-800wi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQTgHq_sJrgxfXjI2-gXpUhzRJ1sD8weqkCV8yTib-4QDlweTiSqfCuFKVW2Q_zkcuiGReVlKt0wc4XGG_zWWNCA-UN4iVHHMuAryvPd5iNDJmj1Vu2RbVBXe9X-5ttFEWlMtivd9asHo/s200/6a00d83451c17f69e2011278de1eae28a4-800wi.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: 2.5in;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 2.5in;">*<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fringe</i> alert! Michael Cerveris is the main observer on Fringe. He also played the pinball wizard, Tommy in the original Broadway production of The Who’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tommy </i>and was deliriously powerful. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 2.5in;"><br />
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</div>CJ Cohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979435883379846667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7847990354721186420.post-24809156687977732782011-06-18T12:56:00.000-04:002011-06-18T12:56:47.002-04:00The Spice of Life<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB269PHG2jNv_AK57ZPmnD1mvZts58XaOA1KGJZZIImoUyuL4CwMiTmD3j2js_th8lLgsvr0cOGt13AJymDcaJiHDj8fyOo7iIBQ4f3Rmz0OQCQJopduYe0hUQKBUzy6m4hT2EsPzMTWM/s1600/pickett_dress9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB269PHG2jNv_AK57ZPmnD1mvZts58XaOA1KGJZZIImoUyuL4CwMiTmD3j2js_th8lLgsvr0cOGt13AJymDcaJiHDj8fyOo7iIBQ4f3Rmz0OQCQJopduYe0hUQKBUzy6m4hT2EsPzMTWM/s400/pickett_dress9.jpg" width="297" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">It is almost 11am on a glorious Saturday morning after a brutal early evening thunderstorm that knocked out power to much of the neighborhood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve been up for hours, having just returned from Janet’s house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s a dear friend and is relocating to California at the end of the month. I will miss her terribly but I am happy for her too. This is something we’ve been talking about for years and is her dream realized.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s hard not to dwell on the sorrow of saying goodbye but I understand that friendship is never limited by geography in this most miraculous age where high tech facilitates high touch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This is most evidenced by my time spent on Facebook, so often instant chatting long distance with friends in distant places. It helps that I’m fast on the keyboard but I try not to hijack the conversation. The back and forth nature of it actually captures more of my intent than a typical in-person polite conversation does, where spoken language is more linear. You know how when you’re talking to someone, you have to listen to what they have to say before responding or changing the subject?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The automaticity of these written instant zings back and forth enables both parties to “speak” at once, to share any thoughts ---however unrelated ---in real time, and to refer back to what someone has said just in case you weren’t “listening” or your mind strayed off as you were trying to remember whatever it was you wanted to say at some point later in the conversation. I find I value this more as I grow older. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This electronic process enables me to refer back to my “notes” and theirs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ironically, many of my far-flung friends know more about me and how I think, than many of my physically closer ones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The spontaneity of this format of exchange appeals to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJCa0VOkHWEtEzoVydg4XMI-rqeVxFX18dOUmuq-XBHW82sIYk968iAOftdDkOIItZWN0BFBlmc7_gb-4eeXsNmBvkn5jdIJdKwvyxXJ1g1WtQHXj5PaS0XNdufUvONSkizAGRjgy9ZwY/s1600/173822_520445554_6216492_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJCa0VOkHWEtEzoVydg4XMI-rqeVxFX18dOUmuq-XBHW82sIYk968iAOftdDkOIItZWN0BFBlmc7_gb-4eeXsNmBvkn5jdIJdKwvyxXJ1g1WtQHXj5PaS0XNdufUvONSkizAGRjgy9ZwY/s320/173822_520445554_6216492_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">So Janet is soon to be a “distant” friend, but only geographically.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In preparation for this departure I was there this morning helping her empty out her kitchen cabinets. We pulled out all of the spices and seasoning treasures and in doing so shared another dimension of our friendship – Cooking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Janet is originally from the Midwest – Ann Arbor, she’s Black and she’s an awesome cook, just one of her many talents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m a Jew from New Jersey, love to cook and over the years we have swapped foods and dishes like other friends share books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her repertoire and mine are different but we have a great appreciation of what tastes good. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her fried avocado slices and chili dishes are to die for. She practically purred over my plum pies and homemade soups.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She’s lived in her condo for years and amassed, as we do, years of stuff – including said spices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had two cabinets full to be discarded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the countertop became littered with pretty little bottles and jars, I pointed out her 6 jars of chili powders, 4 jars of red peppers flakes and in the way way back, long forgotten, packages of things that were older than this century.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How often have we purchased new things, shoved older things to the back of our cabinets and forgotten about what we already had? What life lesson might be learned from this, I wonder. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We sorted out food for the local food bank, tossed out faded passions and she passed on the “bought with the best of intentions practically brand new” goods to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I now have a variety of rubs and spices and chocolate powders that will keep Janet here in my kitchen and always in my heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuLwmFX5AextHYxezRylQLmVCjBOsSXbyXBoNHqiLwf8Be22RfklUTWvBFQu8nal6o3Gju9bxy2geP_27fpTw_9ihmLhKX1MIin1VunrpStZ7Ly_rK7rSqVSHOAA0_JhdlwbiLlZIGiNE/s1600/cWOW608Q.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuLwmFX5AextHYxezRylQLmVCjBOsSXbyXBoNHqiLwf8Be22RfklUTWvBFQu8nal6o3Gju9bxy2geP_27fpTw_9ihmLhKX1MIin1VunrpStZ7Ly_rK7rSqVSHOAA0_JhdlwbiLlZIGiNE/s200/cWOW608Q.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">In commemoration of her move, I prepared a special gift for her, a CD of songs each of which has a special meaning as a reflection of our friendship and the magic she has added to my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just like that in person conversation, the words I might say or write were not enough to convey what was in my heart. Language is limited no matter our eloquence or intent. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is the sumptuous soundtrack of our lives that adds the spice. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">To see more of Janet's fabulous art visit her website:</div><div class="MsoNormal">www.janettaylorpickett.com</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><!--EndFragment-->CJ Cohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979435883379846667noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7847990354721186420.post-91873821538775848272011-05-20T10:52:00.000-04:002011-05-20T10:52:53.571-04:00Shilling for Bread<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk_gp_gcVUjkpyndUR-WxNcuIzfq4yN_BT9YDXqTo5lMFNvVBizL8YdjI6sStBZN-1eKIScEJKEx6pjYpV6BO59BbdmPDRVsacfkZEnS8l1MmJZHgLD9xYXKOA0NeOdnQ8BSzGLhnHB2o/s1600/gahigf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk_gp_gcVUjkpyndUR-WxNcuIzfq4yN_BT9YDXqTo5lMFNvVBizL8YdjI6sStBZN-1eKIScEJKEx6pjYpV6BO59BbdmPDRVsacfkZEnS8l1MmJZHgLD9xYXKOA0NeOdnQ8BSzGLhnHB2o/s200/gahigf.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">I</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> suppose the title of this blog is a bit harsh but I just couldn’t resist the double entendre since I’m writing about what has been characterized as the “gluten free trend.” Most people confuse gluten with bread but it’s actually a protein found in wheat, barley, rye, bran as well as a food additive that thickens or stabilizes and is added to meats and processed foods. Bread on the other hand, also means money and there is plenty of it being made by food manufacturers jumping on the gluten free bandwagon. There is no small irony that gluten makes bread fluffy! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Part of the wide spread hoopla can be traced back to Ms. Chelsea Clinton’s nuptials and the news that the festivities included a $10,000 gluten free cake. Snort at that if you must, but about 1% of the population suffers with celiac disease for which gluten is like eating a slow killing poison. I’m not one of them. I have gluten intolerance or sensitivity and you may too, especially if you are 50+.</span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><br />
</span></div><!--StartFragment--> <div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">To be fair, I must disclose that I subscribe to Time magazine and I usually find their reporting and coverage both responsible as well as reflective of my own sensibilities. (I also think Joel Stein is very funny.) This week’s issue, covering the dilemma that is Pakistan, was no exception but for the inclusion of a one page piece on the aforementioned gluten free trend. The focus of the article was on the recent surge in gluten free products now being offered at our local supermarkets and the misconceptions that consumers may possess about the health or weight loss benefits that might come with going gluten free. It also pointed out that gluten-free has become a major selling point and consumers are equating it with “low carb”. It noted that some people may suffer from gluten sensitivity but there is no data on this.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDiAZBr7fUo9ucA2hUUafNx_Wq8msY01A3t_R_mheYUqLecwklDqWBxp1MXNGTE6-OUk81xJ3EDbSgpwO9v4NcBZqpspQPEWAKgg6ArDIAhahvYAJkRgs2A5byTiVKJNsZciXlS7iieiQ/s1600/cul_health_0523.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDiAZBr7fUo9ucA2hUUafNx_Wq8msY01A3t_R_mheYUqLecwklDqWBxp1MXNGTE6-OUk81xJ3EDbSgpwO9v4NcBZqpspQPEWAKgg6ArDIAhahvYAJkRgs2A5byTiVKJNsZciXlS7iieiQ/s1600/cul_health_0523.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Now I understand that my relationship to gluten may not be as newsworthy as Chelsea’s cake, but to all my contemporaries who suffer from arthritis (My knees are a mess. Thank you Nana Sophie), autoimmune complications (I have a wanky thyroid.), depression and/or ADD -- or have children or grandchildren that do – going gluten free may help alleviate some of the symptoms. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">And no, I’m not going all Jenny McCarthy on you. The connection to gluten and “curing” autism is none. Shame on her and the Doctor who claimed that inoculations caused autism.</span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"> <!--StartFragment--> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">So, here’s how I became gluten free. About a year ago my husband sent me an article (We email back and forth a lot.) about the connection between arthritis, autoimmune problems and gluten. It explained that gluten was being added to many foods that it was never in before and at higher levels. As a result, people who like breads or pasta (and who didn’t climb on the whole wheat wagon with me?) and other foods to which gluten is added; may over time develop gluten sensitivity. It went on to state that removing gluten from your diet might help alleviate some of the attendant symptoms. Individuals reaching their 50s were most likely to be affected. Apparently we’ve been around long enough to suffer.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">So, I called my friend Mary Anne, nutritionist and Celiac sufferer for her advice. My knees were a mess, painful enough to require a heating pad every night and being threatened with replacement by my specialist. Was there a test I could take to determine if I was indeed gluten intolerant? No, she replied. In fact when she had taken a test her condition didn’t even show up. The only way to determine if you are affected by gluten is to take it out of your diet for two weeks and see how you feel. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNWHKT9vh8vnJfxpgk1vD18Cg1Ik95EVSkY_HWKh9baz1KgdITfsbUio5rOxsV9mSM4VKF2Y2eqDPhy0-dnJiuOrbRYNpsut7dUpSDvjNyWPUvaJ5_x72AkFlzNLgITC6kF3zLFNStsXg/s1600/gluten-free.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNWHKT9vh8vnJfxpgk1vD18Cg1Ik95EVSkY_HWKh9baz1KgdITfsbUio5rOxsV9mSM4VKF2Y2eqDPhy0-dnJiuOrbRYNpsut7dUpSDvjNyWPUvaJ5_x72AkFlzNLgITC6kF3zLFNStsXg/s1600/gluten-free.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> <!--StartFragment--> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">What a pain in the neck this was. I love to cook and this meant completely revamping my repertoire. All the pastas and breads disappeared. The first week was really rough. But I did it and lo and behold the pain in my knees disappeared. They still creak sometimes especially in rainy weather, but what a difference! My son is now gluten free and finds he can concentrate on his homework more easily. He says that if he eats gluten now it makes him sleepy. Yeah us! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">My household has adjusted and I find the gluten free adjustment has made me look more carefully at all of the foods we eat. My carb intake now includes more rice and potatoes and corn – all gluten free. I love Chex cereals, gluten free and not expensive either. You can go to your local Whole Foods and ask for their gluten free product list and they’ll give you a 17-page print out. My only advice - don’t buy the gluten free English Muffins -- ever. They taste like wallpaper paste. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I didn’t take any tests but I can tell you that omitting gluten made a real difference. No one can actually diagnose your sensitivity but if you suffer from any of the ailments I’ve described, you may find relief in the gluten free aisle. <o:p></o:p></span></div><!--EndFragment--> <br />
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</div><!--EndFragment-->CJ Cohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979435883379846667noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7847990354721186420.post-5803917313039008752011-05-13T20:38:00.001-04:002011-05-15T12:51:39.984-04:00Customer (Lack of) Service<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWazMJUQLvEBT9hLgwJ4jA2sPcO-YWzgqPiO5XHi2BjUBDGMxbVbArBZ4nyt6QpIM4Uvp9Qiv1mQzGeLHZAh1K9UDOF0xpLW5bFWOHNSpkNIL_rwwKOohtcBZA2plMcaA2dvGXG7lZogs/s1600/Growing_old_inevitable.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="382" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWazMJUQLvEBT9hLgwJ4jA2sPcO-YWzgqPiO5XHi2BjUBDGMxbVbArBZ4nyt6QpIM4Uvp9Qiv1mQzGeLHZAh1K9UDOF0xpLW5bFWOHNSpkNIL_rwwKOohtcBZA2plMcaA2dvGXG7lZogs/s400/Growing_old_inevitable.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><div class="MsoBodyText">I don’t blame the people I talk to. It’s everyone else in the world I blame. As a member of the sandwich generation I’m snuggled uncomfortably between raising a teenager and caring for a aging parent. Both can require full-time devotion. Both can require the patience of a saint. Luckily for me, my son is kind, thoughtful and full of common sense because I have never been mistaken for a saint.</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoBodyText">Unluckily for me I have a parent who does, for the moment, require all my time. She is unto herself as they say, a piece of work. But she’s all I got so I’m trying to make the best of it while the rest of the world conspires against me.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><o:p> </o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText">Case in point. I want to switch her cell phone to a “friends and family plan” I want to pay her phone bills both cell and land lines. I want to suspend her home phone service while she’s in the nursing home. I want to have a message on her home phone referring callers to my number. One might think in the age of the Internet that this would be a slam-dunk since they are all with Verizon. Think again. I cannot do any of this via their website. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">3 hours of calls -- separate phone numbers and operators for each service and service change. How many times do I need to be on hold listening to their promotion for Verizon Vios? Even when I finally get to a breathing living human being, they want to know if I would be interested in bundling her cell, land and internet access for $99 a month .... Hello, did you not hear that my mother is in a nursing home? </div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyT3wiDG9j_4Ct56erX_0BCi8S22SoDyuaT-2Yt6HsYcJW40HJ1Q_XXfIVe3a-ENB-4rYXhmjUKiFm2TVqKUG3fkhT9YZLtK49uaMYpWRIR9hn3FHDxEVUzorgvqOUMvTvv0Onvm6nAl8/s1600/verizon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyT3wiDG9j_4Ct56erX_0BCi8S22SoDyuaT-2Yt6HsYcJW40HJ1Q_XXfIVe3a-ENB-4rYXhmjUKiFm2TVqKUG3fkhT9YZLtK49uaMYpWRIR9hn3FHDxEVUzorgvqOUMvTvv0Onvm6nAl8/s320/verizon.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div><div class="MsoBodyText">Adding insult to injury, I am told in one conversation that I may pay her bills by phone. However I will incur a $3.50 fee for the privilege of doing so. I am incensed. “Oh, it’s not a charge from Verizon, it’s blah-blah-blah company.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">“Really? Well just because the name of the payment processing facility doesn’t include the word Verizon, does not mean that the money doesn’t go to Verizon. Do you understand how insulting this conversation is to me?” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">Then I try to get her home phone service taken care of. I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that I literally needed to hang up and call a different phone number to complete my business. Cell phone and land line customer service exist in two different universes. As a matter of fact just yesterday two Verizon Fios representatives rang my brother’s doorbell at home. He opened the door to a young man and woman who went into a sales pitch. He told them that he hated Verizon (he had used them as an internet provider years ago) and that his sister (lovely me) had just had the most horrendous experience dealing with their phone services. “Oh, but we’re Verizon Fios, we don’t have anything to do with the phone services!” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">Again, do you understand how insulting this conversation is to me? Hey doorbell ringers, can you spell Jehovah?</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText"></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">So I have switched my mother over to my account. One less bill for her to worry about I think. Today, three days after the switch, Horizon called her cell phone to tell her that she had exceeded her monthly minutes. (It was actually my phone calls that did it, handling all of the nonsense required to make it all easier.) She was upset by the call because at this stage of her life, she’s upset by any phone call. So I decided to handle it from work. Why they were calling her, the new addition to our service, was beyond me. I called the 888 number she had been given. The sales rep who eventually got on the phone asked my for my billing code number. I did not have the billing code with me but I did have all 6 phone numbers we have with Verizon. I was told nothing could be done without the billing code so I asked to speak with a supervisor. I was told that the gentleman I was speaking with is a supervisor. So I concluded my conversation with “ Your customer service is disgraceful. I hope this call is being taped.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div><div class="MsoBodyText">Not to be upstaged by Verizon, there is their cousin Horizon, the company with the perfect prefix. You know the “Health Care provider”. How does an insurance company become a health care provider? Does it take your temperature? Does it diagnose your ailments? Where are the advertising police on this one? </div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2xC4mQZ8vEgBV2iUvyWTyvWP22r0hKrwbEVNTjGXkXcca632mmgY1kSAJd40ogXaolMgT3BbxyE1tvH0Ga9vSe906EGKVdOW5ye4cUjL1uenCB-SZ6bMBj31QjHRXdLnwxs6bVfP4V5M/s1600/Horizon_Blue_Cross_Blue_Shield_of_New_Jersey2.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="147" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2xC4mQZ8vEgBV2iUvyWTyvWP22r0hKrwbEVNTjGXkXcca632mmgY1kSAJd40ogXaolMgT3BbxyE1tvH0Ga9vSe906EGKVdOW5ye4cUjL1uenCB-SZ6bMBj31QjHRXdLnwxs6bVfP4V5M/s320/Horizon_Blue_Cross_Blue_Shield_of_New_Jersey2.gif" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoBodyText"> <o:p></o:p>Horizon provides what is euphemistically called “managed” health care which means they manage to charge you more, the more you use it. At least that’s their strategy when it comes to elder care. They attract a large cluster of senior citizens by providing insurance policies with low premiums and then, when you really need services because you’re getting older and more decrepit, you pay for every aspirin, every sheet of TP and they may limit your days in the hospital or nursing home in any way they choose. My mother fell into this trap and I’m trying to pull her out of it.</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The coverage she has is called Horizon Medicare New Jersey, but it is not Medicare, it is just another insurance company. But by using Medicare and New Jersey in its name, it would be easy to see how someone might be confused. Seeking to extract her from this I was told by the business manager at her nursing home that the managed care coverage could not be just cancelled, it would require that she spend three consecutive days in the hospital to receive regular Medicare. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">This is not true, this is just boneheaded information and just one of the many substandard services and information the facility has provided. Even the people at Horizon told me this when I called them. But in order to have her released from the insurance, I was told by Horizon Medicare that it requires a “special election”. What, I asked, was a “special election”? I was told that because she is requesting Medicare outside of their “open enrollment period” that I had multiple forms to complete to get a waiver to enable her to do this. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Then I was told that I would also need to complete a “Formulary” for her. A what? A Formulary is the name for the list of prescription medications she receives. I asked if everyone at Horizon called it a Fulmonary. I was told that they do. Then I asked that she email all these forms to me so I could figure out what to do next. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I hung up and called Medicare. Not fake Medicare, the real one. I had a couple of questions for them. </span><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">1. What is a special election? Bonilia at Real Medicare said I must mean a "special enrollment election." The inclusion of the word enrollment at least helped to clarify what my mother, the new office holder, was up against. I aksed if this was a Medicare term. “Yes, it is” I was told. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">2. How about a Formulary? Is that a Medicare term as well. “Oh, yes it is but Medicare needs to determine if she is a Tier 1 or Tier 2 recipient. “ Ok, I give up. What does that mean? “Well we need to look at all the prescription medications she is receiving and determine whether we will cover it or not.“ What is the reason for covering or not covering a particular drug? I asked. Is it related to the cost? “The ingredients in non generic drugs differ from generic drugs. We need to examine whether or not we cover the particular ingredient.” So, going back to my original question, is it related to the cost of the drug? “Well, it is related to the cost of the particular ingredients.” Again, so this comes down to the cost of the drug. “Well, yes I guess it is.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Then I asked, when is the open enrollment period. To which she replied that “this year is was October 15<sup>th</sup> to December 7<sup>th</sup>.” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">What do you mean this year? Does the open enrollment period for Medicare (which we all pay for with our taxes) change year to year? And if it changes, how do you notify the eligible consumer what the new open enrollment period is? </span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“We send them letters every year. Every United States Medicare receipient, whether managed care or not, receive notification via mail. Last year the open enrollment period was November 15 to December 31.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">So then I asked, well why does the open enrollment period change each year. The Medicare person was unable to tell me why. I asked if she could Email a copy of a typical letter to me. No, she could not. It’s no wonder our national deficit is out of control. How much is Medicare spending to send snail mail to seniors every year? Why do the open enrollment dates need to change? I have a headache.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I have to stop now because I need to make another 50 phone calls to people who provide information that is wrong and boneheaded from the scripts sitting in front of them at their little cubicles earning minimum wage and deciding the fate of our families. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
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</div></div>CJ Cohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979435883379846667noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7847990354721186420.post-78374351000368403352011-03-25T20:08:00.001-04:002011-03-25T21:01:00.157-04:00COLLEGE PREP!<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV2UEgFBYdR4cg_jxWUuZ9RZYI9jkp4cQ-qY-4FuLvfrSAi-KUB3TXyqkeu4OXqXObGFZ3KUno3vOUEbirt2YHMILQSob5aGEZbRwxMKdGSCtARPKTk-WgnyYYTgUeqUjOz3aV4eAD7nM/s1600/credit-crisis-hits-college-campus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV2UEgFBYdR4cg_jxWUuZ9RZYI9jkp4cQ-qY-4FuLvfrSAi-KUB3TXyqkeu4OXqXObGFZ3KUno3vOUEbirt2YHMILQSob5aGEZbRwxMKdGSCtARPKTk-WgnyYYTgUeqUjOz3aV4eAD7nM/s200/credit-crisis-hits-college-campus.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bucolic Academia </td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">So now my son is receiving mail everyday from a variety of colleges and universities. He has apparently gotten on college mailing lists from taking his PSATs as practice in his sophomore year of high school. Some are simple letters with a personalized code created just for him. This, the letters claim, will provide him with a customized cyber-experience of the school.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> <o:p></o:p>Taking one of these cyber tours reminds me of a trip my husband and I made to the ruins of Chichen Itza in Mexico. Deep in the heart of the Yucatan peninsula are the ruins of an ancient Maya civilization that disappeared without a trace. According to historians, the city was gradually abandoned some time around 1200. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px; line-height: 24px;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVVOmu-uWnnqx-MMO9HkiBje9emrN-ToLaffCCeHhWBJnCfCNIUBeL2Wlm_Z2Uey500sMOvwD6fmg8bVEZZS7_C3vkd0VmKa2ZmYOGexH5Bk_QseCRnu_cK4BK8Kb9OHOzSapsoDDT9G8/s1600/equinoxChichenItza.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVVOmu-uWnnqx-MMO9HkiBje9emrN-ToLaffCCeHhWBJnCfCNIUBeL2Wlm_Z2Uey500sMOvwD6fmg8bVEZZS7_C3vkd0VmKa2ZmYOGexH5Bk_QseCRnu_cK4BK8Kb9OHOzSapsoDDT9G8/s400/equinoxChichenItza.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Look at the steps on the left, amazing eh? </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It is a large pre-Columbian archaeological site, which entered the popular imagination in 1843 with the book I<i>ncidents of Travel in Yucatan</i> by John Lloyd Stephens. About 20 years later Edward H. Thompson, US consul to the Yucatan, spent over 30 years studying the ruins. The most famous is the Temple of Kukulkan (the Maya name for Quetzalcoatl), a step pyramid built for astronomical purposes. During the vernal and autumnal equinox at about 3pm, sunlight bathes the western front of the pyramid's main stairway. This causes seven isosceles triangles to form imitating the body of a serpent 37 yards long that creep downwards until it joins the huge serpent's head carved in stone at the bottom of the stairway. </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><div class="MsoNormal">At this 6-mile square site you’ll also find The Great Ball Court, about 500 feet by 220 feet where violent and bloody games were held. At the base of the interior walls are slanted benches with sculpted panels of teams of ball players. In one panel, one of the players has been decapitated and from the wound emits seven streams of blood; six become wriggling serpents and the center becomes a winding plant. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSiykr5wzz846KSPsMVkLlYQGkX-VgEZY1isndidWD7WsPqWNQI56-xXeGv2KstBF5jx0Q_IL44ckChbBWY6IfhI9O1WUG1b1CUjFzaPiKsVXwOyH48t-2GlTngO-oTS1EErWd3Oh3CvI/s1600/Mayan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSiykr5wzz846KSPsMVkLlYQGkX-VgEZY1isndidWD7WsPqWNQI56-xXeGv2KstBF5jx0Q_IL44ckChbBWY6IfhI9O1WUG1b1CUjFzaPiKsVXwOyH48t-2GlTngO-oTS1EErWd3Oh3CvI/s200/Mayan.jpg" width="192" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">The secrets of the ruins, we were told, would be explained to us that evening in a fantastic light show created for English speakers. And so, in that evening’s haze in a jungle abuzz with all kinds of critters and fragrant with the scent of tropical flora, we climbed up on the ancient stone steps of the court where losing teams of ancient times were slaughtered for defeat. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBHtAjyk51kRVe-POMnIQYW0YCnX3zf3i0hP6I0eJI5LcbM3Tz_qb0KFeczbbJqnmA0XOmF-0s_f7Bx0H68PTJ0lQ-y9YYshyphenhyphenUPmqzvCnyIzNz9qCMi1-L1CngK1F8t8yDSerCUdw54ic/s1600/63187-70-s-Disco-Dancing-Stud-Costume-main.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBHtAjyk51kRVe-POMnIQYW0YCnX3zf3i0hP6I0eJI5LcbM3Tz_qb0KFeczbbJqnmA0XOmF-0s_f7Bx0H68PTJ0lQ-y9YYshyphenhyphenUPmqzvCnyIzNz9qCMi1-L1CngK1F8t8yDSerCUdw54ic/s200/63187-70-s-Disco-Dancing-Stud-Costume-main.jpg" width="116" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">The tinny sound of Mexican music, from speakers on the field, gets us started. Flashing colored light beams imbedded throughout the stadium illuminated the ruins like a 70’s disco in Queens. I anxiously awaited the man in the white sharkskin suit with the Mexican accent to DJ the event and give us dance lessons. Instead we are treated to a pre-recorded tape of a heavily accented reader providing the highlights of Chichen Itza with the flash of colored lights synced to his reading. </div></span><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;">Unfortunately it was obvious that the reader did not speak English, although that was what he was trying to do. The only word, besides a stray preposition here and there, that we could understand was Chichen Itza (cheat-zen-neat-za). I deduced that he was reading from a transliteration; a recreation of text phonetically created for the reader which does not include the proper inflection or syllabic emphasis or emPHAsis. My husband and I were laughing at this point because it was completely ridiculous, but for the $40 admission fee. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;"> So now my son and I go on these college cyber-tours in which there are personalized notes and audio/video segments where my son’s name is mechanically inserted much like our tour of Chichen Itza. </span><br />
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Other colleges send colorful brochures depicting ivy covered buildings and autumn leaves inducing in his mother, a jolt of <i>Love Story</i>, where do I begin --- with the attendant sound track. But to my dear young 16-year-old son who has yet to understand that institutions of higher learning use the same marketing techniques as diet colas, the ones with the colorful brochures look like terrific schools to him. We recently received one of these from someplace like “Schluboygen Eastern College” It had a great looking brochure.<br />
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“Oh, mom. That looks like a great school.”<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV-On_yZq9z1eXnkSeQv9NC2M8dXCQl26Hk68-iXFR7uE9SRAtidTx6n8RMr1teRz6M_H5AqNmb2LlalMnDjVGvIRMMRmbQykrQIMzxAVPPBvUA4atjBOo3IV3C8NHHe1mNRmxzk8alHE/s1600/LIEU%2527S+PEKING+CHINESE+RESTAURANT+Menu%252C+Milledgeville+Georgia+Lieu%2527s+Chinese+Food%252C+Milledgeville+GA..JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV-On_yZq9z1eXnkSeQv9NC2M8dXCQl26Hk68-iXFR7uE9SRAtidTx6n8RMr1teRz6M_H5AqNmb2LlalMnDjVGvIRMMRmbQykrQIMzxAVPPBvUA4atjBOo3IV3C8NHHe1mNRmxzk8alHE/s200/LIEU%2527S+PEKING+CHINESE+RESTAURANT+Menu%252C+Milledgeville+Georgia+Lieu%2527s+Chinese+Food%252C+Milledgeville+GA..JPG" width="108" /></a></div>“Yes indeed it does look like great but it’s 3 hours from the closest airport, there are no Chinese restaurants or kosher delis in the neighborhood and no one outside of a 50 miles radius of the campus has ever heard of the place. But you’re right sweetheart, it does LOOK like a great school.”<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeF-fkuHpY37swmYuxmsmZFDH3XvkvhdZxL7no29qf9F7W1AQh8qrhKttJZ5v7fTwC0CtU1DOdL0L7hcpG-IHAesWmo8f3wp8E8iE_RsIhHyV5VH1nvO_O8_LLZbQJvpOucaebwPPdEgo/s1600/barrons.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeF-fkuHpY37swmYuxmsmZFDH3XvkvhdZxL7no29qf9F7W1AQh8qrhKttJZ5v7fTwC0CtU1DOdL0L7hcpG-IHAesWmo8f3wp8E8iE_RsIhHyV5VH1nvO_O8_LLZbQJvpOucaebwPPdEgo/s1600/barrons.JPG" /></a></div>So how does one select the right college? I remember the process from my own childhood as daunting. I had a well leafed through edition of Barron’s Directory of American Colleges that I spent hours combing through. There was one rule my mother made and I had to obey, the school could be no further than an eight-hour drive from home. Naturally I chose the school that was 8 hours away from home. As far as I was concerned, the less scrutiny my mother had over my collegiate activities, the better and the closer I came to breaking her one rule, well that was a good thing too.<br />
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I know people who chose a college because they were chasing a love, guys who selected a school because of their basketball or football teams and others who chose a college because one of their parents had attended, even if they had completely different interests. In retrospect, my 8-hour reason certainly seems just as immature and stupid as any of these so I understand my son’s selection by brochure.<br />
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Faced with the prospect of paying over $50,000 a year for my child’s undergraduate education is reason enough for us to make a thoughtful and informed decision. Money may not or never grow on trees but it will take killing a forest’s worth of paper for his college education. I hope to use those resources wisely.<br />
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</div>CJ Cohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979435883379846667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7847990354721186420.post-53044619430648043052011-03-13T15:01:00.001-04:002011-03-14T17:04:15.329-04:00Outing Teachers<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9UuhCpoTUVlamXDZTAX6yDyBVYXctfHbfnQuqnQW-LNzRrNsRZvP7lT4ugg3Re3oC7_TxS02p9-aRPMyusjqX8RGGFF4-fdpw-PAffPiPz5MximEbsX4FxrzySniEf_uEcYsjKaNXL6o/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9UuhCpoTUVlamXDZTAX6yDyBVYXctfHbfnQuqnQW-LNzRrNsRZvP7lT4ugg3Re3oC7_TxS02p9-aRPMyusjqX8RGGFF4-fdpw-PAffPiPz5MximEbsX4FxrzySniEf_uEcYsjKaNXL6o/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Joy of Teaching...ouch! </td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">T</span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 115%;">he world of public school education is finally getting the attention it should have been getting all along. After all, what could be more important that the education of our children and their children? Unfortunately, bad press is not better than no press -- and that appears to be all that public education can garner these days. Up to now, it has been taken for granted that our public schools would do their job, there would be good and bad teachers that our children would somehow deal with as we did, and they all would go off to college and find their way in the world. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 115%;">But we live with a public educational system desig</span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 115%;">ned to produce compliant factory workers for jobs that no longer exist. It has continued without structural change for over 70 years and now the United States has fallen well behind other nations who have chosen to modernize and update their own educational institutions. The irony is that, as a society we work to maintain the stability of our institutions yet education, for which the knowledge base changes as rapidly as the changes in our technologies, needs to be fluid and innovative. How do we institute change when our institutions function best when stable? Whose responsibility is it to implement, evaluate and manage the change needed? Who gets held accountabl</span><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 115%;">e? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial; line-height: 115%;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal">Research conducted on how we learn and how the brain functions has provided so much valuable information for educators that it cannot be ignored. Countries like Finland and Cuba (!) have made dramatic changes to their schools and the results are in. Their students are better educated than ours because they have modernized and improved their schools based on this good research. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">One great example is the notion of looping. In Cuba, students stay with the same teacher from first to third grade. This reduces the learning curve that every classroom teacher in the United States needs to make every September as they begin to understand where each student’s strength and weaknesses lie. This allows differentiation (the right level of challenge directed to each student) to commence effectively from the first day of school. The student and their families build a stronger and more comfortable connection to the teacher and the young learner has stability and understands the expectations and style of the teacher. By the end of third grade, each student is reading and writing up to his or her potential. Interesting, eh? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But back here we appear fixated on what goes on in the classroom and not with what needs fixing with the system. Teachers are the new pariahs. Our Governor, the future President Christie, has proposed that teacher’s income be tied to their performance as measured, in good part by the results of standardized tests. So then I have to ask, who’s minding the standardized tests? Who is deciding what should be measured and how? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Recently my son, a high school sophomore and my own favorite lab rat, spent several days taking the NJAsk and provided for his mother, the perfect illustration of why using standardized tests, as they presently exist, is a huge mistake. Understand that I am not against evaluating and rewarding excellence. I am not against teachers, like everyone else in workforce, earning their raises based on individual performance, but I am against using the tools we have now for this purpose, no matter how you may configure the data. Here’s why: </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For the Language Arts portion of the test he was given two different writing prompts on two different days. The first was a photograph of a digital clock from which he was supposed to create a story. This is just the kind of challenge that my son likes and he came up with a crazy three-page story of international intrigue involving defective clocks that blow up if you set the alarm for 12:00. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp2tSW1YAPEkYBN29ZBH49spiULbfiK42ggCpBZOdTSRjdiMxXCVxyKuYWcpnQS_z9step8zwL3w06yqnoctVqjnHDCUqG8RvS-leHib5wcCE-vS01CVAwwH7vDDQoR90Er2CEarQa0gI/s1600/smartalec.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp2tSW1YAPEkYBN29ZBH49spiULbfiK42ggCpBZOdTSRjdiMxXCVxyKuYWcpnQS_z9step8zwL3w06yqnoctVqjnHDCUqG8RvS-leHib5wcCE-vS01CVAwwH7vDDQoR90Er2CEarQa0gI/s320/smartalec.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Smart Aleck Kid</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">The next day he had a prompt where he was asked to argue for or against mandatory after-school tutoring for students who earn below a certain grade. He’s a teenager, knows he has no control over what happens in school, is sick of taking these tests and thought the topic was “bullshit”. He wasn’t interested in writing a persuasive essay (which the test was presumably asking him to do) and only wrote one paragraph. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Should his response upset me? Should I care that he knows that these tests have no bearing on his grades and doesn’t care about them? Should I want a child who just does what is asked without question? What will the results of these tests show about a student who responds to one prompt and not the other? How will his response potentially affect the evaluation of his teachers?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">Most importantly, what do the test designers think this shows? How do you establish a baseline response for this kind of test? How might a good student respond to this versus a struggling student who may very well be angered or upset by the reminder that they would be affected by the adoption of this policy? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">If you think for one minute that responding to these NJAsk questions are all an exercise in intellect, you would be very mistaken. The brain of a teenager operates based in the limbic system, which controls our emotions. This is why so many teenagers make so many poor decisions and can be so challenging to teach. They feel before they think and how they feel affects what they think. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">So while teachers are being held to more exacting and demanding standards, shouldn’t the tools used to evaluate them undergo the same kind of scrutiny? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1sM1qDBSVy1BloaphHo1GPucRzmJ0FK63LrPg3Sdvm4OAvKPkPwMq_ykCwg7dcTLk_XV21QDPJbcOyZ6b_VEk0RBL_4b7wfQlevFec_dqt3xaKZ3JT4SUcDyFZtc-PDBx-EpTNyF_9m8/s1600/teacher+mean.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1sM1qDBSVy1BloaphHo1GPucRzmJ0FK63LrPg3Sdvm4OAvKPkPwMq_ykCwg7dcTLk_XV21QDPJbcOyZ6b_VEk0RBL_4b7wfQlevFec_dqt3xaKZ3JT4SUcDyFZtc-PDBx-EpTNyF_9m8/s320/teacher+mean.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">Coming from years of corporate America I’m accustomed to performance reviews and believe individual teachers should earn their raises like everyone else in the world. Why should we allow poor teachers to continue inflicting their students? Research indicates that it can take up to 3 years to undo the damage inflicted by a bad teacher. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">But if the annual NCLB tests (they have different names in each state) were created to determine the learning and skill level of a student as a tool for the teacher, why are teachers not demanding that the tests be repurposed as a tool to measure incremental learning year to year? Educators all understand that assessments must provide valid measures that align with their purpose. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">So, using concepts discussed as far back as 1989 in Stephen Covey’s great 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, it is clear that the tests need to be designed with the goal in mind not measuring student learning but measuring teacher effectiveness. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">Educator Grant Wiggins, creator of Understanding by Design (UbD), an innovative tool to assist in creating dynamic lesson plans, asks to what extent do assessments provide fair, valid, reliable and sufficient measures of the desired results? Can we really think that a test, that might take a day or two, can measure the impact of a teacher? What about the teacher who has a higher percentage of struggling students year after year? Do we hold them to the same standard and if not, what is measured? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">Christie’s changes including providing tenure by examining standardized test scores, classroom observations and school-wide student performance. But without proper oversight, this will just turn into another effort llke the dismal George Bush NCLB that only enriched the coffers of test writers and textbook creators. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">ETS which writes the GRE (for Grad School), Praxis (for teacher certification), TOEFL(to teach English to foreign speakers), AP tests (for high school students), and The National Assessment of Educational Progress (NAEP), the largest nationally representative and continuing assessment of what America's students know and can do in various subject areas is currently working on The Measures of Effective Teaching (MET) project. The objective is to determine what measures predict the biggest student achievement gains; the MET project will give teachers the feedback they need to improve. In addition, a greater understanding about which teaching practices, skills and knowledge positively impact student learning will allow states and districts to develop teacher evaluation systems that will help strengthen all aspects of teaching. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">The results of this study combined with another classroom observation tool will be publishing their studies in the winter of 2011/2012. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">So Governor Christie, what precisely are you proposing be used to measure teacher effectiveness when the country’s largest educational test creator does not yet have the answers? </span></div><div><br />
</div>CJ Cohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979435883379846667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7847990354721186420.post-26226628836586659372011-03-03T21:01:00.000-05:002011-03-03T21:01:10.596-05:00FOOD, GLORIOUS FOOD<!--StartFragment--> <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNE1OgHkxQEDrfuYhjr-ZgmUfbdmGn225eesgMDL1mZvX2XXnk2YgSS8u-N2KyjArkfewnpabvV1gBcHVUE8OFtoPV_F86-IVqbIGvasaBzDEGFK60Gwvz7cELqG3HVgXz9wDJNOLrhvM/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNE1OgHkxQEDrfuYhjr-ZgmUfbdmGn225eesgMDL1mZvX2XXnk2YgSS8u-N2KyjArkfewnpabvV1gBcHVUE8OFtoPV_F86-IVqbIGvasaBzDEGFK60Gwvz7cELqG3HVgXz9wDJNOLrhvM/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The temple of fresh food</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">The other day while shopping at Whole Foods, the place aptly named since it can eat your Whole paycheck, I ran into a friend of mine I hadn’t seen in quite a while. She’s a very talented artist and teacher and incredibly modest as well. I’ve been to a number of her shows in New York City and taken a number of figure drawing classes with her as well. She is, as they say, good people.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We chatted a bit as one does with friends who are missed, about the time passing too quickly, updating one another on our busy lives, our husbands and children and in her case, grandchildren reaching milestones and then some. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She happened to mention that her adorable grandson, now in first grade, is attending a particularly interesting New York City Public School on the lower eastside in the heart of Chinatown. He spends every Monday through Friday in school until 5:30pm, in large part because he is learning Mandarin. The parents who participate, contribute on top of whatever is received by the city of New York to fund the program.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicItkLh9isiKxKn2DLL7RgT-BuXO3QWes_aarOXas_VIX9iSJl-wHN1C8xKGmtMz3rLGzvFNMI3Z2gtQycpMvrveRdIH0gOKElUJvjHxleSPA8URzuqZxMA6ZV84EHD_N0eH2p2xDm39E/s1600/chinese-food1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicItkLh9isiKxKn2DLL7RgT-BuXO3QWes_aarOXas_VIX9iSJl-wHN1C8xKGmtMz3rLGzvFNMI3Z2gtQycpMvrveRdIH0gOKElUJvjHxleSPA8URzuqZxMA6ZV84EHD_N0eH2p2xDm39E/s200/chinese-food1.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">In this multi-global world, seriously starting to master Mandarin in the first grade sounds like a smart idea. In fact, when I told my husband about it that evening he replied, “Good for him. He’ll be able to communicate with our future masters” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So if what he says is true, in my minds this all begs the question – Will Chinese people seek out American cuisine on Sunday nights when they too, don’t feel like cooking? Do I detect the aroma of a business opportunity? I believe McDonalds is hoping so. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Mzg6gerLqRvXxlsDsKI0FLTa6rid273wfCVoU9wskIZz4SeNpR98BBOXsVTNntZDY2OSnaB_6uw-WDNYEpakJ_sUdWU0XVxhvtZsKshpZzk3Oy1UGQ4iEvHkNZs-iXF-5uHhRzFFCzA/s1600/calphalon_cookware-300x299.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Mzg6gerLqRvXxlsDsKI0FLTa6rid273wfCVoU9wskIZz4SeNpR98BBOXsVTNntZDY2OSnaB_6uw-WDNYEpakJ_sUdWU0XVxhvtZsKshpZzk3Oy1UGQ4iEvHkNZs-iXF-5uHhRzFFCzA/s200/calphalon_cookware-300x299.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">My husband and I are both good cooks. We love good food and I take no small measure of pride in my collection of cookware. I’m a firm believer in quality when in comes to my pots and pans and chefs tools. They include an international cavalcade of brands with Braun (appliances) and Wusthof (knives) from Germany; Sabatier (tools), La Malle (copper and tin bake ware), and Robot Coupe (the father of the Cuisinart Machine) from France: Paderno (amazing stainless) from Italy and of course Amercia’s own Cuisinart brand. There’s more but you get the idea. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chef Boy-ar-dee</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">I also have a rather extensive collection of outstanding cookbooks as well as years of back copies of <i>Gourmet, Cooks</i> and <i>Bon Appetit</i> Magazines. All of which are being culled for their most memorable recipes into my new electronic recipes card collection on Bento. The program is pre-formatted for the user to fill in the blanks with typical recipe data including the prep time, ingredients, now many it serves, and directions. Since my household has gone gluten-free in the past 18 months, my favorites and regulars have evolved to reflect this change. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx7cAOv4usa59wHLh_KPjV0SuSyt-QULiBBamIPAWfWHXQXzZEtS71PwO7Qsee1E1WfXDUiX9nMmWpA84fbMhRSYK0jsCpsOJd5TwlqkdJZIIcLm_AW9ZaSEHaXbMzCwt_Ot33uqc2rPY/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx7cAOv4usa59wHLh_KPjV0SuSyt-QULiBBamIPAWfWHXQXzZEtS71PwO7Qsee1E1WfXDUiX9nMmWpA84fbMhRSYK0jsCpsOJd5TwlqkdJZIIcLm_AW9ZaSEHaXbMzCwt_Ot33uqc2rPY/s200/images.jpeg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chef Chef</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">But I am also conducting this electronic transfer for other reasons #1 I don’t want to end up on “<i>Hoarders</i>”. #2 My son has requested a cookbook from me before he leaves for college. I’ll just copy his favorites to a disc and he’ll be good to go and #3 I just love using my laptop in the kitchen instead of a cookbook. It plays music while I prep! I embrace technology as best I can. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdjjpfpDvRH9FHpWIlXNPKDPMM0k-ZLQmhG7pbxWlstX5xOdo0N9tYe7oI8dTM0jOGliLSGdMQcdzUrRsOzC9jtoseI3E-GsueQnlccYs9oqsd6SN9u6T0YxcXik07iBznQFLKyiXfXEY/s1600/nathan1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdjjpfpDvRH9FHpWIlXNPKDPMM0k-ZLQmhG7pbxWlstX5xOdo0N9tYe7oI8dTM0jOGliLSGdMQcdzUrRsOzC9jtoseI3E-GsueQnlccYs9oqsd6SN9u6T0YxcXik07iBznQFLKyiXfXEY/s200/nathan1.jpg" width="164" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chef Nathan</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">But I have nothing on Nathan Myhrvoid, the former CTO and chief strategist for Microsoft who cashed out his millions in 1999 and decided to pursue his passions without the need to actually earn a living. Nathan is 51 years old, holds a Ph.D. in theoretical and mathematical physics from Princeton and did a postdoctoral fellowship with Stephen Hawking at Cambridge and he loves to cook. Nathan is not just interested in the “how to” of cooking; he’s interested in what has been called “molecular gastronomy”. So you may know how to make a hollandaise sauce but he wants to understand why it works. That’s the physics of cooking and what intrigues Nathan.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivhP6Vh-HdryikTHWOTeaIE9vdO6WvqtewD-3WcSrJ4xMrBuBMar13rhmwOl6v3sy95JWnPOeHc5StMtbUpsMGWBt5WLcI3DlBCUFHmOhG-OihmL2oiYb4piWFB7hXLpwuUZizC_DM3l0/s1600/20100707_modernistcuisine_250x250.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivhP6Vh-HdryikTHWOTeaIE9vdO6WvqtewD-3WcSrJ4xMrBuBMar13rhmwOl6v3sy95JWnPOeHc5StMtbUpsMGWBt5WLcI3DlBCUFHmOhG-OihmL2oiYb4piWFB7hXLpwuUZizC_DM3l0/s200/20100707_modernistcuisine_250x250.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">I share this as his new cookbook hits the streets. It is a six-volume set with over 2,400 pages, retails for $625, and weighs over 50 pounds. Entitled, “<i>Modernist Cuisine: The Art and Science of Cooking</i>”, Nathan will make you look at cooking in a whole new way. No novice to the professional kitchen, he moonlighted in the kitchen of a leading Seattle restaurant for two years. He has hundreds of patents issued and pending and is supposedly a world champion barbeque chef. This month there have been articles about Nathan in both <i>Wired</i> and <i>Time </i>Magazine. He’s clearly a modern renaissance man. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Nathan has, according to the experts, perfected the French Fry. All it takes is two hours of prep and voila! perfection. Oh, you’ll also need ultrasound equipment to cavitate (create bubbles) the water for 45 minutes on each side of the potato slice, a vacuum chamber and deep-frying equipment that can be precisely controlled. Other recipes call for <span style="color: #2b2b2b;">centrifuges and rotor-stator homogenizers. The $625 cookbook is the smallest investment required to cook like Nathan. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKQL2S8ItahId_Qw45ud_k0T20sfQC7nuicWWOqbSBYB-i7kRHPYx9Vly99MJlvcm7lnu0vp8c4_QZRNpt7NSmnMUpGe9D6n3eqaFaAzxiLefjw2Y6Escn71sF3Cg9qcIQq7x6vOMdQp0/s1600/WFM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKQL2S8ItahId_Qw45ud_k0T20sfQC7nuicWWOqbSBYB-i7kRHPYx9Vly99MJlvcm7lnu0vp8c4_QZRNpt7NSmnMUpGe9D6n3eqaFaAzxiLefjw2Y6Escn71sF3Cg9qcIQq7x6vOMdQp0/s200/WFM.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">One of my favorite tales involves the egg. A group of his chefs (he employs 20 in his kitchen) were working on a part of the cookbook involving thickeners. They were determined to unearth everything food scientists knew about how eggs cook. It took two weeks of experimentation but they were then able to produce a graph, which provided temperatures and the ratio of egg to liquid to plot anything from a firm Flan to a runny Crème Anglaise. You can’t find all this information in just one place and that’s just one of the over 1500 features in <i>Modernist Cuisine</i>. You’ll also have to purchase some new staples for your pantry, like liquid nitrogen.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Most new cooking techniques and tools; the microwave, the pressure cooker, the crock pot, have been accepted because they have made cooking easier and faster but Nathan believes there should be techniques and tools that make food better by cooking more precisely. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbOXhXNOgIrjFRe9AqdfksQryD8NMAOkM-5VDfPkJ7kdt7revWxHMaxB0up7QdX6A01SWWNGf9RkQpqNQzSd0ILJVq_vnmyOCCp6-3k8lQ_EOsXfqwxYHc6fuMCpOTcIFtZGx-VO105eo/s1600/img-article---heron-myhrvold_170215333023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbOXhXNOgIrjFRe9AqdfksQryD8NMAOkM-5VDfPkJ7kdt7revWxHMaxB0up7QdX6A01SWWNGf9RkQpqNQzSd0ILJVq_vnmyOCCp6-3k8lQ_EOsXfqwxYHc6fuMCpOTcIFtZGx-VO105eo/s320/img-article---heron-myhrvold_170215333023.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For those of you who may be interested in learning more about the wizardry of Nathan Myhrvold, I have some good news. His cookbook is being offered on Amazon for a mere $450. If you’ve got the $100,000 or so on top of that for the upgrade on your kitchen appliances, I say go for it and then invite me over to sample your perfect French Fries. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><!--EndFragment-->CJ Cohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979435883379846667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7847990354721186420.post-60460658249658223302011-02-04T20:36:00.000-05:002011-02-04T20:36:18.482-05:00What's in a name? or The (D)Evolution of George<!--StartFragment--> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQXi6SbsA1NSy5fnCOfgL8TXTsWBVeue5MtZQ9mwNHWuZDNNloSBXUi5hwEFf6G5pC58qQaB19SbJc0w5CC37bPFD9lv3iNVp0GNnLgxQHOMZhcZ7vgMgUhiSaDvk3pQ3UHiNJGTRnbFw/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQXi6SbsA1NSy5fnCOfgL8TXTsWBVeue5MtZQ9mwNHWuZDNNloSBXUi5hwEFf6G5pC58qQaB19SbJc0w5CC37bPFD9lv3iNVp0GNnLgxQHOMZhcZ7vgMgUhiSaDvk3pQ3UHiNJGTRnbFw/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">George the Curious</span></span></td></tr>
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">My first encounter with George was as a mischievous monkey who enchanted his yellow hat-wearing owner. The escapades of this early embodiment of George were hits with the under ten set around the world. Though he spoke not a word, his compassion for balloonless children, children in hospitals and other disappointed by life’s seeming inequalities painted a moral picture with charming illustrations of smallness being no limitation to heroism. H.A. and Margret Rey, authors and survivors of the modern century’s most horrific chapter knew all too well about man’s cruelty to man. First published in 1941 after the couple escaped from Hamburg with the original Curious George manuscript on their backs, it’s no wonder they chose a simian as hero. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">George the General </span></span></td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My next George appeared in grammar school when I learned about the father of our nation. General George, a very tall Virginian, had an aristocratic bearing in spite of the false wooden teeth he required. Many myths were crafted to show his humility and honesty, traits that have not been extolled too frequently by our country’s leaders. Coming from the state with the wealthiest, most erudite and educated colonists only enhanced George’s natural appeal and talents as leader. Offered the job of king, this George turned down the position in favor of one more suited to a country of disparate members. His choice, in light of the deposition of friend France’s leaders a few years later, appears prophetic. Clearly no job is worth actually losing your head over. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">George the Quiet </td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My third George was the quiet one. In the go-go sixties Sir George was the balladeer of the mop-headed number one boy band from England. His mumbled, hesitant and self-effacing persona provided a counter to the froth of Paul, the goofiness of Ringo and the tortured soul of John. It was hard to imagine how he ever garnered the attention required to actually have one of his compositions included in any of these quartet’s compilations. Yet - <i>Here Comes the Sun, Something </i>and<i> While my Guitar Gently Weeps</i>, are critical to any Beatles ‘collections. The victim of a brutal home invasion, before the fanzines and paparazzi, he was actually allowed to recover in quiet dignity. It wasn’t until his solo career that I actually paid attention to him at all. He seemed to silently slip away from all of us at only 58 without rancor or scandal, so unlike an icon. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">George the cypher</td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal">George the fourth was a creature unlike his predecessors. He too wore the mantle of U.S. President but rather than the rakish possessing style of Washington, this George seemed cast out of smoke and mirrors. His rather sanguine and colorless persona, his privileged upbringing and Ivy League pedigree transported to the wide-open ranges of Texas made for a strange mix. He was a hybrid of Southern laid back and New England shrewd. Then there were the years playing cloak and dagger, heading up the CIA. I was discomfited rather than calmed by his presence in the White House. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">George the Magazine</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">George then morphed into a glossy political magazine named in honor of the General who became the first president. Cindy Crawford posed on the cover as our midriff-bared leader, in keeping with the airbrushed treatment of American politics. The astoundingly handsome son of Jack published George. Some year’s later, right after John Jr. had passed his bar exam, he rode his bicycle past me as I stepped outside my apartment building on Bleeker Street. We were both on our way to work in the crisp of autumn’s early morning, just the two of us in a neighborhood usually too noisy and congested to sleep. Even wrapped in his sweater and scarf, he was easily recognizable. George the magazine may have failed to impress but I can assure you that exquisite John did not. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">George of the Seven<br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My life was filled with other George’s as well. There was the George who dared to speak the seven forbidden words. A huge career was launched with this small collection. And then there was the two dimensional George, swinger on vines thwarted always by the unforeseen tree. </span></div></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">George the Tan</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">One other George comes to mind, he of the tan. I only include him to share an amusing anecdote. I was staying in Beverly Hills on a business trip and I walked over to Rodeo Drive for an early Saturday morning breakfast. I sat at an outdoor café sipping my $7 orange juice and nibbling my $12 croissant when who should drive by in his caramel colored Rolls Royce with the top down but none to wear than George the tan. His complexion and auto body paint were a perfect match. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlk53EAJG8YYh892enwQVfwAhQH4zyG82nBSEQ8ombDnEvWaX20l5dIv6_kSygaqbw-v7evpANEA6QIi9VEmI5cvu3Ii8XdZa_-gxYFcUjlba62uz7LeaimDQ-vAP0SNKT6Kv1ymxJVPo/s1600/George-W.-Bush-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlk53EAJG8YYh892enwQVfwAhQH4zyG82nBSEQ8ombDnEvWaX20l5dIv6_kSygaqbw-v7evpANEA6QIi9VEmI5cvu3Ii8XdZa_-gxYFcUjlba62uz7LeaimDQ-vAP0SNKT6Kv1ymxJVPo/s320/George-W.-Bush-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">George the Reborn</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">George, the reborn was next. Witnessing his puppet show administration (surely the strings were being pulled by someone else…) his disingenuous humility and sheer lack of ambition was disturbing. After reading the commencement addresses Hillary and George gave at Yale University in the same year, I shook my head in wonderment at how we could have elected someone who showed such disdain for the value of academia. His creation of NCLB, the dysfunctional but highly profitable national program still in place, demonstrated just how little he understood about the process of education but did about payback. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqa-q3J1T1yD9dOIBskUpKDEcr1jVj9Z1onCyes18xfSjv76YxVnpcF0txv0N4SOmEv6O_JXo_lfdqpI_3nXA2r8lP4avM0wXY5O6b80TEP5MBqoUUNtQw9rSifpHT6bbsfgw29-vRKFo/s1600/george-clooney-20050713-54689.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqa-q3J1T1yD9dOIBskUpKDEcr1jVj9Z1onCyes18xfSjv76YxVnpcF0txv0N4SOmEv6O_JXo_lfdqpI_3nXA2r8lP4avM0wXY5O6b80TEP5MBqoUUNtQw9rSifpHT6bbsfgw29-vRKFo/s200/george-clooney-20050713-54689.jpg" width="159" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">George the Best! </td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">Of course I have saved the best, the ultimate George for last. While my delineation is not necessarily sequential, I have chosen the velvet voiced George to conclude my list. He is the George who inspires strangers to wear tee shirts proclaiming themselves to be his wife. He is the George who inspires comparisons to Cary Grant. And if his beauty and grace were not enough, he is also the George who cares about the enormous dire poverty in the world and the rights of the disenfranchised. He is the George who has an endless series of graceful and demure beauties on his arm at all industry functions. We are comfortable with his serial monogamy, which allows us to fantasize about his slippers beside our beds. He is masculine and beautiful and he is George. </div><div><br />
</div><br />
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<!--EndFragment-->CJ Cohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979435883379846667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7847990354721186420.post-63388033406988547882011-01-30T20:56:00.000-05:002011-01-30T20:56:15.452-05:00Oscarama!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4TWQW3CEySE5mCnzTssELXWQgqVOZw_SlXsqrqv_5WL0Tq8jIrta1mFUSGK1uPgXLDQ9gMAQMCnL22KHMtFNek8dXCsOkyX1Lfhiwyoqky5DJKXcigM6HX2UBjfaopT7ysc5Q_oI0ZEA/s1600/oscar-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4TWQW3CEySE5mCnzTssELXWQgqVOZw_SlXsqrqv_5WL0Tq8jIrta1mFUSGK1uPgXLDQ9gMAQMCnL22KHMtFNek8dXCsOkyX1Lfhiwyoqky5DJKXcigM6HX2UBjfaopT7ysc5Q_oI0ZEA/s200/oscar-1.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I just spent the last hour soaking in the tub while reading the latest edition of <i>Entertainment Weekly</i> from cover to cover. It is the issue devoted to all things Oscar, that most coveted piece of American produced hardware; the ultimate trophy. Every year at this time, my attention is riveted to Hollywood and all that glamour. Academy Award night is the one night a year where I watch television for six hours straight. Don’t even try to call me; I won’t answer the phone. I may tweet a bit or stop by Facebook to see what kind of snarky remarks my clever friends may make, but that’s it. Oscar and the fashion cavalcade command all my attention.</span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><div class="MsoNormal">I must admit that the prognostication of winners by the entertainment writers and editors who probably have not seen all of the films seems a bit presumptuous to me. It clearly doesn’t stop any of the news outlets in fact, from having an opinion about the films and who deserves and will win. I can do just as good a job of judging that which I have not seen and so I will. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For the purposes of brevity, I will only comment on the films nominated for best picture. I will divulge to my readers which films I have seen or not and suggest that none of my commentary or evaluations be used for determining how to vote in your local Oscar pool if you are actually interested in winning. My projections are for entertainment purposes only. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOfCcAi7vgSLGWdqZCkQN90txbcThLdCnfz2dzO9F0cDA2mAIoktWHGGWtv9O6jqbnPsEl9A1llkd4W4rd30LDfcme00IEPMYHKyhy_1Rlbsnjkg5nsIeP99qsv8ZyWeU6U6BMi-WrczI/s1600/127hours.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOfCcAi7vgSLGWdqZCkQN90txbcThLdCnfz2dzO9F0cDA2mAIoktWHGGWtv9O6jqbnPsEl9A1llkd4W4rd30LDfcme00IEPMYHKyhy_1Rlbsnjkg5nsIeP99qsv8ZyWeU6U6BMi-WrczI/s320/127hours.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>127 HOURS</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">To be clear, I don’t want to see this movie. To see where someone has put their arms where it doesn’t belong will remind me too much of the times I put my mouth in places it doesn’t belong, as in – Oops! That just fell out of my mouth -- I shouldn’t have said that. I also just don’t think this is going to win because Danny Boyle won last year for the fabulous <i>Slumdog Millionaire</i> and he’s not going to win with this one. It wasn’t even shot overseas.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ8AQsnjPdEgwAwVAZHFAeMej3ojD9fi_K8uQKcmQ42TmTZr1ubvt1HpePfSVC0vyzQ5_DZ0gzh53a5RoXUnLGQWGYbvRbWy50mx3d2oKGXQlpBSWH0TBJqstmzn5fwc6sP-FCCvO1-A0/s1600/blackswan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ8AQsnjPdEgwAwVAZHFAeMej3ojD9fi_K8uQKcmQ42TmTZr1ubvt1HpePfSVC0vyzQ5_DZ0gzh53a5RoXUnLGQWGYbvRbWy50mx3d2oKGXQlpBSWH0TBJqstmzn5fwc6sP-FCCvO1-A0/s320/blackswan.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>BLACK SWAN</i> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">A film about a bunch of crazy ladies makes me crazy and feels eerily familiar to me. I like the idea of another ballerina based movie being recognized since <i>The Turning Point</i> with looney Shirley Maclaine and feisty Anne Bancroft was just annoying. <i>Billy Elliot </i>was about a young man so it doesn’t really count, but I don’t think it has the gravitas to win. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwo_1Khs7-3eHWGTiU-Gt5gjRN7xuG2p-dOmbQ90Q9cXWm_6QwAzOisPyWnlgIsXaNvVOnuthbDMdi0lKbjGFOa8V_TRy2jUMsvMjV6yYg9BmNhGUWdJQqqTG7P3xuNAA3flCLmImrD3Q/s1600/gallery_inception.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwo_1Khs7-3eHWGTiU-Gt5gjRN7xuG2p-dOmbQ90Q9cXWm_6QwAzOisPyWnlgIsXaNvVOnuthbDMdi0lKbjGFOa8V_TRy2jUMsvMjV6yYg9BmNhGUWdJQqqTG7P3xuNAA3flCLmImrD3Q/s200/gallery_inception.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>INCEPTION</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal">For the spinning hallways and dizzying plot, this kaleidoscope of a film kept me guessing, mostly about how this movie could possibly end. The notion of invading dreams was a swell one. <i>Avatar</i>, or as we call it in our house, <i>Dances with Wolves</i> meets <i>Pocahontas</i> in <i>Fern Gully</i>, won three (Art Direction, Cinematography and Visual Effects), and I think this film should do at least as well. The director, grumpy Christopher Nolan, isn’t nominated so I don’t think it can take Best Picture. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>THE FIGHTER</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKbmykX2rnqyCYUcvkQyUNtB3_mnJ-BaBrzZtJa6G2Xjlhpz2sivSkeh6QNnA5BiHt6x4HzcHFXWKi-W36TRprOJPVxtlqLVy2T06qOx7JV0YOJBTMv4MJSSTI5ocQKQv78AGYFxhr7qQ/s1600/fighter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="119" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKbmykX2rnqyCYUcvkQyUNtB3_mnJ-BaBrzZtJa6G2Xjlhpz2sivSkeh6QNnA5BiHt6x4HzcHFXWKi-W36TRprOJPVxtlqLVy2T06qOx7JV0YOJBTMv4MJSSTI5ocQKQv78AGYFxhr7qQ/s200/fighter.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>When Marky Mark became Mark Wahlberg and ditched his Calvin’s, he was making a very smart move. As a young man, Mr. Wahlberg was charged with attempted murder, pleaded guilty to assault, and was sentenced to two years in jail, of which he served 45 days. He’s obviously figured out how to channel all that aggression. I personally find Mark to be a very reliable actor. I even saw M.Night’s awful <i>The Happening</i> and while it was a really bad movie, Mark tried his best to make it work. Christian Bale is no softy either. It’s hard to believe he’s Australian after you see him in this movie. Melissa Leo has been a personal favorite of mine since her <i>Homicide</i> days. The big surprise in this cast is Amy Adams. But it’s another Boston Movie and the win for Scorcese’s <i>The Departed</i> was too recent for this to take Oscar home. <i> </i><br />
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</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD04EqbGM4d5T4-HpTwPTlyIF51tdCXZVuJbLL9O_2n5ck10Gvkwg_Tel7_pBOAz-laOebrtGUVl_QQK3oYcBaqYXarlJUsp4HWZUffwKmInU3KDChg5TmsqJJxaE0gA6c5fLCJ1bp8tw/s1600/kidsalright.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD04EqbGM4d5T4-HpTwPTlyIF51tdCXZVuJbLL9O_2n5ck10Gvkwg_Tel7_pBOAz-laOebrtGUVl_QQK3oYcBaqYXarlJUsp4HWZUffwKmInU3KDChg5TmsqJJxaE0gA6c5fLCJ1bp8tw/s320/kidsalright.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>THE KIDS ARE ALRIGHT</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i></i></div><i><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">There are lots of complaints this year about how there are no Academy Award nominees of color but what about Lesbians? How long have they been neglected in Hollywood? </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i><i></i></i></span></div><i><i><div class="MsoNormal" style="display: inline !important;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">Alternative families are all around me in my neighborhood so I think it’s great that Hollywood finally caught on. I loved this movie and wrote about it in a earlier blog entitled: </span>Gene pool, Cesspool—The Kids are All Right.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"> I think Annette Bening should win for her performance but I don’t think the film has the technical or historical drama to carry the day. </span></div></i></i><i></i><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">If you would like to read more about this film and then some, please go to:</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"></span></i></span></div><i><div class="MsoNormal" style="display: inline !important;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="display: inline !important;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">http://suburbanfamiliar.blogspot.com/2010/08/gene-pool-cesspool-kids-are-all-right.html</span></div></i><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4JjfLpEUz27TM8EzGED40f4yzc3CD2vRH_xQuW4wdG3p2x1qGARppTBwrovku_3L1bbiKfv3C_7qI7jks9cWPSvWX4wS71Yjh4iD5tCo2rajWrojn2xFcVT8UDC0ciZHh6dnJvcRZ-bU/s1600/kingsspeech.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4JjfLpEUz27TM8EzGED40f4yzc3CD2vRH_xQuW4wdG3p2x1qGARppTBwrovku_3L1bbiKfv3C_7qI7jks9cWPSvWX4wS71Yjh4iD5tCo2rajWrojn2xFcVT8UDC0ciZHh6dnJvcRZ-bU/s320/kingsspeech.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i></i></span></div><i><div class="MsoNormal" style="display: inline !important;">THE KINGS SPEECH</div></i><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">Colin Firth is completely adorable and is the closest to being named my make believe boyfriend of all the film nominees (Sorry George, but you’re not in a nominated film this year.) and so it would be really terrific if this movie wins. Geoffrey Rush is always brilliant and Helena Bonham Carter is absolutely my favorite. She’s beautiful and wacky. If she knew me, we would be great friends. It has the-real-story historical-person-faced-with-personal-adversity going for it. Also, a British accent gives this movie points because it makes everyone sound so such much more intelligent than most Americans even when they stammer. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfLlgO210KcMYDiXz_kvjmauDMgTn9nBcfc_FqCVzlnOFU0tpZYfVdeLgwFW2pjn9zXunFGo1wQUp31GBctEWHKSqEMFlMj9uzqXCJFlmsNPySERmgtFOPVzrJpurtS-i9vZ9ouUY874U/s1600/socialnetwork.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="120" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfLlgO210KcMYDiXz_kvjmauDMgTn9nBcfc_FqCVzlnOFU0tpZYfVdeLgwFW2pjn9zXunFGo1wQUp31GBctEWHKSqEMFlMj9uzqXCJFlmsNPySERmgtFOPVzrJpurtS-i9vZ9ouUY874U/s200/socialnetwork.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>THE SOCIAL NETWORK </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I like playing on Facebook so I’m not all that surprised that someone decided it would make great fodder for a film. Since this is the only movie nominated this year with a cast that includes minorities (How could you shoot at Harvard without Asians?) it gives this film, in an all white year, additional points. Aaron Sorkin is as smart as David Mamet and then some so while I haven’t seen the movie yet, I think it’s a real contender. By the way, if you haven’t seen the <i>South Park </i>episode about Facebook, you should. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja81DjMaG5_U3mNs1Huzsp25G52ya7c396Ulhifctl4siiX5eSJICSAVXibauw_BYb7ZpwVc_ocjSdVpCGebSNzDdD3O9B8Nt1VWGoXZ_AkMBZdWqTSjfobjMA2SBZHxnHHCAOyhsGbig/s1600/toystory3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja81DjMaG5_U3mNs1Huzsp25G52ya7c396Ulhifctl4siiX5eSJICSAVXibauw_BYb7ZpwVc_ocjSdVpCGebSNzDdD3O9B8Nt1VWGoXZ_AkMBZdWqTSjfobjMA2SBZHxnHHCAOyhsGbig/s320/toystory3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>TOY STORY 3</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i></i></div><i><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">I love Woody. He’s the best male role model for young men out of Hollywood this year. He has heart, smarts and wears blue jeans without the sag. His buddy Buzz Lightyear shows how men can be friends without getting all soupy about it. It is a great celebration of Man-love of the highest order and the story and animation and performances are first rate. I’ve seen all three of these films and they just kept getting better and better, the opposite of most sequels (remember </span>Godfather III<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">?) and for that alone it should win something but since a friendship like this could only exist in cartoonland and Hollywood has never awarded an animated film the best picture award, the film makers will have to be content with best song -- because I love Randy Newman. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbZbiAlKGwHa9LPnZLoxDPThOgaMM9zixQBwfQC6lbhQkEVdPCXCItBSIPw2r45B1rJLNvCoiW8VOZNDiqnaiDvxa0h5uBsvfaDqmWrnKRcsGHacIY5icTwEJM143Mi953KbQCI2ieXDw/s1600/truegrit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbZbiAlKGwHa9LPnZLoxDPThOgaMM9zixQBwfQC6lbhQkEVdPCXCItBSIPw2r45B1rJLNvCoiW8VOZNDiqnaiDvxa0h5uBsvfaDqmWrnKRcsGHacIY5icTwEJM143Mi953KbQCI2ieXDw/s320/truegrit.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">TRUE GRIT</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">The Coen brothers don’t want to win for this one so they won’t. They don’t want to become part of the Hollywood mainstream and even though this film has made more money than any other of their films, it was also rated PG-13. They seem to be more suited to R rated genre. I think they want to remain outside and edgy and we like them there. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKoiHkq0iqVYxPtKins1QVO0qJOZn9JF5759WdcjoJQRDxY-rzvkK2_MfgNK5Bf2y5T5SdadI1p6dA2VMHEz5uw8e2TN25ZyK8UMhMDT_Fc6gVsmbdFGD-OWsMbczNlrkGMHIfnEe1i5o/s1600/winter_s_bone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKoiHkq0iqVYxPtKins1QVO0qJOZn9JF5759WdcjoJQRDxY-rzvkK2_MfgNK5Bf2y5T5SdadI1p6dA2VMHEz5uw8e2TN25ZyK8UMhMDT_Fc6gVsmbdFGD-OWsMbczNlrkGMHIfnEe1i5o/s320/winter_s_bone.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">WINTERS BONE</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">Since I live in the Northeast and have been snowed in and going stir crazy so there is no way I would vote for a film with Winter in the title. Ask me about this in the Spring, maybe after I’ve actually seen the movie and we don't have all this snow.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i></i></span></div><i><div class="MsoNormal" style="display: inline !important;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="display: inline !important; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">So that’s my rundown for this year’s Oscar Best Picture nominations. Please feel free to submit your own projections. Everyone can and does do it. </span></div></i><br />
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<!--EndFragment-->CJ Cohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979435883379846667noreply@blogger.com2