designing writer

'Say Her Name': Love, Loss, and Letting Go

2011-12-04T14:08:00.020-05:00

I think someone once said that the shortest distance between two minds is a book or, if they did not, they should have. This observation is never more apparent than it is when reading Francisco Goldman’s Say Her Name. In this book, he opens a doorway into his heart, mind, and soul and invites you to partake in a luminous and lasting tribute to his young wife, blossoming writer Aura Estrada, whom we learn right away he has lost in a tragic accident. The book, though, is never maudlin or overly sentimental even when the author explores his deeper feelings of loss and the yearning for what might have been. Rather, he wants you to know this woman as a living, breathing person whose dreams and drive once filled his life and still do. His prose, which dances off the page with a lyrical beauty even when conveying the bitterest reality, brings both she and the short time they had together to brilliant and technicolor life.

Aura Estrada and Francisco Goldman on their wedding day in 2005 in Mexico

In reading this book, you will know that the writer succeeded in his quest to keep both her memory and their beautiful love story alive. You will feel that you know both of them as you would two close friends, and you mourn her loss along with him even as you both celebrate her life. Ultimately, you feel enriched for having opened the book and welcomed them both into your life.

A++

The Little Country That Could

2011-11-30T23:49:00.019-05:00

What do you picture when you think of Israel?

For some, thinking of Israel conjures images of the desert, men dressed in traditional Bedouin garb riding camels, and bustling, colorful street markets embued with exotic sights, sounds, and smells. For others, it is the promised land—the land of milk and honey—to which Moses led his sun-soaked, matzoh-stuffed people who had been wandering the desert for 40 years. Still others have a more sobering picture of uzi-wielding Israeli soldiers guarding sensitive borders and news images of violence and bloodshed. For yet another group of people from no less than three of the world’s mightiest religions, Israel is the Holy Land and it contains for them important religious sites and significant archealogical finds that date back to biblical times. For countless others, the land of Israel was once Palestine, an ancient Jewish land that in modern times became a safe haven for tens of thousands of immigrants fleeing a hostile, mid-20th century Europe, a land whose arid desert they turned—with a back-breaking pioneer spirit not unlike the settling of the American West—into a fertile and flowing garden.

Which of these images represents the real Israel? Of course, they are all real, but the truth is that there is so much more and it is much more than the world ever sees.

Dr. Tal Ben-Shahar’s enlightening new documentary Inside Israel: How A Small Nation Makes A Big Difference illuminates that “so much more,” presenting us with amazing aspects of his country and its people that may surprise and delight even the most fervent Zionist. He begins by telling us a bit about his life as a psychology professor at Harvard University and why, after 14 years, he decides to return to Israel, the place he was born. The reasons why are at the heart of this fascinating documentary as Ben-Shahar deftly interweaves these reasons with the positive qualities that he believes enable people, businesses, and countries alike to flourish and accomplish great things. He makes a compelling case that these qualities are possessed by Israel and its people and explain why this tiny, desert country (barely bigger than the state of New Jersey) leads the way in making huge and positive contributions to the well-being of not only its own people, but to people all over the world.

Please do not miss this documentary. It is the modern missing piece of an ancient puzzle that has been a long time coming. We can all use a good public relations firm at times and for Israel that time is now and that firm is Dr. Tal Ben-Shahar. His documentary paints a modern, comprehensive, honest, and beautiful portrait of an oft misunderstood and much maligned people.

The Table

2010-02-25T13:42:00.022-05:00

Once upon a time there was a table.

It was an ordinary table - plain, brownish, rectangular - that seated six comfortably and eight or nine cozily. It appeared one day in a quiet, but open corner on the 9th floor of a large, downtown office building. Some nearby cubicle dwellers took note of it, and it got them thinking and talking. Wouldn’t it be nice to have this table here for informal meetings, brainstorming sessions, and even lunch? Yes, they decided that was a great idea. They watched the table every day and hoped that no one would come to take it away.

And no one did.

So, every day, five or six, or sometimes more, colleagues would stop whatever they were doing in the middle of the day, bring a lunch or order in as a group, and gather at the Table.

You might think that this is the beginning of a quaint story, but the story of the Table is anything but quaint. It is a story with enough drama, intensity, emotion, intriguing plot lines, clever innuendo, one-liners, improvisation, hilarity, and cliffhangers to keep a sitcom going for years. It is, in fact, a story full of adventure, flavor, and fun.

What gave it flavor and fun was people chemistry. We each brought something else to the Table every day in addition to our lunches. We brought ourselves and our lives. Like a variety of spices and flavors that you stir into a pot, our colorful personalities and rich stories made a fascinating and delicious stew each and every day. Some days that stew was hot and spicy. Other days it was cool and fresh. Still other days it was bubbly and tickled our noses. That is where the adventure comes in. We never knew what we would cook up at the Table every day.

What made our stew especially delicious was that there was not a subject we would not throw into the pot. Nothing was taboo. Not divorce, love, life, politics, history, media, religion, science, plastic surgery, celebrities, serial killers, society, getting older, the human condition, our fears, our hopes, our dreams. Not sex. Not drugs. Not rock ‘n roll. You name it. We talked about it. We shared anything and everything that we thought about, read, saw on TV or in a play or in the movies, dreamed of, or experienced. If talk could move mountains, we would have started a whole new range. We gossiped, too, of course. It was friendly, benign gossip that was about sharing and learning and understanding. Nothing malicious. That was not our style.

We did not just talk, either. We did crossword puzzles and picture puzzles, played board games, did Sudoku, exchanged books and recipes, made candy, brought in projects, pictures, and hobbies for show and tell, shared our family histories, and planned office parties as well as field trips to museums, movies, and plays. We challenged each other with Trivial Pursuit questions. We even learned how to quilt!

The thing we did best, though, and most often was laugh. No matter what we were talking about or how serious the subject, someone always interjected something funny and we ended up holding our bellies, shaking our heads, and wiping our eyes in uncontrollable, roaring laughter. Sometimes we laughed at each other. Sometimes we laughed with each other. It did not matter. It always felt good.

The Table was not a private club. Not by any means. It was open to everyone and anyone. Like the watering hole in the jungle, all different types of office species — managers, assistants, analysts, accountants, and writers — were all drawn to the Table. Some people stopped by every so often for a sweet treat or a joke or just to see what was going on at the Table. Others brought their lunches and tried the Table for a while. The Table, we learned, was not for everyone. Some found they just could not spare the time. Others had trouble handling the raw honesty and openness of the Table.

Over the years it became a special place for those of us who did come most every day. It gave us a sense of belonging and of being appreciated. We each felt embraced and accepted and maybe even a little loved. The Table was a place where we could bring our whole selves, our real selves — even the parts of us that one does not customarily bring to the workplace. We trusted each other. We learned from each other. We supported each other. What happened at the Table stayed at the Table. That was understood.

Some of the Table’s more outrageous and hysterical moments inspired talk of writing it all down or even writing a book one day, but we never did. When it was time to go back to work, we got up, cleaned the Table, gathered our things, and each went back to our respective professional worlds. We said our good-byes and looked forward to tomorrow’s Table adventures. The Table was closed for another day.

The Table, as you can see, was much more than just a table. Of course, to people passing by it did look like a simple table. Some of them even thought that it did not belong where it was. To us, though, the Table was not at all what it appeared. It represented an amazing opportunity to let our guards down and create special friendships in a place we never expected that to happen, and in a place where we did not really need that to happen. We certainly could have done our jobs just fine without the Table. We were professionals. We always did our best. But maybe — just maybe — that Table helped us do our jobs a little better and with a little extra zest.

The Table finally ended one day in the Fall of 2009. By that time many of us had already relocated or had been laid-off. Today, the Table is just a pleasant memory of a special time and place once shared by a group of work buddies. I would like to think, though, that there are other Tables out there somewhere, like ours, creating opportunities for people to find each other and to find themselves in the midst of often impersonal and hectic daily lives.

So, here’s to our Table, and here’s to all those other Tables that might be out there. Here’s to you finding a Table one day, too. If you do, pull up a chair. Stay a while.

This blog is dedicated to Amy, Carolyn, Lisa, Sally, and Sue.

Cat Tales 102: Kitties' Day Out

2010-02-19T23:04:00.032-05:00

I am on a beach chair far from the beach, sitting instead at the edge of my driveway where it meets the garage door. I plant myself there because the kitties like to hang out near me and I do not want to encourage them to go too far.

At the moment they are both moving slowly toward the other end of the driveway. The cool and intrepid Remington Steele, also known as Remy, is way out ahead of his more high-strung brother, Prince Cameo the Cautious.

Suddenly, a neighbor’s car starts and they both spring into action, coming back toward me. Cameo races to just inside the doorway of the house while Remy moves more slowly and ends up behind my chair, both of them craning their agile necks to watch the four-wheeled beast disappear down the road. They are learning fast about this outside world. In the meantime, I am glad that their instinct for protecting themselves is deeply and genetically entrenched.

After the car drives off, Remy immediately resumes his explorations. Cameo, on the other hand, takes his time coming out again and when he does, he decides to stay near me. What if one of those noisy monsters returns? Clearly, Remy’s fear threshhold is much higher than is Cameo’s.

Observing their behavior, with their very distinct personalities, fascinates me to no end. And being outside allows me to see them in the special situation of also being outside the safe and comfortable territory of our home.

One of the things I notice when we are outside, and enjoy, is how they run to me for comfort and safety. It is not that they do not express affection when inside. They certainly do, but they already feel comfortable and safe at home. If something happens at home that frightens them, they do not run to me. They run to their customary hiding places behind the couch or under the bed. Outside, though, they have no hiding place, and the most comfortable place is me.

Yesterday, a neighbor came over to chat. Cameo ran immediately back into the house, of course, but not Remy. He started to run, but then stopped and stayed about four feet from her. She cooed and called him over to her, but all he did was lower his head, sniff a few times and run closer to me. Rubbing up against my leg and chair, he continued to watch her like a child who stares curiously at a stranger, but holds mom’s hand for reassurance. Seeing this reaction makes me realize just how much our bond is very similar to a mother-child bond. From me they get shelter, love, food, and protection—for life! In the cat’s understanding of the world, I am the big momma cat.

Unlike dogs who are naturally pack animals and "see" us as the leaders of the pack, cats do not naturally live in a hierarchical family group. It is true that lions live in family groups called prides, but they are the exception in the big cat world. The common housecat is probably more closely related to the big, solitary cats. In the eyes of our naturally solitary housecats who are forced to live in our "family" scenarios, we become momma and poppa cats and they the baby cats, dependent on our care. They maintain this juvenile role throughout their lives, even when they are senior cats.

A hawk flies overhead and a jet seems to follow close behind. Because of the proximity of the bird and the distance of the jet, they appear for a moment to be the same size and travelling in the same direction. Suddenly, the hawk veers sharply north and the jet continues on its westward course. They are no longer flying mates.

Remy relaxes by my feet and sniffs the ground while Cameo chirps a little, bird-like meow-melody and pushes his nose lovingly into my leg. They both stop and stare at the sudden sound of voices in the distance. The voices get louder and are joined by a gritty motorized sound like a buzz-saw. Cameo does not like this at all. He jumps up and, in a blur that can barely be recognized as a cat, races back into the house.

Remy watches his brother disappear into the shadows of the doorway. He apparently decides that this is a good idea because he picks himself and, at a much more dignified speed, follows his brother. No more kitties to observe. Time for momma cat to go back in, too.

Photo credits: Jade, the leopard, courtesy of Big Cat Rescue (http://bigcatrescue.org/) in Tampa, Florida.

Poetry 102: Dots

2010-02-16T01:51:00.010-05:00

Unemployed

2010-02-12T15:49:00.017-05:00

I am thinking about the condition of being unemployed.

It is not the same as not working. That I think of as a more voluntary condition. My situation has been an involuntary one and, as such, not without its moments of tension, fear, anxiety, and emptiness.

Aside from the extreme emotions, being without a job at a time in your life when you expected to have one and may, in fact, need one can feel just plain strange. For one thing, it alters the landscape of your daily life in ways you could not have imagined. Once my day was structured with people to see, places to go, and projects to do. I was happy about some of it, but was at least accustomed to all of it. I really just took it all for granted. Now, I have to create any structure I want or need in my day, and sometimes there are people to see, but sometimes not.

It seems funny to think about this now, but when I was working, I used to sometimes think about people who were not working as being "on the outside" as if work were a kind of incarceration. Not that I did not often enjoy my work, but I guess the requirement of being there day in and day out for specified hours could feel like confinement at times, especially when the day would drag.

That feeling lingered when I was "let out" for doctor’s appointments and such, so that I would look around me in wonder. Who are all these "free" people? Why don’t they have to work? What are they doing? How do they make a living?

Those questions went unanswered, of course. And now that I have been one of them for a year, I still wonder. I am on the outside now, but because so much of my energy goes toward trying to get back on the inside, I am not really and truly on the outside. Maybe that is, in fact, the most difficult thing—existentially speaking—about being unemployed. If the secret to happiness, as the experts tell us, is living in the present moment then we who are out of work must be in a kind of Purgatory. We do not accept where we are, so we are in a constant state of trying to get somewhere else. Add to that misery the fact that we may not have any idea of where exactly we want to be. We just know that it is not where we presently are!

Maybe that state is metaphorical for the human condition. After all, we humans live in a constant state of fleeting present moments speeding by into the past with future moments, that we cannot yet know, hanging out there . . . somewhere. It is a precarious position at best, but one that we learn to live with and are, thankfully, usually not fully aware of or else we might go mad. Or, maybe, we might learn to live in the moment along with the rest of the natural world, like Thoreau did. He understood that the furnishings of modern civilization were mostly façade. He wanted what was real. Reality, after all, claims us in the end and sometimes in the middle, too.

Poetry 101: Haiku

2010-02-10T00:34:00.014-05:00

Puppy Bowl VI

2010-02-08T18:37:00.018-05:00

Today, when most Americans are either really happy or terribly sad about the Saints winning, there are a few folks who just do not care. Probably not many, but one of those folks – or critters, rather – lives in my house.

My Camy just don’t care.

"Super Bowl-Shmooper Bowl," he communicated, "we are watching the Puppy Bowl!"

He made sure we did, too. He hid The Remote. I don’t know about your house, but in my house nothing works without The Remote.

He had no interest in watching human males pile-drive each other into the ground, and even less interest in sitting through expensive commercials whose main purpose is to make corporate fat-cats even fatter. No, that is not for my Cameo. He wanted the Puppy Bowl on Animal Planet. And the rest of the household caught the excitement, too.

First of all, there was the wild and crazy Bissell Kitty half-time show. That was a meow a minute.

Then, there was Hamster Sky-Cam – a first for Puppy Bowl! Those guys really knew how to bring us a hamster-eye view of all the action!

Last, but not least were the puppy players themselves. They were the stars of the show, and Cameo would not take his eyes off those little action-packed fur balls. It was non-stop thrills!!

Personally, my favorite part was the Water Bowl Cam. Watching those puppy players dive in nose-first to rehydrate is a must-see for all!

If you are still wondering how we could have missed the Super Bowl, I ask you this: What is more American than watching puppies play football? Think about it - dogs and football. The only thing missing was apple pie. Maybe I will send them that suggestion for next year.

Even without the pie, it was truly something to see. So, please do not miss it next year. But do keep an eye on that remote. We’re still looking for ours . . .

Cat Tales 101: Kitties' Day Out

2010-02-07T15:08:00.028-05:00

The squirrel in a nearby tree is making a very loud screeching noise I am surprised comes from a squirrel.

I would have expected a sound like that to be coming from a bird. Strange. Even stranger that I never knew that squirrels even make a sound. Who would have thought that I could learn anything about nature sitting at the edge of my concrete driveway of my man-made condominium in my ultra-manicured neighborhood? But there you go. I learned.

I am not sure where Remy is and that concerns me a bit. He is probably around the corner. He usually does not venture far. Oh, there he is, stalking a duck like a big cat in the wild.

It is amazing that I can bring my cats outdoors with me. Friends are surprised that I am not afraid the cats will run away. The fact is that it is my cats' personalities, Remy's in particular, that gave me the idea in the first place. He is adventurous spirit tempered by caution. Cameo is all caution peppered with a healthy dose of fear. They explore a bit, then return to me, rub up against my leg and look up at me and say something. They often “talk” to me, but being a dumb human, I’m not exactly sure what they are saying! I can only guess. Sometimes, when we are outside, it seems that they are just reassuring themselves that all is well. I am here with them. Other times, it seems they are so excited, they might be saying, “Wow, this is way cool!”

The other thing that makes me feel secure bringing them outside is that they are both very responsive to my voice and movements. They always look at me when I speak to them, especially when we are outside, and they seem to understand when I do not want them to do something such as munch on some unknown greenery that I fear might harm them or venture too far away from me. When my voice turns a bit stern, Remy usually stops what he is doing or he comes back and sits closer to me. Cameo usually runs back into the house!

Cameo is just inside the door now and he meows in response to my calling him and pokes his head out the door. Remy responds, too, by coming closer and settling himself beneath the pet stroller where I sit only a few inches away in a lawn chair. That seems to be one of his favorite spots. He can feel safe and secure while still being able to survey his kingdom—the trees, the shrubs, the flowers as well as the birds, people, and cars that pass by.

Now, Cameo decides to come out, meowing and nuzzling my legs. He rolls on his back, stretches, then rolls around, back and forth, in pure joy. He looks up at me adoringly. Or is that just the way it seems to my conceited human imagination? I’m glad he seems happy, but all I think about is all the shmutz he’s getting on his coat that he will bring into the house! He stops to go nose-to-nose with his brother who sits nearby in a Sphinx-like pose, sniffing him as if to clarify his identity.

“Yeah, that’s my brother,” he seems to think to himself as the identification process ends and he goes back to rolling around on the floor and getting more shmutz on his coat.

We—my critters and I—seem to inhabit the same world, but it is very clear that we, in fact, do not. They respond to things I do not see or hear. I, in turn, tune things out that they find worthy of their attention like a plane flying overhead or a dry leaf crunching by in a sudden gust of wind. There is so much I do not notice, but enters my awareness because of them. They constantly invite me into their world of sound and movement. As predators, they are hardwired to notice even the slightest shift in the world around them. Of course, as they spend more time outside, they, too, begin to become familiar with the common features of our front yard and, thus, begin to tune things out, realizing that some things are not worthy of their attention.

I move my legs to stretch out my cramped knees and startle Remy. He immediately settles back down as he realizes that the sudden noise came from me. Cameo has decided to go back inside the house. He’s had enough of this unpredictable, outdoor world. Remy, who looks very comfortable, will be tougher to sell on that idea.

Reflections On The Moon

2009-04-23T16:44:00.037-04:00

Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass. ~Anton Chekhov

Photograph by Yaakov Asher Sinclair http://www.seasonsofthemoon.com

Yesterday was Earth day. It put me in the mood to write about the Moon. I am not trying to be cute. The Moon, after all, is a child of the Earth as am I. If that is too warm and fuzzy for you, I will put it another way. The Moon is largely composed of the Earth. According to Bill Bryson in his hefty, but exceedingly readable A Short History of Nearly Everything:

" . . . about 4.5 billion years ago, an object the size of Mars crashed in to Earth, blowing out enough material to form a companion sphere, the Moon. Within weeks, it is thought, the flung material had reassembled itself into a single clump, and within a year it had formed into the spherical rock that companions us yet. Most of the lunar material came from the Earth’s crust . . ."

Before I knew this or much of anything, I knew that I loved the Moon. As a child, I remember riding in the car at night, nose pressed against the window, watching a changing landscape of shadowy trees rush by. My fertile imagination conjured images of Godzilla’s reptilian head looming menacingly above the tree tops. Then I would spy the Moon, resplendent in the shimmering light of a distant sun, so proud and stark against the night sky. It would hold my attention as it journeyed with me in a phenomenon known to many a Moonwatcher in the age of locomotion—it seemed to be following me! One minute it was here. Now it was over there. I would not notice the trajectory of my path changing, of course, only the amazing face of the Moon shadowing my every move.

As a jaded, seen-it-all adult, I find the Moon still holds surprises and mysteries for me. On a given night, it may appear in any one of a whole spectrum of shapes, colors, sizes, luminosities, and locations in the sky, or it may not appear at all, leaving the earth bathed in darkness. I cannot be alone in loving the huge, orange Harvest moon that seems to hang breathtakingly within reach as though, if I went to the edge of the Earth, I could gather all my strength and jump right into one of its craters. And, during the day, catching sight of a pale, barely-visible moon is so lovely, like running into a friend you did not expect to see at the mall. Other times, like a confused moth, I turn with excited expectation to a bright, heavenly light in my peripheral vision only to find myself staring into a street lamp. Even the stalwart and steady Moon cannot save me or a hapless moth from that shameless human invention. Nevertheless, the moon is never boring. It never disappoints.

Just when I thought I could not be more amazed by the Moon, a friend directed my attention to a Discovery television program that explained something quite startling. It is that all life on Earth, as we know it, could not exist without the Moon. To anyone as unfamiliar with this revelation as I was, I offer the following facts:

The Moon exerts a significant influence on both the rate and the stability of the Earth’s rotation on its axis.

The rate and spin of the Earth’s rotation determines, among other things, the 24-hour cycle of day and night and the climate.

The 24-hour day and night cycle and the climate are both factors that determine, to a large degree, what life forms exist on the Earth.

Many experts agree that without the stabilizing force of the moon, extreme temperatures, severe storms, a wobbly rotation, and a significantly different day and night cycle could conceivably make the Earth inhospitable to life forms that we know and love—and even some that we do not.

Another startling fact that further illustrates these others is that since its inception the Moon has been moving away from the Earth at approximately one inch per year. Excuse me? Yes, the constant Moon is not so constant. It, in fact, has not always been so perfectly positioned to support life on Earth as it now is, nor will it always be. Millions of years ago, the Moon was considerably closer to the Earth than it is now. The Earth’s day and night cycle, rather than being 24 hours, was roughly 4-6 hours! Imagine having a 4-hour day and a 2-hour night. It is doubtful that humans and other higher life forms could have evolved in that abbreviated night and day cycle. Imagine, though, the Moonwatcher’s dream—if humans had been around then—of a tremendous Moon filling the night sky.

I was delighted to discover that the Moon I love is not only the mysteriously beautiful orb that has for centuries ignited the passions and imaginations of poets, writers, romantics, scientists, astronauts, religious zealots, and humble Moonwatchers. It is also a formidable and dramatic force for life on Earth.

Who knew?

As we go about our busy, important lives perhaps we should stop occasionally and pay homage to the shadowy sphere that daily, quietly, and gracefully orbits its mother Earth or, at least, look up with a touch of child-like wonder and a sprinkling of awe. I know I will.

Bob and Larry: A Friendship

2009-04-15T02:12:00.019-04:00

You can tell a lot about someone from what he says about someone else.

Recently, dad fell and broke two ribs. Bones that have been around for 79 years do that fairly easily. I stopped by to help mom organize bills and paperwork so she could assume some of his responsibilities while he convalesces. In the piles of paper, I came across one that seemed different. It was of a more personal nature. Several typed paragraphs of prose filled the page. I looked more closely and saw that it was a eulogy he had written to recite at a friend’s funeral several years ago. I paused to read the words and, as I did, I learned something about my father.

It is not that I do not know my father. I certainly do. But we humans are like diamonds—not sparkly or expensive, necessarily—but certainly having many facets and offering up different aspects of ourselves in different lights and from different angles. So, yes, I have seen many sides of dad. I know, for example, that he loves to discuss history and business and the latest book he is reading. I know that he was a teacher turned business executive, now retired, who wrote his Master’s thesis, in 1953, on the origins and history of slavery in colonial Brooklyn. I know that he loves his family and would do anything for them. I also know that he is smart and talented, charming and funny. He can perform the best Borscht Belt jokes with perfect comic timing. In his prime, he ran companies, gave speeches, and traveled the world. I learned a lot from him - not just facts, but a broad perspective on the world. I know, too, that he likes to be in control and can be impatient, critical, stubborn, and quick to anger. When he’s driving a car, he dishes up a sometimes entertaining, often irritating commentary on the ineptitude of other drivers. “Putz with ears!” “What are you waiting for, shmuck . . . a special invitation from the Queen?”

The words he has written on this page, however, show yet another side not often seen. They show a vulnerable man who has lost something dear. The sweetness and depth of his feelings and the way he describes his friend makes me feel sad for this great loss, and they make me miss his friend, too. They also make me wonder why we often hear about the importance of women’s friendships, but not so much about friendship between men. So, let the following words - my father's words about his friend - be a little celebration of one of those friendships.

To Larry Robbins from Bob Twersky:

All of us have acquaintances with whom we play cards, go to lunch or dinner and, in general, pass the time . . . But some of us are privileged to have had a few whom we consider friends, real friends . . . friends we can count on . . . with whom we spend real time talking about those things in our lives that really matter, that are really important and personal.

I have been privileged to have had a few that fit into this category. One such rare friend has been my dear buddy Larry Robbins.

I loved this dapper guy. Oh, I know he was a little heavy and sometimes his shirt had food stains on it, but he was still a sharp dresser, clean and neat, clothes always ironed and fitting well. His demeaner was friendly and courteous, and it was lovely to watch him talk to those he knew or even to strangers—waiters and waitresses, people on elevators or on the golf course. Wherever he went, he was never at a loss for words or for want of people to converse with. I can see him now sitting at a bar near the beach, beer in hand, talking with the bartender and another patron, and really enjoying himself.

In a word, Larry was a class guy, one who would do everything in his power—whether it was money, advice, time, or love—to take care of his family. In fact, all he could give and had he showered on his family. He was a man filled with optimism, kind words, intelligence, and love which he shared freely with everyone with whom he came in contact.

I will sorely miss his humor, the good times we had together for hours on end at lunch or dinner, his spontaneity when cruising—singing “Danny Boy” with glass in hand as we and fellow travelers sat at the piano bar and listened to his great voice and enjoyed his professionalism—his good cheer when we were together, and most of all, his friendship.

Larry, I will never forget you. I thank God that we met some ten yours ago. You will live with me always. So long, buddy. –Bob Twersky

Two friends: I. Robert Twersky (left) and Lawrence Robbins (right)

This blog is dedicated to the memory of Larry Robbins.

The Talking Fly and Other Cautionary Tales

2009-04-10T23:25:00.006-04:00

I caught the end of "The Fly" last night on American Movie Classics -- the original with Vincent Price and David Hedison, not the remake with Jeff Goldblum. The one that requires you to use a little imagination and is chilling, but not gross. I loved this movie as a kid. In the days before you could copy or burn or download a movie, you watched it when the TV Guide said it was on. You made your popcorn, plumped the couch pillows, turned down the lights, and got ready for the show. In my case, I had a birthday sleepover and forced several innocent, unsuspecting girlfriends to watch the horror flick with me. Have they ever forgiven me for the inevitable ensuing nightmares?

Now, I watched with a smile on my face wondering if the movie would hold up all these years. It's still wonderful, the ending as creepy as ever. Seeing it as an adult, though, started me thinking about other cautionary tales of the consequences of trying to usurp nature’s power. Icarus flew too close to the sun. Eve was banished from the garden. Prometheus was punished for stealing fire from Zeus. Pandora gave us Death. Frankenstein unleashed a monster. The Sorcerer’s Apprentice almost drowned the world. The list goes on. All of those unfortunates paid dearly for playing with power they did not really have or understand.

A not-so-subtle message of warning shines brightly in those stories. Yet our culture, heeding not this warning, greedily throws an ever-widening net of control over the natural world. The cautious among us love those tales because even in the glow of infatuation over a new scientific discovery, we still fear the monster that might arise. There are already frogs that glow in the dark, killer bees, non-native species destroying native ones, antiobiotic-resistant bacteria—all Frankensteinian developments for which we have no one but ourselves to blame. The cautionary tales are all imaginary, but in today's news stories where does science fact end and science fiction begin? We know not the answer, but we have met the monster and it is us.