I should be commenting on how the Bush Administration has gone socialist for the banking industry. Can anybody not remember how these same folks kept yapping about NEVER INTERFERE WITH THE MARKET! Wow, talk about bailing out Bear Stearns, Freddie, AIG and the rest of the 40 thieves. It’s totally okay. The real strategy however is a continuation of Rove. If you want to make sure there is no money for any of our social programs, like Universal Health Insurance, create the biggest debt in the country’s history. Then we ain’t got money for anything. Oh this stuff is getting boring. Let me write about the old Yankee Stadium.
As old Yankee Stadium goes to the wreckers’ ball, I am reminded of growing up in the Bronx and thinking of the Stadium as just another ballpark to play in. I grew up in the northeast part of the Bronx next to the Zoo. My family’s constant attendance at the Zoo had a great influence on how I think about the human condition. My Papa never ceased in pointing out the similarities between us and our distant forbearers in the monkey house. The major activity of the Baboons, Chimpanzees and Orangutangs was to compete for being in charge. We haven’t made much progress on that score.
Because the Bronx was a working class community, we were mostly Giant fans. But the Harlem River was a barrier between us and our favorite team. The problem was that we could make it over to Yankee Stadium on our bicycles, but getting to the Polo Grounds, where the Giants played, would put us in “strange territory.” That included more black people than we were used to seeing. They were strangers to us, therefor to be avoided. That left us with the Yankees.
There was no such thing as night games back then. All games were in the afternoon sun. That created a very different atmosphere, more like a picnic in the ballpark. After school we would get on our bicycles and ride over to Yankee Stadium, drop our bikes by the right field bleacher doors, and start banging on the doors. Sometimes it took a little while but eventually the doors would open. Standing there was our friend Babe Ruth saying, “Now get in there in a hurry and behave yourselves or I’ll throw you all out the same way you came in.” It was somewhere around the 7th inning and we’d run into the bleacher seats, put our feet up on the rail, and puff ourselves up like we were the “Kings of the Stadium.” We loved the Babe for being our pal and so we had to love his team as well, even though our true friends were across the river in that “foreign land.”
Now here comes the new stadium in Macombs Dam Park. That’s where we used to take part in the P.S.A.L. games (Public School Athletic League). I ran in the 100 yard dash, the 220 relay, the Shot Put and the broad jump. That Park is now gone.
The new Yankee Stadium is reflective of the era in which we are now living. It is the time of “The Dude.” It is for the new masters of the universe who are going to pay in the thousands for golden boxes, fancy martinis, special entertainment areas that will cost a mere few thousand to rent for a game. The whole orientation of the new Yankee Stadium is the antipathy of how Babe Ruth saw a bunch of working class kids who could not afford even the .25 or .50 cents to come in the front gate, and whose grown-ups drank beer and ate hot dogs.
I had the rare opportunity of meeting Lou Geherig on a number of occasions. I was 18 working at the Packard Service Station on Fordham Road in the Bronx. Geherig owned a 12 cylinder Packard Roadster and periodically I would get to service it. He always had some baseballs with him and would toss them to guys working in the garage. He gave me one. Stupid me, I gave it to a far more ardent fan than I ever was. (At the time I was an ardent fan of the U.A.W. and was subsequently fired for trying to organize the place. That became case number one before the New York State Labor Board. I lost the case and my job.)
How about the $1.4 billion cost of the new playground? You guessed it. That will be born by the taxpayers of New York. The very people who won’t be able to afford the $29 to park the car. Season tickets, forget it. The whole place is designed for the new rich. They are always the worst because they can’t stop letting the world know, “look at me with my Rolex watch, my Lamborgini, or Bentley. Ain’t I great.” What a far cry from what that place used to be. Babe, Lou, and Hank, the kids in the Bronx are sure gonna miss you guys and the old ballpark.
Thanks Kate. N.H.W.Y.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Friday, September 12, 2008
Palin's Diversion
I said I would wait a week before commenting on the Palin VP choice. I don’t see any need to talk about what has already been revealed about the Bridge to nowhere scam, as well as the rest of the Alaskan Arctic fairy tales--hunting moose, Russia’s neighbor, and so forth. What’s really important here is to understand the strategy.
The McCain campaign was confronted with an inability to wake up the Republican base primarily because the base didn’t trust him. He did have a record way back when he really was a “maverick” going his own way on many issues like illegal immigration. The right wing just didn’t trust him. Now the campaign is in trouble. So what to do? They decide to bring in Steve Schmidt, a Karl Rove protege. (Bush’s nickname for Rove is “Turd Blossom.” Very appropriate, especially if you leave out “Blossom.”) McCain at this point is thinking of naming Lieberman as his running mate. Schmidt, Limbaugh, et al go berserk. They say, “You can’t do that. You’ll lose the whole right wing crowd as well as the election.”
Meanwhile, Limbaugh has been promoting the idea of the Governor from Alaska for VP. A right wing darling, she even believes in intellegent design. She’s against choice. The right wing will love her. Far more important, it will refocus the whole campaign off McCain and onto the Vice Presidential nominee.
That was exactly the strategic move, and so far it’s working. The Schmidt strategy is to make any questioning of Palin’s ability to be VP look anti-feminist. Wow! Republican feminist fighters. This is equal to Rove’s brilliant idea of WMD destruction as a way to go to war with Iraq. Rove’s influence during the 7 years of the Bush administration is one of deceit, lies and division. I don’t recall anyone in my 70 years of observing our politics that has created so much distrust and division as this guy.
Obama has one major task ahead of him if he is to win this election. He has to make crystal clear that, if we elect McCain and Palin, we get four more years of exactly what we have had for the last seven. Bush has one of the lowest approval ratings of any President. Obama needs to remind the country that McCain’s voting record has been 95% in support of Bush. Don’t leave him off that hook. The people are fed up with the Bush, Rove crowd. That is the issue, not the lady from Alaska. She’s a very very clever bait that we should not fall for.
Thank you Kate N.H.W.Y.
The McCain campaign was confronted with an inability to wake up the Republican base primarily because the base didn’t trust him. He did have a record way back when he really was a “maverick” going his own way on many issues like illegal immigration. The right wing just didn’t trust him. Now the campaign is in trouble. So what to do? They decide to bring in Steve Schmidt, a Karl Rove protege. (Bush’s nickname for Rove is “Turd Blossom.” Very appropriate, especially if you leave out “Blossom.”) McCain at this point is thinking of naming Lieberman as his running mate. Schmidt, Limbaugh, et al go berserk. They say, “You can’t do that. You’ll lose the whole right wing crowd as well as the election.”
Meanwhile, Limbaugh has been promoting the idea of the Governor from Alaska for VP. A right wing darling, she even believes in intellegent design. She’s against choice. The right wing will love her. Far more important, it will refocus the whole campaign off McCain and onto the Vice Presidential nominee.
That was exactly the strategic move, and so far it’s working. The Schmidt strategy is to make any questioning of Palin’s ability to be VP look anti-feminist. Wow! Republican feminist fighters. This is equal to Rove’s brilliant idea of WMD destruction as a way to go to war with Iraq. Rove’s influence during the 7 years of the Bush administration is one of deceit, lies and division. I don’t recall anyone in my 70 years of observing our politics that has created so much distrust and division as this guy.
Obama has one major task ahead of him if he is to win this election. He has to make crystal clear that, if we elect McCain and Palin, we get four more years of exactly what we have had for the last seven. Bush has one of the lowest approval ratings of any President. Obama needs to remind the country that McCain’s voting record has been 95% in support of Bush. Don’t leave him off that hook. The people are fed up with the Bush, Rove crowd. That is the issue, not the lady from Alaska. She’s a very very clever bait that we should not fall for.
Thank you Kate N.H.W.Y.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
"Rich Man's Burden"
I originally thought about doing a piece on the new Republican VP candidate, but looking over the coverage she already has gotten, I figured I would leave well enough alone and go to something requiring more thought than the air head from Alaska. She is were she is because of the need for the McCain folks to put a “Fountain of Youth” next to a potentially dead candidate. The enthusiasm over Palin at the Republican Convention proved my point. “At last we got a live one.”
Back to the “Rich Man’s Burden.” That was the title of an Op-Ed piece in the New York Times Sept. 2nd. The article is about how so many professionals can’t even take Labor Day off. They may not go to an office, but they are wedded to their laptops and Blackberries 24-7. What interests me about the piece is how over the past few decades the definition of “work” has changed.
The writer, a New York University sociologist, quotes Max Weber, an early 20th century German sociologist, who described what he called the Protestant ethic. There was a religious imperative to work hard, spend little and find a calling in order to achieve spiritual assurance that one is among the saved. I might add that the basic idea expressed by Weber was very much part of Martin Luther’s philosophy, as well as Freud’s notion of Lieben and Arbiten as being fundamental to good mental health. All this from a bunch of German authoritarians. The article was a plea for understanding the “rich man’s burden.” As you might have guessed, I am having some trouble with that notion.
So much of my own life’s labors was concerned with how society gets its work done. Who does what and how are they rewarded for their efforts. In the world of socialists, anarchists and freethinkers that I grew up in, the only people who really mattered were those who actually made something that benefitted society as a whole. Coal miners were primary as we depended on them for electricity; bakers, for without them there would be no daily bread, and so on. My father referred to people who sat at office desks all day as “bloodsuckers” living off the labors of others but producing nothing themselves. Okay, so you can see why I still have some problems with feeling sorry for our present day professionals who are stuck on their laptops and Blackberries.
So what is my dilemma? I know that the nature of work has changed radically over the last century, and yet I am not sure how to redefine it? In my time the generally accepted definition of “work” was “the application of energy to an object in order to change it.” I am aware of the concept of “knowledge” as a commodity to be created, marketed and sold, but it doesn’t easily fit into my old definition. I still have some difficulty getting worked up over some “poor guy” sitting at a Spa in South Florida with laptop or a Blackberry manipulating numbers and calling that work. And as the article says, he or she may be doing that continuously day and night.
Remember, as a very young man and for most of my life, I did get very worked up about people being exploited at the workplace. So why am I not worked up, as the Op-Ed writer in the Times is, about modern day professionals stuck at their laptops? Is it because I am not sure exactly what they are producing, if anything, besides smoke and mirrors? And yet I wonder, have I missed something along the way that radically changed the nature of “work?” Does that something have a far more reaching definition then in the days of physical labor? In our world of Cyberspace, how do we define work? I’d like to hear what you think.
Thank you Kate N.H.W.Y.
Back to the “Rich Man’s Burden.” That was the title of an Op-Ed piece in the New York Times Sept. 2nd. The article is about how so many professionals can’t even take Labor Day off. They may not go to an office, but they are wedded to their laptops and Blackberries 24-7. What interests me about the piece is how over the past few decades the definition of “work” has changed.
The writer, a New York University sociologist, quotes Max Weber, an early 20th century German sociologist, who described what he called the Protestant ethic. There was a religious imperative to work hard, spend little and find a calling in order to achieve spiritual assurance that one is among the saved. I might add that the basic idea expressed by Weber was very much part of Martin Luther’s philosophy, as well as Freud’s notion of Lieben and Arbiten as being fundamental to good mental health. All this from a bunch of German authoritarians. The article was a plea for understanding the “rich man’s burden.” As you might have guessed, I am having some trouble with that notion.
So much of my own life’s labors was concerned with how society gets its work done. Who does what and how are they rewarded for their efforts. In the world of socialists, anarchists and freethinkers that I grew up in, the only people who really mattered were those who actually made something that benefitted society as a whole. Coal miners were primary as we depended on them for electricity; bakers, for without them there would be no daily bread, and so on. My father referred to people who sat at office desks all day as “bloodsuckers” living off the labors of others but producing nothing themselves. Okay, so you can see why I still have some problems with feeling sorry for our present day professionals who are stuck on their laptops and Blackberries.
So what is my dilemma? I know that the nature of work has changed radically over the last century, and yet I am not sure how to redefine it? In my time the generally accepted definition of “work” was “the application of energy to an object in order to change it.” I am aware of the concept of “knowledge” as a commodity to be created, marketed and sold, but it doesn’t easily fit into my old definition. I still have some difficulty getting worked up over some “poor guy” sitting at a Spa in South Florida with laptop or a Blackberry manipulating numbers and calling that work. And as the article says, he or she may be doing that continuously day and night.
Remember, as a very young man and for most of my life, I did get very worked up about people being exploited at the workplace. So why am I not worked up, as the Op-Ed writer in the Times is, about modern day professionals stuck at their laptops? Is it because I am not sure exactly what they are producing, if anything, besides smoke and mirrors? And yet I wonder, have I missed something along the way that radically changed the nature of “work?” Does that something have a far more reaching definition then in the days of physical labor? In our world of Cyberspace, how do we define work? I’d like to hear what you think.
Thank you Kate N.H.W.Y.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Hampton Classic Again
Unfortunately I am not celebrating my Labor Day marching in a parade. There is none. Instead I am rerunning the “Hampton Classic” story. In the face of all the absurdities out there, in some way it fits right in. Happy Labor Day.
It is now Hampton Classic time out here on Long Island and I had another memory jolt. The horses reminded me of an early Sunday morning in Mexico City. I was at the stables of the Presidential Palace for an early breakfast. You are wondering, “What on earth was he doing there?” I was too.
It was probably 1965. I was in charge of Youth Employment programs for the City of New York. John Lindsey, the Mayor, asked if I would be willing to go to Mexico to evaluate a youth employment training program called “Instituto Nacional La Juventud,” National Institute of Youth. It was wintertime and I could not be more delighted to leave the City for whatever reason. (Mayor Lindsey sometimes referred to my job as “keeping the city from burning.” We did that by employing as many as 50,000 kids in summer jobs.)
Once in Mexico City I was treated like royalty, with chauffeured car and airplane at my disposal, to be able to visit any one of dozens of cities and towns that had Youth Training Programs. I would visit the programs, spend a day or two observing, and make notes. Getting back to the Horse Show.
On Friday evening my host, Sergio Alvarez, Director of the Instituto, announced, “Sunday morning we ride with Mexico’s National Equestrian Team at the Presidential Palace in a practice jumping session.” You have to understand that Sergio, a small highly energetic man, spoke in proclamations that came out as major facts that simply could not be denied. Yet I valiantly tried saying, “Sergio, I know how to ride a horse, but for God sake, I would not think for a moment I could ride with Mexico’s best riders. Besides, I know absolutely nothing about jumping a horse over a hurdle, and I have no riding clothes.” That last was a desperate attempt to get out of this impending disaster. To Sergio it mattered not. “Roberto,” he announced, “we have all your sizes and your clothes and boots will be waiting for you at the arena.” And so I gave in to Sergio’s determination that this was going to happen.
Early Sunday morning there was Sergio all decked out in boots, jodhpurs, tailored riding jacket, and helmet, assuring me that the very same outfit awaited me at the stable. We arrived at the great hall where dozens of men where already eating breakfast of eggs rancheros. There was no silverware and I noticed people were using there rolls as a way of scooping up the peppers and eggs.
I was greeted as a dignitary from Estados Unidos who will “honor us by riding in our La Pista.” I was still hoping that the riding outfit wouldn’t fit and that would be my way out. At this point Sergio was insisting that it would be a real insult if I were to withdraw. “Roberto,” he exclaimed, “do you want to insult us by being disdainful of our riding ability? No Roberto, for the sake of the relations between our two great countries you must ride.” Sergio was what some Mexican friends described as a “declamador,” who declaimed as though he was addressing the multitudes. There was nothing to do but put on the outfit (it fit amazingly well) and make the best of it.
We proceeded to the riding hall and again it was announced that Roberto Schranko from Estados Unidos would be riding with the equestrian team. As I watched these fabulous riders and their horses go over the hurdles from a foot off the ground to what appeared like six feet, I was in awe of the grace and the ease with which they managed the ride. I did not have a clue regarding how they were being judged. It was getting to be late morning and I thought, “Oh well, they probably forgot about me,” when Sergio came to remind me it was time to “mount up.” Back to the stable. There was a beautiful horse held in check by a groom who very graciously, with a movement of his hand toward the horse, suggested I mount; which I did. Once up in the saddle, it seemed to me this was the tallest horse I had ever been on.
Adding to my overwhelming anxiety and prayer that this horse would know what to do, since I didn’t, was the fact that I was sitting on an English saddle instead of a nice Western with that great knob up front you could hold on to when things got hairy. Everything from here on out was now in the hands of the Gods, or the horse, or both.
The groom led us into the La Pista and sent me and the horse off to the very first hurdle. I gave the reigns a little lift, which is what I thought was a signal to the horse to jump. Once past that first hurdle there was a round of applause from the audience. I thought, “Well heck, that wasn’t so bad.” Then came the next and the next and the next, and after each one a loud applause. As I approached that final six-footer I thought, “Man, just hang on here or for sure you will be dumped.” But this dear sweet horse just took it in stride and over we went. Now there was thunderous applause. Sergio came forward to congratulate me on my great spirit. He generously said I had sacrificed myself to make the Mexican’s feel good by knocking down every single pole from the first to the last. “Roberto, you are a great friend of Mexico and we will never forget what you did here today.”
When the trophies were handed out, I was given a silver belt buckle with a Road Runner bird on it. I thought that was a perfect portrayal of me at the “Hampton Classic” in Mexico City. This was yet another case of “never look back,” for if I had I would have realized how absurd this whole episode was. I thanked the horse for getting me through the hurdles without a single refusal to jump.
It is now Hampton Classic time out here on Long Island and I had another memory jolt. The horses reminded me of an early Sunday morning in Mexico City. I was at the stables of the Presidential Palace for an early breakfast. You are wondering, “What on earth was he doing there?” I was too.
It was probably 1965. I was in charge of Youth Employment programs for the City of New York. John Lindsey, the Mayor, asked if I would be willing to go to Mexico to evaluate a youth employment training program called “Instituto Nacional La Juventud,” National Institute of Youth. It was wintertime and I could not be more delighted to leave the City for whatever reason. (Mayor Lindsey sometimes referred to my job as “keeping the city from burning.” We did that by employing as many as 50,000 kids in summer jobs.)
Once in Mexico City I was treated like royalty, with chauffeured car and airplane at my disposal, to be able to visit any one of dozens of cities and towns that had Youth Training Programs. I would visit the programs, spend a day or two observing, and make notes. Getting back to the Horse Show.
On Friday evening my host, Sergio Alvarez, Director of the Instituto, announced, “Sunday morning we ride with Mexico’s National Equestrian Team at the Presidential Palace in a practice jumping session.” You have to understand that Sergio, a small highly energetic man, spoke in proclamations that came out as major facts that simply could not be denied. Yet I valiantly tried saying, “Sergio, I know how to ride a horse, but for God sake, I would not think for a moment I could ride with Mexico’s best riders. Besides, I know absolutely nothing about jumping a horse over a hurdle, and I have no riding clothes.” That last was a desperate attempt to get out of this impending disaster. To Sergio it mattered not. “Roberto,” he announced, “we have all your sizes and your clothes and boots will be waiting for you at the arena.” And so I gave in to Sergio’s determination that this was going to happen.
Early Sunday morning there was Sergio all decked out in boots, jodhpurs, tailored riding jacket, and helmet, assuring me that the very same outfit awaited me at the stable. We arrived at the great hall where dozens of men where already eating breakfast of eggs rancheros. There was no silverware and I noticed people were using there rolls as a way of scooping up the peppers and eggs.
I was greeted as a dignitary from Estados Unidos who will “honor us by riding in our La Pista.” I was still hoping that the riding outfit wouldn’t fit and that would be my way out. At this point Sergio was insisting that it would be a real insult if I were to withdraw. “Roberto,” he exclaimed, “do you want to insult us by being disdainful of our riding ability? No Roberto, for the sake of the relations between our two great countries you must ride.” Sergio was what some Mexican friends described as a “declamador,” who declaimed as though he was addressing the multitudes. There was nothing to do but put on the outfit (it fit amazingly well) and make the best of it.
We proceeded to the riding hall and again it was announced that Roberto Schranko from Estados Unidos would be riding with the equestrian team. As I watched these fabulous riders and their horses go over the hurdles from a foot off the ground to what appeared like six feet, I was in awe of the grace and the ease with which they managed the ride. I did not have a clue regarding how they were being judged. It was getting to be late morning and I thought, “Oh well, they probably forgot about me,” when Sergio came to remind me it was time to “mount up.” Back to the stable. There was a beautiful horse held in check by a groom who very graciously, with a movement of his hand toward the horse, suggested I mount; which I did. Once up in the saddle, it seemed to me this was the tallest horse I had ever been on.
Adding to my overwhelming anxiety and prayer that this horse would know what to do, since I didn’t, was the fact that I was sitting on an English saddle instead of a nice Western with that great knob up front you could hold on to when things got hairy. Everything from here on out was now in the hands of the Gods, or the horse, or both.
The groom led us into the La Pista and sent me and the horse off to the very first hurdle. I gave the reigns a little lift, which is what I thought was a signal to the horse to jump. Once past that first hurdle there was a round of applause from the audience. I thought, “Well heck, that wasn’t so bad.” Then came the next and the next and the next, and after each one a loud applause. As I approached that final six-footer I thought, “Man, just hang on here or for sure you will be dumped.” But this dear sweet horse just took it in stride and over we went. Now there was thunderous applause. Sergio came forward to congratulate me on my great spirit. He generously said I had sacrificed myself to make the Mexican’s feel good by knocking down every single pole from the first to the last. “Roberto, you are a great friend of Mexico and we will never forget what you did here today.”
When the trophies were handed out, I was given a silver belt buckle with a Road Runner bird on it. I thought that was a perfect portrayal of me at the “Hampton Classic” in Mexico City. This was yet another case of “never look back,” for if I had I would have realized how absurd this whole episode was. I thanked the horse for getting me through the hurdles without a single refusal to jump.
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