John Delach

After our dinner on Friday night in Greensboro, we stopped at the bar in the Marriott for a night cap before making an early retreat in deference to our 4:30 AM wake-up calls. Lights out for me was shortly past 10. I began drifting off as I entertained thoughts about tomorrow when the sound of what I took to be bongo drums invaded my room. “Bom, ba, ba, bom, ba, bomba, ba, ba; filled my head. For perhaps two or three seconds, they’d cease then start again. No pattern that I could discern; just bom, ba, ba, bom, etc.

Angrily, I threw off the bed sheets, stood up and faced the door only to realize the sound was coming not from the direction of the hall or another room, but from outside my window. I turned, opened the curtains to discover I had a fantastic view from my 11^th floor room of a decent fireworks show. The spectacle was being fired from just beyond the centerfield fence of  New Bridge Bank Park, home of the Greensboro Grasshoppers, a Class A minor league team of the Miami Marlins.

Friday night was obviously fireworks night. The curtains were closed when I arrived and I never noticed a ball park out side my window. Glad I hadn’t made myself a fool by complaining to the front desk, I watched the grand finale before again retiring.

Next morning, on board Coach WATX 539, our hostess, Trudy, introduced herself as a life-long citizen of Roanoke. Of good humor, Trudy told us both her father and brother worked for the Norfolk & Western and she grew up taking complimentary family trips behind the railroad’s J Class locomotives. She explained the rules and tips we needed to know to make our trip safe and enjoyable including what coaches we could visit and which were off limits, the location of commissary car where we could purchase non-alcohol drinks and souvenirs and the locations for the men’s and women’s rest rooms in each coach.

It just so happened that Trudy covered these subjects while she stood in the row directly in front of me. Needless to say, I couldn’t resist the temptation to have some fun so when she finished her spiel about the restrooms I ventured: “Now, Trudy, ordinarily, your information would be sufficient, but we no longer live in such a simple age. I have already explained to my two buddies here who are, shall we say, metrosexuals, that it is illegal for them to consider using the women’s room while we remain in North Carolina and to wait until the train reaches Danville, Virginia before exercising that option.”

“Perhaps you may wish to make a similar announcement to the rest of the passengers?”

Trudy looked back at me with a glint in her eye and said: “I think I’ll pass on that.”

On the way out, the staff distributed a boxed breakfast and on the return trip, a snack box at about 4:30 PM. That box contained two cookies, a bag of potato chips, a bag of mixed nuts, one of freeze dried blueberries and a sealed bag of Biltong USA: Safari Style Gourmet Beef Snacks. The bag was accompanied by a slick, multi-colored brochure extolling the superior qualities of this South African delicacy over plain old American beef jerky. It proclaimed biltong to be the first ever (jerky) to be USDA-approved and that it too is made right here in the USA.

“Bil” means buttocks or ass in Dutch and “ting” means strip. The national headquarters for Biltong USA appears to be Biltong Super Store, Stallings, NC. It can also be acquired at a Shell Carwash, San Diego, CA, Greenville Jerky and Vine in NC, The Jerky Store, Helen, SC, Midtown Gourmet, Owensboro, KY and Newport Jerky Co. Newport, RI.

Excitedly, I turned to Mike Cruise and said, “Mike, if we act right now we will become the biltong kings of the tri-state area. Why we will be selling biltong from Cape May, NJ to Groton, CT – from New York City to Buffalo! Our ship has come in.

Mike hesitated, “Let’s taste it.”

We opened the pouch and each took a strip. “So what do you think?” I asked.

Mike replied, “I believe it’s an acquired taste similar to eating dog poop.”

Mike was right and my dream died there on the train. But I brought my bag of biltong home and, Max, our Golden Retriever loves it. Does the dog snack market beckon?

As I relate my experience from the weekend of April 22 to April 24, 2016, I wouldn’t be surprised if at some point you, dear reader, may think to yourself: You know that’s an awfully quick trip for such a long ride! You’d be right to think so.

In lieu of our usual spring baseball odyssey, Bill Christman, Mike Cruise and I, (rail fans all) decided to travel to Greensboro, NC to ride a train behind the vintage, newly re-built Norfolk & Western (N&W) J-Class steam engine, No. 611. The 611 is argumentatively the most beautiful passenger locomotive ever built. (Space does not permit me to post photographs of 611 so may I suggest that you explore: fireup611.org.)

Designed and built by the engineers and fabricators at N&W’s Roanoke East End Shops in 1950, 611 was one of the last of 14 Js built to haul the railroad’s named passenger trains like Powhatan Arrow, Cavalier and Pocahontas. The engine was rebuilt in 1956 after suffering a major wreck that fortuitously made this engine the best in class when the Js were retired two years later. Saved from the scrap heap, 611 became a static museum piece until Robert Clayton, then president of the Norfolk Southern (NS) – N&W’s successor, created a heritage steam program in 1981. The 611 wrecked a second time with Clayton at the controls in May, 1986 in Virginia’s Great Dismal Swamp; fortunately with no loss of life and Clayton shaken but blameless.

Repaired, the engine re-entered service making excursions until 1994 when NS canceled the heritage program. Returned to the Virginia Transportation Museum, 611 remained in non-operational condition until “fireup611” gained the funds needed to return the engine to life in 2015.

The 611’s excursions sold out in the blink of an eye. But, as soon as the 2016 schedule was announced, Bill, Mike and I jumped on it like a dog on a bone recognizing that age-wise, all of us were in the top of the 9^th in a nine inning game so we could not pass up this golden opportunity to ride behind this beautifully restored locomotive.

We arrived at the Greensboro Airport late Friday afternoon, Mike and I from LGA and Bill from DFW. We stayed at a pleasant Marriott in town and dined that evening at Liberty Oak, a local family eatery. Bill and I enjoyed southern fried chicken while Mike feasted on grilled shrimp over grits.

The organizers expected us to be present by 6AM so the train could depart promptly at 7. Their concern was understandable as the train would carry over 700 passengers in 19 coaches ranging from private cars, business cars and domes to day coaches and basic coaches. This made us arrange wake-up calls of 4:30 AM to 5 AM depending on our own morning needs prompting the young lady behind the front desk to believe we were insane.

By the time we arrived at the appointed hour we found close to 400 passengers already standing in orderly lines in the station’s waiting room. With rare exceptions, the bulk of our fellow riders were sixty and above, male and white. Several were unembarrassed to appear in costume like scarves, hats and even bib overalls usually associated with engine crews. Many others wore 611 hats and tee shirts. We soon joined the latter buying hats in the commissary car. Several women of a certain age accompanied their husbands most good naturedly but some noticeably demonstrating reluctance.

The schedule called for a five-hour run to Roanoke, a three-hour lay over and a five-hour return. We booked seats in one of the day coaches. These units, so called “heritage cars” dated from the late 1940s through to the mid-50s but didn’t exhibit too much wear and tear having received a good bit of TLC from their private owners. Ours bore the un-sexy designation, WATX 539, instead of an identity like New York or Saint Augustine. Even so, WATX 539 was handsomely appointed with four-across business class reclining seats. Most vital, the a/c and toilets worked without fail.

Alcohol was verboten but lunch in Roanoke provided the occasion to quaff a couple of lagers in Flanary’s Pub and we still had time to visit a museum dedicated to the amazing railroad photography of O. Winston Link.

On both the out and return trip, it seemed every crossing was lined with spectators waving and photographing our procession. The museum had issued an email message alerting folks of the estimated time our train would pass a particular mile-marker and railroad fans responded enthusiastically.

The train made its 8 PM Greensboro ETA letting us enjoy dinner at the hotel about nine.

Another early rise on Sunday, cabs to the airport and flights home. We accomplished our mission, to ride behind a Class 1 authentic passenger steam locomotive: A quick trip for a long ride, but we did check off this must to do from our bucket lists.

…and yet, as I write this, Union Pacific is refurbishing a Big Boy locomotive Number 4014 in their Cheyenne, Wyoming shops. Bill, Mike and I insist that the Big Boys are the biggest and grandest steam engines of all time. Can you imagine riding behind one of those western railroad’s monsters?

Who knows, but everything being equal…?

The SS United States, affectionately called, the Big U, by her fans – once a proud greyhound of the North Atlantic – has been reduced to a semi-homeless derelict since her retirement. This supreme queen of the American merchant marine, the Big U still holds the Blue Riband as the fastest liner ever to cross the North Atlantic.

But that was over sixty-years ago. In 1969, the ship arrived at Newport News shipyard for her annual overhaul, but United States Lines, her operator, chose instead to face reality that the Big U was no longer profitable, could not compete with modern jets and removed her from service. The first move was to neighboring Norfolk where stewardship passed to several companies who removed various artifacts and equipment from the ship.

In 1977, the first manifestation of what would become an endless fascination of “what if” ideas for the Big U began with an ill-fated proposal to convert her into a hotel and casino to operate at Atlantic City, NJ. Similar schemes began to appear the following year when the actual owner, the United States Navy declared the ship surplus, unfit for further service and returned the Big U to the Maritime Administration (MARAD) for disposal.

A group led by a chap, Richard Hadley, bought the ship for $5 million hoping to re-vitalize her as a time share cruise ship. MARAD insured the loan but Hadley’s group fell on hard times. In a desperate attempt to raise money they auctioned off the remaining fittings and furniture including her four 60,000-pound propellers. (By good fortune, all four have been preserved.) Despite such deplorable actions, the group’s financing still failed. In 1992, MARAD seized the vessel and put her up for auction. During this period, the Big U wore out her welcome in Norfolk and was towed to Pier 84 in South Philadelphia.

Next up, Fred Mayer and Edward Cantor of Marmara Marine Inc. (a subsidiary of a Turkish shipping family,) purchased the Big U for $2.6 million. This group had the vessel towed first to Turkey and then to the Ukraine once the Turks found a sea of asbestos lining her innards. Even the Turks wouldn’t remove that stuff but the Ukrainians did also removing the steam turbine engines at the Sevastopol Shipyard in 1993-94.

After the Big U returned under tow to Pier 84, Mr. Cantor became sole owner for the grand sum of $6 million. His dream of returning the Big U to Trans-Atlantic service died with his passing in 2003, but Norwegian Cruise Lines then a subsidiary of the Malaysian gambling conglomerate, Genting Group, purchased the ship with plans to operate her in cruise service between the West Coast and Hawaii. The clock kept ticking, technical reviews and surveys were made and nothing happened although ownership was transferred to Star Cruises, another Genting subsidiary in 2009. In March 2010 reports surfaced that they were seeking bids to have the Big U scrapped.

Standing in their way was the SS United States Conservancy, a nonprofit organization, led by a granddaughter of the Big U’s creator, William Francis Gibbs. The Conservancy, that had struggled to preserve the ship for many years, temporarily stopped this action and, in 2010, managed to purchase the hulk thanks to a local philanthropist, H.F. Lenfest. New grand plans were made to create a “multi-purpose waterfront complex” on the Delaware River with the Big U as the centerpiece, but this too failed to materialize and by late last year, the Conservatory seemed to finally exhaust their ability to keep up the $60,000 monthly charge needed to keep the Big U at her Philadelphia berth.

Enter Crystal Cruises (another Genting subsidiary) in January, 2016 with a proposal to transform the Big U from a mid-20^th Century liner that once accommodated 2,000 passengers in three classes into an 800-guest, 400-suite, single class luxury palace. Crystal proposed a total reconstruction that would transform the Big U into the finest 64-year old liner afloat. Crystal commissioned another feasibility study during which Crystal committed to paying the monthly nut.

Genting’s endless fascination with this ship is beyond rational explanation. Olivind Mathisen, a cruise ship expert commented: “Many people have tried this before…They talk about a price of $750 million. For that money they could build a brand new SS United States and not have to deal with all the old stuff. I don’t think it’s very viable from a business point of view.”

Truer words cannot be spoken. An ending for this sad saga is way over-do. It is time to take off the rose-colored glasses and once and for all put down the Big U, a good and loyal friend who has been abused far too long and should be put her out of her misery.

My dear friend, Judy Jones, brilliantly summed up what our septuagenarian perspective should be for dealing with modern problems. Judy wisely noted, “Face it, this crap is hardly worth our concern. After all, we’re in the top of the ninth.”

I chose not to pursue Ms. Judy about the virtual box score of her remark: What’s the score, how many out, players on base, etc. I choose a tie score, none out, nobody on base and a shot at extra innings. That’s my version.

In many ways getting old sucks but Ms. Judy’s perspective provides a unique take on the foibles and follies that we observe as the freak parade passes by. Two relatively new floats have been added to the latest version of this parade: “microaggression” and “safe space.”

Let’s examine microaggression first. This is what Wikepedia says about this phenomenon:

Microaggression is a term coined by psychiatrist and Harvard University professor Chester M. Pierce in 1970 to describe insults and dismissals he regularly witnessed non-black Americans inflict on African Americans. In 1973,MIT economist Mary Rowe extended the term to include similar aggressions directed at women, and those of different abilities, religions, etc. She also used a different term, that of “micro-inequities,” in order to include injurious behavior that did not seem “aggressive,” but possibly stemming from what we now call unconscious bias, and from negligence and even “innocent ignorance.” Eventually, the term came to encompass the casual degradation of any socially marginalized group, such as the poor and the disabled.

Confused? Alright, let’s see an example. The following letter appeared in “The Ethicist” feature of The New York Times Magazine on Easter Sunday, March 27, 2016:

I am a transgender man who is regularly mistaken for a woman

in public places. When my partner and I go out to eat, the waiter

will often refer to us as “ladies.”…I wonder if I have an obligation

to my fellow transgender and gender nonconforming citizens to

prevent future microaggression by educating the people I

encounter on gender neutral language.

The writer is certain the waiter’s solicitations were microaggressions. Using this logic so would be, “Did you lose weight?”, “You look nice today.” and even, “Have a nice day.”

Next up; “safe space,” and the violation thereof. Joseph R. Reisert, a columnist with Central Maine provided an interesting explanation being…Not simply the idea of being free from fear of physical harm, safe spaces promise a further dimension of safety – an environment in which one need never fear being insulted, demeaned or made to feel unwelcome, an environment in which one is perfectly at home.

This concept is not only real and considered legitimate, it is actively promulgated on college campuses. Exhibit A: Emory University.

Jim Wagner, the president of this school is actively investigating who had the utter nerve and intent to deliberately chalk on steps, walls and sidewalks at various locations across the campus the following disturbing message: Trump 2016.

His investigation follows demonstrations by students who claim their “safe space” was violated by these awful messages. President Wagner noted, “…students viewed the messages as intimidation and they voiced ‘genuine concern and pain’ as a result.”

The horror; oh my God, the horror!

This insanity is not unique to Emory. Yale students claimed a similar violation over a controversy surrounding Halloween costumes and Northwestern students condemned the fourth annual Burlesque show being held this month as part of the school sanctioned “sex week.” They objected that the casting decisions were not diverse enough, that they marginalized experiences and destroyed some performer’s safe space.

Thankfully, other events scheduled for sex week like “Reclaiming Pornography One Orgasm at a Time” and “Bad Ass MCs and Big Booty Beauties: A Panel on Women, Sexuality and Hip Hop,” did not raised such concerns and went forward.

Perhaps rising sea levels will eventually put an end to all of this nonsense. In any event, I’m kind of glad not to be back in the 4^th or 5^th Inning being forced to deal with these head shakers while all the time just trying to make a buck and keep above the rising tide.

Never underestimate the power of The New York Times! The lead story, left-hand column – above the fold for April 6^th edition began with this accusatory headline:

De Blasio Postpones Work on Crucial Water Tunnel

Jim Dwyer, a senior reporter and columnist came out swinging noting right off the bat, “…de Blasio has postponed work to finish New York’s third water tunnel…regarded as essential to the survival of the city if either of two existing, and now aged, tunnels should fail.”

Dwyer noted that while most of this monumental tunnel had been completed under Mayor Michael R. Bloomberg; two deep shafts must still be dug to provide water to five million people living in Brooklyn and Queens. Before leaving office, Bloomberg included $336 million in the city’s 2013 capital budget to complete this work by 2021. Sometime after taking office on January 1, 2014, the de Blasio administration quietly erased this item from the budget. This action remained under the radar until noted in a 2015 report written by William Pfang, “a consulting engineer with the city’s water finance authority.”

“Asked at a City Council hearing last month (March, 2016) when the tunnel would be working, Emily Lloyd, the commissioner of the Department of Environmental Protection, said, ‘My guess is that we’re talking mid-20s.”

De Blasio’s crowd first tried to blame Bloomberg for the delay only to withdraw that accusation in favor of this rather odd explanation, “…it had been a matter of setting its own priorities and addressing the cost of state and federal mandates.”

Another spokesman, James Roberts, added more mumbo – jumbo about keeping water rates affordable: “You’ve got real people who need to pay real bills and we try to be conscious of that. Certainly, the mayor’s office has been very conscious of that.”

Uh oh, fast forward one day to April 7^th to Dwyer’s follow-up piece:

Mayor Adding $305 Million to Speed Work on Critical Water Tunnel

As if by magic, within hours of The Times reporting de Blasio’s removal of the money needed to finish the tunnel, the money was back! Gee whiz, it turns out the mayor was misunderstood. He explained, “There are times when my team does not do a good job of explaining something.”

Dwyer noted, finding the money in less than 24 hours was the easy part. “Far more awkward was the struggle by him and his aides to argue that they had never flagged in their support for the tunnel project…”

As proof of his commitment, de Blasio emphasized $52 million had been added to the budget this year to design and acquire property for the shafts. This amount plus the $305 million that reappeared raises the total amount available to $357 million.

Rather than admit error or worse, that they deliberately removed the money in the first place for one of their own pet progressive projects, they mumbled, they bumbled and they fumbled excuses and explanations contradicting themselves. De Blasio noted that he would accelerate Bloomberg’s’ schedule by beginning work in 2020.

Isn’t that just special!  I wonder what comrade mayor is currently smoking? Remember that Bloomberg estimated the project would be completed in 2021. By starting work in 2020 it would seem that Ms. Lloyd’s prediction of a mid-20s completion is more realistic than the mayor’s.

Sarcastically, Dwyer summed up this circus noting: “The real reason the $336 million was pulled, Mr. de Blasio said was that ‘we didn’t think that the estimate was accurate.’

“Now the $336 million has been replaced – with $357 million.”

Not bad, but as the late Mike Quill once remarked about another mayor: Comrade Mayor Bill de Blasio is a man who can speak out of both sides of his mouth and whistle at that same time.

Item one: As you know, following the mass shooting by Syed Rizwan Farook and his wife in San Bernardino, Apple refused to crack the code that prevented the FBI from gaining access to the contents of his 5C iPhone. The FBI filed suit in Federal District Court to order Apple’s compliance with this action. Simultaneously, the FBI sought an outside party who had the ability to help the agency gain access to the device. In fact, such a third party did come forward and once they successfully demonstrated the ability to override this smart phones encryption feature the FBI returned to court to withdraw the suit.

Subsequently, The New York Times reported Apple is scrambling to determine how the unnamed third party overrode their safeguards. Normally, when faced with a similar challenge, Apple’s security engineers would use the hacked device to reverse engineer the problem to re-create what the hackers did to break through its security. Unfortunately for Apple, the FBI has no interest in ever turning over Farook’s iPhone.

As this story continued to develop, it’s been reported that shares in Sun Corp., a Japanese maker of pinball-style games have been soaring after reports leaked that one of its subsidiaries, Cellebrite Mobile Synchronization, cracked the code. Reports state that the FBI was already a client of this Israeli based mobile forensic firm prior to this event.

The FBI isn’t the only law enforcement group frustrated by Apple’s iPhone security. William Bratton, commissioner of the New York Police Department has stated that his department has many iPhones in custody that can’t be opened. The FBI has decided not to be shy in helping fellow police forces. In a statement issued on April 1, they stated: “The FBI will of course consider any tool that might be helpful to our partners.”

April’s fool Apple. Funny how things went upside down on this modern problem and this is only the beginning of this story.

This second item is from Geoff Jones: The US Public Health Service, (USPHS) failed to get a good start on the Zikka disease. A lab made it known to the USPHS that they found a way to reset the offending species the of male mosquito’s genetics so that all of its offspring inherit the same damaged genetic code leading to the extinction of the species in short order. However, the FDA and the Dept of Agriculture both have reason to believe that it is their exclusive domains to diddle with such things.

Whichever one has grabbed the brass ring operates under some regulation that they cannot engage in any activity that hurts animals. That means they can only hurt insects that bite and the male mosquito doesn’t bite. Therefore the USPHS cannot follow through on this approach making this another government, “Catch 22.” S.N.A.F.U. seems to be the appropriate label for this one.

Lastly, Boundary Dam Power Station, a newly built $1.1 billion Canadian clean coal electrical plant is not performing as expected, has suffered multiple shut downs, faces unresolved problems with core technologies, faces tens of millions in repairs and faces soaring costs. The plant uses a complicated process that first removes soot and ash then chemically removes carbon dioxide from the exhaust. This process seemed to work well enough on small demonstration projects but this major plant is facing complications not previously encountered that allows too great a percentage of carbon dioxide to escape.

Further, this process is such a voracious consumer of electricity that 20 % of the plant’s 150 megawatt capacity is gobbled up by this process and another 10% or more is needed to compress the carbon dioxide making the cost to produce power excessive. So far the power plant is unable to create the claim as advertised of a clean environment at a reasonable cost.

Bonsoir mon ami with this mess, Prime Minister Justin Trudeau. Perhaps now you’ll begin to understand why Barack Obama’s hair turned gray.

June of 1996 found me in Chicago at my firm’s local office. As a laugh, one of the Chicago lads presented me with a souvenir tee-shirt remarking, “I thought you’d get a kick out of this. They’re being sold as fund raisers by our local PAL.”

The shirts were a spoof on the 1996 Democratic National Convention (DNC) scheduled to be held that August in the United Center, Chicago’s indoor sports arena. Written across the front of the shirt:

Welcome to Chicago.

We kicked your parents’ asses

in 1968!

And we’ll kick yours too!

A story in the Boston Globe on March 19, 2016 by Tracy Jan resurrected this memory. The headline for Ms. Jan’s piece read:

Cleveland prepares for unrest at GOP convention

Ah, once again, it’s all about The Donald! Usually gatherings of the Grand Old Party are about as exciting as curling tournaments but not this year. No, no, no; thanks to the level of rhetoric, the police who patrol the “Mistake on the Lake” are nervous. Ms Jan noted with a bit of hyperbole that Cleveland will host the Republican National Convention (RNC) in July: “…during one of the most tumultuous presidential elections in decades…”

(Editorial note: Me thinks if other members of the fifth estate start banging out copy with like incendiary language the result will be; if thou write it, it may happen and thou shall be the cause. Be careful what you write.)

Ms Jan continued: “… amid concerns from its police union that the city is not moving fast enough to secure riot gear, train personnel, and ensure there will be enough officers on the streets.”

There is a valid point to be noted here. While Cleveland has secured a grant of $50 million in federal security funds to outfit the department in 2,000 so called riot-control “turtle suits” featuring upper body, shoulder, elbow and forearm protectors, hard knuckle gloves, shin guards and ”26-inch collapsible batons”, they have only asked for bids on these suits with expected delivery by June 1, “a month and a half before the convention.”

Ms Jan interviewed the former police chief of Charlotte, Rodney Monroe, who oversaw security for the DNC in 2012. Discussing the timing in Cleveland, Chief Monroe noted to Ms Jan, “Good luck with that one. In most cases, there was a three-month lag time for ordering. We had to get that one in early. All of our officers were issued their equipment three months prior to the convention.”

The Cleveland cops will have 45 days to prepare if all goes as planned with no delays.

Likewise, standard guidelines call for a security force of between 4,000 and 5,000 officers to be available during an event of this magnitude. But Stephen Loomis, president of the Cleveland Police Patrolmen’s Association told Ms Jan, “…thus far, only 1,800 officers, including Cleveland police and those outside the city, have been committed, a number neither the city nor Secret Service would confirm.”

Most of the 2,200 to 3,200 additional officers will come from out-of-state requiring the city of Cleveland and, perhaps, the state of Ohio, to pass temporary laws and/or ordinances giving these “foreign” officers the same jurisdiction as if they were members of the Cleveland police force. While Ms Jan didn’t address indemnification, it is a safe bet to presume that any police departments that offer the services of their staff will demand a blanket hold harmless for themselves and those officers which the city of Cleveland and/ or its insurers will have to assume.

Granted, it would be a stretch to re-visit the insanity that surrounded the DNC circa Chicago-1968 when all hell broke loose and Mayor Richard Daley went to war with Jerry Rubin, his Yippies; Abbie Hoffman, Tom Hayden, Bobby Seale, Alan Ginsberg, etc. A sea of chaos ensued, headlines read, “Riots Erupt”, “Violence Takes Hold” and “The Battle of Chicago” while for days and nights the endless chant continued; “The whole world is watching.”

It would be a good bet to say that the city fathers never expected the kind of direction the 2016 campaign would take when they proudly made their bid to host the convention! How could they? Nevertheless, they must quickly take stock now that it may no longer be business as usual.

Cleveland may not have the luxury that common sense will prevail so those in charge on the federal, state and city level must be prepared to maintain good order let protesters vent and hope they break even on this event.

Growing up in 1950s and coming of age in the 1960s, I witnessed the end of the golden age of newspapers. The City of New York supported four general morning newspapers and three afternoon papers. (The Wall Street Journal was not one of them then being considered to be a trade publication catering to financial news in the same way The Journal of Commerce catered to shipping, commodities and trade.)

The New York Times and Herald Tribune presented serious news each morning, The Daily News and The New York Mirror’s stock in trade was tabloid gossip, crime, sensationalism and popular sports. Three papers filled the afternoon / evening hours making up for content with yellow journalism, sensationalism and, when all else failed- fiction. The New York Journal-American, New York Post and the World-Telegram and Sun competed for readers’ nickels.

The Times, considered the “gray lady,” favored substance and seriousness over personality. The staff included Russell Baker, David Halberstam, James Reston, William Safire, Harrison Salisbury and Gay Talese. Sportswriters included Dave Anderson, Arthur Daley, George Vecsey and William Wallace. Red Smith joined on once the Herald Tribune folded as did theatre critic, Walter Kerr.

The Trib re-invented itself as the Fifties drew to a close jazzing its format, creating a Sunday supplement; New York Magazine, and featuring two bright new columnists: Jimmy Breslin on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays paired with Dick Shaap on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. Breslin gave us a plethora of characters like Marvin the Torch and Shaap coined the moniker: “Welcome to Fun City.”  They joined the likes of Art Buchwald, “Sally Rand could use an extra hand,” Red Smith, “The best team that money can buy,” Harold Rosenthal and Tom Wolfe.

The Daily News and The New York Mirror competed with dueling headlines, sports and gossip. Ed Sullivan, Liz Smith and Bob Sylvester dug celebrity dirt at the Daily News while Norm Miller and Dick Young reported sports assisted by cartoonist, Bill Gallo. The lighter weight, Mirror, countered with Walter Winchell, Bill Travers and crime writer, Victor Riesel blinded in an acid attack by the mob. Some classic Daily News headlines (albeit not all from that era) included: Who’s a Bum (Dodgers 1955 Championship), Ford to City: Drop Dead and Arrest Weirdo in Tate Murder (Charles Manson.)

The Mirror countered with gems like: Marilyn Monroe Kills Self – New Year, New Cuban Skyjack and 3,000 Beatniks Riot in Village. When the Mirror folded on October 16, 1963 the Post took up the challenge eventually producing the ultimate gem: Headless Man in Topless Bar!

The New York Post wasn’t always a rag and in that era before Rupert Murdock bought the paper the publisher was Dorothy Schiff who controlled the paper for forty years. The Post reflected Ms Schiff’s liberal views making it into a left-wing tabloid featuring Milton Gross, and muckrakers, Drew Pearson and Jack Anderson. Larry Merchant and Paul Zimmerman did sports with Leonard Lyons and Cindy Adams seeking celebrity gossip.

Countering the Post was the Hearst Corporation’s The New York Journal-American, anti-Democrat in spades. When President Truman fired General Douglas Mac Arthur for insubordination during the Korean War, the Journal-American treated Doug’s homecoming US tour as if he was the conquering hero and Harry as a putz. Westbrook Pegler led the charge. Pegler was a hater. The J-A had a great dean of sports, Jimmy Cannon, a man about town, Bob Considine, and their own gossip guru, Dorothy Kilgallen.

The World-Telegram and Sun brought up the rear although one reporter, Gabe Pressman, went on to have an lengthy television career with WNBC that continues to this day more than 60 years later. The Telegram featured two good sports writers, Joe King and Joe Williams aided by the brilliant sports cartoonist, Willard Mullins. Mullins produced his work in his Long Island studio and delivered it via a cooperative Long Island Railroad conductor at the Plandome Station who commuted his cartoon to the paper’s plant every day.

The Telegram’s enduring claim to fame however, was the headline they chose to run for their late edition on November 22, 1963 after receiving word of JFK’s assassination. It covered almost all of the front page announcing: PRESIDENT SHOT DEAD.

In a desperate attempt to survive, the Trib, Journal and Telegram merged into the ill-fated, New York World, Journal Tribune that lasted just seven months from September of 1966 until May of 1967. The New York Times, New York Post and Daily News survive, barely. The electronic age has pushed printed newspapers to the brink of extinction as electronic editions fail to generate the kind of ad revenue needed to survive.

The over/under on the Daily News’ demise is any body’s guess as they’ve fired anyone worth a paycheck to save a paycheck except Mike Lupica. The Post continues to exist so long as Murdock chooses to use his cable news surpluses to offset its hemorrhaging red ink. As for the Gray Lady, the publishers cut and cut and cut. Today, The Times is a shadow of what it once was. “The Paper of Record?” I think no longer. The Times pretends this remains so since it is unchallenged as there is no other print source left to call them out. Time/Life, Newsweek, The Washington Post, The Boston Globe, etc, etc, they are all crippled and/or dying.

A damn shame! Looking forward, I wonder where folks will go to read good journalists reporting in depth about significant events or to simply do a crossword puzzle?

Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right.

 Here I am stuck in the middle with you.

I tell you brothers and sisters, nothing makes sense any more. Cheap oil is good; yes? The USA being self-sufficient in the production of oil and gas is good; yes? Apparently not, cheap oil and gas is rocking the financial markets, stocks tumble, the word is the dollar is worthless. Shills shout from the radio: “Buy, yes you, buy gold now; buy silver now. Liquidate everything else, sell brother, sell.”

Even though such insidious sirens have shouted their false and corrupt warnings time and time again, a demon within, the illusion of shiny minerals, taunts us to follow; beware my friend beware:

Once I built a railroad, made it run, made it race against time. Once I built a railroad, now it’s done; brother can you spare a dime?

I allowed a special on HBO about the worst possible super-mega-ultimate volcanic eruption coming soon to ruin my night. Ground zero is Yellowstone Park. Nightmares filled my head as my mind envisioned the horrors predicted when it erupts. The special proclaimed that, when it happens, not if it happens; 90% of what is left of the continental USA will be covered in ash and millions will perish. A nightmarish scenario indeed!

I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know where I’m gonna go when the volcano blows.

I then made the mistake seeking relief by watching the Weather Channel. Oy vey, instead of benign forecasts, a documentary awaited me about an ultimate earthquake just waiting to strike the West Coast. Forecasters give it a one in three chance to happen sometime in the next 20 years and those are lousy odds, if you ask me!

They predict this monster will swallow everything up to Vancouver and what remains will be drowned and washed away by an ultimate Tsunami. (It was interesting to note that a chap from FEMA answer that he thinks we’re prepared! Could it have been, Brownie?)

Day after day, more people come to L.A. Ssh, don’t you tell anybody, the whole place slipping away.

Where can you go when there’s no San Francisco? Better get ready to tie up de boat in Idaho.

Bad as it may be, I’m sorry, I just can’t get my hands around climate change. How is that possible when I can’t decide who to be frightened of the most:  Kim Jong-un constantly reminds me to be afraid, Mullar Omah, of the Afghanistan Taliban, an oldie but still a badie remains on the loose if he’s not yet dead? Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi and his Islamic Caliphate c/o Isis/ Isisl are not to be trifled with; they are bad to the bone and want us wiped out. Then there’s that crazy man in Nigeria, Abubakar Shekav, leader of Boko-haram, or another old favorite, Iran’s Ayatollah Ali Khamenei and his nukes. Even the Fredo of bad guys, Bashar al-Assard, would have no problem killing each and every one of us if only he could. Next to this gang, Putin is a pussycat:

Hope you got your things together. Hope you are quite prepared to die. Looks like we’re in for nasty weather…There’s a bad moon on the rise.

Meanwhile, back in the USA, it appears that all of the rules have been thrown out the window and chaos reigns supreme. Through the dubious magic of twenty-four hour media, countless news, information and talk TV, radio and internet shows, Twitter, Face book, In touch and LinkedIn, the national election process has been reduced to a bad act at a comedy club or a really awful reality show.

No wonder I’m so nervous and still, have I mentioned Donald Trump? It appears the choice may come down to The Donald, or Ted Cruz vs. Hillary or Bernie:

Going to the candidates’ debate, laugh about it, shout about it,

When you got to choose, every way you look at this you lose.

I pride myself on being an optimist believing that even in the worst of times when a most imperfect candidate takes the reigns of our Republic; our Republic will endure and prosper. This time though, your guess is as good as mine:

And you tell me,

over and over and over again my friend.

Ah, you don’t believe,

We’re on the eve of destruction.

This piece was written by a friend of mine, Brian Davidson. I edited it and thought up the title.

George, the owner of the sporting goods store handed me my new annual Alaskan fishing license. “Where are you from?”

“Houston,” I replied. “I got a job with a contractor to settle insurance claims so I’ll be up here for thirty-days at a time for six to nine months. I don’t read much, hate television and I don’t want to spend my free time in bars so I figured I’d try fishing”

“Well you picked a good time to start fishing for pink salmon. They start to run in May and you can fish as late as you like because it doesn’t get dark until about 2 a.m. I’ll help you pick out the kind of equipment and clothing you’re going to need.”

George selected a rod and reel, a net, tackle box, wading boots, thermal socks, and long johns. “Why do I need thermal socks and long underwear in June?”

“The water temperature in Prince William Sound does not get out of the thirties. You’ll be happy to be wearing them when you wade out into the sound. If you don’t have a sweater or light gloves, you should buy them too.”

I figured he knew what he was talking about so I kept quiet as my pile kept rising on his counter. When he finished counting and totaling my purchases, he reached behind the counter and opened a wooden box and placed an odd looking fishing lure in the palm of his hand. A big silver spoon with a big red plastic diamond shaped thingy glued to it, it looked like something that your grandmother used to wear on her chest to church on Sunday.

“This is the best lure for catching pink salmon. It’s called it a pixie. If I were you, I’d guard it with my life. I’m running out of them and I don’t know when I’ll get new ones in stock.”

I asked him how many I could have and he agreed to sell me six for six dollars each. I started asking him about places to fish, but he stopped me and called over an Eskimo guy hanging around the store. “Hey, Billy, come tell this guy where to fish.”

Billy and I got to talking and he agreed to meet me at a camp-ground located on the shoreline the next night. We seemed to hit it off and became regular fishing buddies. Also, it didn’t take long for me to realize just how valuable Billy was to me. The first thing I noticed that night was that when I cast my pixie out into the water, it kept going down and down and down. I asked Billy what was going on.

“After about ten feet, the bottom drops 500 to 600 feet. If you wander out too far and take the plunge, you’ll have about five minutes left to live.”

I became a good angler catching five to ten fish each night which I cut loose or gave to people staying in the camp-ground who gathered to watch the master fisherman. I usually traded the fish for a cold beer and a relaxing chat with these tourists and retirees in their trailers, campers or RVs. The fishing alleviated my boredom from the seemingly endless task of settling claims. I only regretted losing my pixies which made me feel badly as my supply dwindled.

One night while fishing with Billy, I cast out my next to last pixie. It didn’t hit the water and my rod started to jerk away from me pulling skyward. “What the hell…,” I shouted as I looked up. To my astonishment, I realized that I had hooked a sea gull on its butt. People on the bank shouted at me to cut the line, but all I could think of was my six dollar pixie attached to a bird that was maneuvering like an out of control kite. Up and down it flew screeching like all hell as we continued our struggle. I had to let out line fearing that the tension would break it and the gull would make off with my pixie. Finally, it went straight up then came crashing down onto the bank to the oohs and ahs of the crowd who were watching the show.

I ran out of the water, grabbed onto this pecking and clawing creature who continued to screech for its mother. In desperation, the gull threw up a regurgitated fish onto my boot, but I managed to get a firm grip on its mangy butt to retrieve my pixie. As I stood up, I heard loud and clear, “They’re not very good to eat.”

Rather embarrassed, I yanked my pixie out of its butt, released the gull who flew away and gave each and every one of my admirers a very low bow.