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Three Heroes Walk on a Train…
I’ve been thinking a lot about the two servicemen and a friend who took down a would-be mass murderer on a French train and wondering what I would do if faced with the same situation. That one’s easy. I’d probably hide, take out my smartphone, grab a few shots and post them to Facebook with the status update, “Bad guy on train. Guess this means club car is off limits.”
It’s true and you know it. How often are we admonished, “Be safe. Don’t be a hero!” Yet, there are passengers on that train who are alive today, perhaps grabbing an espresso and panini at an outdoor cafe’, enjoying time with their families, chugging some cheap muscatel or reading the Sunday New York Times because of three gentlemen who were, indeed, heroes. By the sounds of it, they never gave being a hero a thought. Most heroes never do and when you hang that tag on them, they generally brush it off saying “I didn’t even think about it. I just jumped in.” In the case of Airman First Class Spencer Stone the motivation, he told the New York Times was “to survive.”
But that’s what makes him a hero, even if he resists the label. To survive, most of us would take cover, take a powder, take a hike or simply run. He and his two comrades went the other way, into the storm and not towards shelter.
One could argue they felt confident in their military training, physical prowess or toughness of character, where a guy like me who sits in an office all day answering emails and attending meetings might not have the skills, strength or instincts to take on a guy armed to the teeth intent on killing as many people as his supply of ammunition and ability to avoid capture or death would allow him.
But then I have that “slap me in the face” moment when I come to the realization that you don’t have to thwart mass murder or jump into fast-moving waters or a blazing building to save lives to be a hero.
Throughout my life I have faced cowards all the time who cower in the face of change, of taking chances, of attempting new methods, of facing disagreement, of understanding when they’re wrong, of clinging to perceived power or turf.
Those of you who are brave enough to counter prevailing thought, take on new challenges, try untested methods, go against the grain, face those who oppose change, admit when they are wrong, hire people who are smarter than they are and listen to what they have to say, are unselfish and show constant empathy–you are heroes too.
Indeed, it takes strength, inner resolve, confidence and a pure character to stand up to adversity, whether it’s physical, philosophical, parochial or occupational. Do that, and you’re a hero to someone.
But those three guys on the train? Holy crap. That took balls…and regardless of gender, to be a hero, you need those too.
Horsepower, Classics and Urology-My Woodward Dream Cruise Journal
Except for a few stragglers and hopelessly lost out of towners the 2015 Woodward Dream Cruise is now over. For those who don’t know what the Dream Cruise is, think of a million people, some arriving days before the big event and camping out, simply to snag a good spot to watch traffic go by. The big difference is, when we were kids in Queens, we’d watch traffic on Union Turnpike go by and attempt to hitch a ride to the bowling alley where we spent most of the night away from the lanes and in the bar where bartender Jimmy gave us free salami, crackers and cheese and the occasional drink.
The Woodward Dream Cruise started 20 years ago as a fundraising event in Ferndale..just over the borderline with Detroit. It’s become a very big deal where auto enthusiasts, collectors and the occasional Uber driver relive the glory days of cruising historic Woodward Avenue by doing so.
I thought it was especially appropriate that one group of spectators set up a table loaded down with coffee dispensers in front of the local urology clinic. Yup…cars, caffeine and kidneys. Has there been a more perfect combination?
My company, Fiat Chrysler Automobiles, has a lot of fun with it and set up a giant area called Dodge Rock City, where attendees can get thrill rides that dislodge recent meals, win prizes, hear some music and most of all, see some very cool classic and current vehicles.
I never owned a real classic car. I did own a 1974 Chevy Vega. Many years later, while on assignment for The Detroit News, I visited the Lordstown, Ohio plant that built the Vega. When I told one of the veteran line workers I had owned a Vega, he said, “on behalf of the men and women here at Lordstown Assembly, we sincerely apologize.” Accepted. Not surprisingly there were no Vegas plying down Woodward..mainly because, as they say in reports of especially serious disasters, “there were no survivors.”
Guess you can tell, I’m not what you would call a “car guy.” I don’t have gasoline in my veins, although I once drank a bottle of Jolt Cola. I do enjoy driving and riding in a fine vehicle, especially if the cupholders are grippy and the radio works well.
That reminds me of my very first car. It was a used 1962 Pontiac Tempest. Had two doors, one of which worked. The other one stuck, except when I was cruising Union Turnpike with my friends and as I took a corner a little too fast, the chunky guy in the passenger seat leaning a little too hard on the door and dislodged it. We all got a pretty good laugh as Bubba hung on for dear life, but such were the joys of cruising.
I didn’t see anything like that at the Woodward Dream Cruise, although I thought I saw one guy with a deathgrip on a Bud in his tent along the curb.
Selfie Stuck
I was in one of those Five Below stores today because that’s the place to go to find all the stuff you need for your smartphone for just 5 bucks. Stuff like cases, cables and chargers. I go there just about every week because I’m a cheapskate and I never know if I’ll get a sudden urge to pick up a cut-rate lavender backpack or playground ball that glows in the dark.
But today, right by the smartphone cables I wanted to purchase were rows and rows of selfie sticks. Hard to resist at just 5 bucks apiece, and I have been known to take a selfie or two, especially when I’m in my kayak or need to prove to my boss I wasn’t sitting in a bar instead of a conference room. I did resist the temptation, but shortly after arriving home I came across this story in the New York Times about what selfies say about a person. It’s not good. According to the story, “Much of the research on selfies reveals that (surprise!) people who take a lot of them tend to have narcissistic, psychopathic and Machiavellian personality traits.”
It reminded me of the time last year when I was outside the New York Stock Exchange the day our company was listed on the Big Board. Being brought up in NYC, I was used to tourists standing across Broad Street and taking photos of the NYSE or having someone take a shot of them and their friends or family in front of the historic building. But on this day almost every tourist turned their back to the seat of capitalism, whipped out a selfie stick the size of Babe Ruth’s bat and snapped off several shots of themselves with the stock exchange in the background. They didn’t even make eye contact with the great building!
Further down in the story I found the quote that helped me make sense of this, where it quoted an expert surmising, “People forget that narcissism is not just about being an egomaniac — it’s also driven by underlying insecurity,” said Jesse Fox, an assistant professor at Ohio State University’s School of Communication who studies the personalities of selfie takers.
Of course! Those who suffer from insecurity would not be expected to relate to the institution dealing in securities!
What really brought it home for me about how stupid we look taking photos of ourselves happened earlier this year in San Francisco. I attempted to take a selfie that included two work colleagues with the Oakland Bay Bridge in the background. Properly composing the shot was almost hopeless prompting a man standing nearby taking in our idiocy to kindly offer to take the shot for us. We gratefully accepted his offer and after snapping the group photo he smiled and reminded us, “you know, all you had to do was ask.” You know…just like people used to do when photos were taken with cameras.
Checkout Charity
Are you getting sick of it yet? Almost every time I pay for something at a store the cashier asks me if I want to give a buck to put a kid through mime school, or 3 bucks to help cure schizophrenia among chameleons. Today I was asked to toss in 5 bucks on top of my $5.00 purchase to buy a backpack full of school supplies. When I politely decline I get a look like I just put a puppy in a blender. Now I’m not unsympathetic to all these causes, but it’s just too much. If I kicked in a few bucks every time I was asked, someone would have to eventually take up a collection for me. Which gave me an idea. The next time I step up to a checkout I’m gonna beat ’em to it and ask, “would you like to reduce my bill by three dollars to assist me in saving up for a delicious and refreshing assortment of craft beers?” Who knows? It could work. After all, people are donating good money to Donald Trump.
A Vacation Detour to Vietnam
There are two main reasons why people spend the night in Mt. Pleasant, Michigan: to drop off or pick up a kid who attends Central Michigan University, or to shorten their lives and personal worth by spending time at the smoke-filled Soaring Eagle Casino and Resort. Not many, I suspect, make the trip to the very center of the Mitten to pay their respects at the Michigan Vietnam Memorial.
Honestly, we pulled off Exit 143 from US 127 simply to spend the night during a whirlwind two-day trip up to Cadillac and back. But the small sign posted at the exit noting the memorial with an arrow pointing to the right stuck with us. None of us had ever heard of such a memorial in Mt. Pleasant and before pulling out the next morning we took a five-mile detour to Island Park where we found the site, apart from the ballfields and picnic tables. It was not the sunken V of the national memorial in Washington D.C. It stood as proud and erect as the soldiers once did before they made the sacrifice that qualified their names for inscription on the brick-mounted tablets.
Names such as Von Der Hoff, Topolinski, Allen and Ball. They were better suited for marriage and fishing licenses, mailboxes and diplomas…and young families.
A few steps down the path the heartbreak of lives lost to a hopeless and foolish cause is slammed home by “War Cry,” a sculpture of a distraught soldier holding, caressing with love and despair the a wounded comrade who just a few hours earlier, may have told of his plans to start a family, buy a sports car, eat a cheeseburger or hug his mom.
Every moment of that era passed before me as my family and I slowly, slowly, took in every name, every flag, every monument dedicated to a time that colored the lives forever of those of us who came of age then. I recall marching on the Oswego, N.Y. Coast Guard station to protest the mining of Haiphong Harbor. I remember giving up the last month of my freshman year at Oswego State University to the 1970 student strike against Vietnam and spending that time attending seminars and speeches to learn more about that conflict and the history behind it.
The sculpture dedicated to the men and women who paid the same price during the first Gulfwar brought home the idiocy of the fact that humankind hasn’t evolved or learned enough that destroying other people continues to be the choice to settle differences among a so-called modern society.
A prominent place on my bookshelf at home is taken by a thin paperback with the journal kept by reporter Michael Herr during his stint in Vietnam. It’s called “Dispatches.” I bought it in 1978 at the suggestion of my wonderful professor George Ridge at the University of Arizona Journalism Grad School. After returning home earlier this week I was drawn to pull “Dispatches” from the shelf to search for just the right way to sum up my feelings sparked by my unexpected visit to Michigan’s Vietnam Memorial.
It’s this: “Vietnam. Vietnam. Vietnam. We’ve all been there.” The madness is, we keep returning.
Miniature Golf, Maximum Aggravation
Over the past few weeks I’ve played quite a bit of miniature golf. Maybe you call it putt-putt or mini golf. It’s a perfect family activity but I can’t help but notice the courses have evolved from the cute little obstacles of the 60’s to torture chambers with a hole at the end.
The first miniature golf course I ever played on was part of a little amusement park on Northern Blvd. in Queens called Kiddy City which had, like eight rides including the magnificent Roto Jets and Comet Jr. roller coaster.
The 19-hole course had the requisite windmills and metal loop that took a full swing to get the ball up, around and through. There was also a tunnel that looked like a little barn you had to shoot through to get to the hole. Simple stuff, but challenging and fun.
Unknown
Not today. Today’s courses have so many bumps, curves, depressions and mesas made of indoor-outdoor carpet they look like a 13-year old’s zit face. I’d take 13 windmills and shooting through the legs of a 100 ceramic heifers over whacking the day-glo orange ball 13 times just to get it up out of the concrete divot and in the same zip code as the hole. Oh, how about the waterfalls? Refreshing on a hot day, except if the water is treated with the same stuff they’re using to kill Asian carp in Lake Michigan.
I certainly don’t mind some wood block obstacles to circumvent, but I do mind structures that require building permits and aircraft warning lights.
As you can see from the photo, miniature golf operators have also developed a rather cynical sense of humor. In this case, providing only putters the size of Lilliputians. After my third stroke, my body took on a semi-permanent 90-degree posture from bending so deeply.
Keeping score? Forget about it. I don’t even grab a card anymore. Despite ramping up the cruelty handicap each hole is still rated Par 2. Sure, one stroke to slam against the brick wall with a one-inch hole to navigate, the second to pick up the ball and drop it in the hole so you don’t hold up the family of 17 waiting behind you with a screaming kid who just tossed his cookies in the little fake water trap.
Oh, I guess I could break down and play an actual game of golf but that would only result in losing $30 worth of Titleists along with my mind.
I’ll stick with miniature golf for now. For those of us for whom genetics granted limited physical altitude, life’s always been about the short game anyway.
There’s No Cloying in Baseball
There’s little that gets under my skin more than people who should be tearing each other’s throats into shards of flesh, bone and becalmed windpipes smiling and chatting and keeping their sharp instruments to themselves.
What’s really set me off over the last few years is the behavior of Major League Baseball players. Here’s the set up. Eric Hosmer, Kansas City’s Royal pain in the ass to the Detroit Tigers, reaches first base. Back in the day, runner and fielder would glare at each other, maybe spit tobacco on each other’s spikes, make rude comments about their mothers and claim each other’s fathers wear silk panties. Yeah..the good old days.
But instead there’s Tigers superstar Miguel Cabrerra, the first baseman, grinning and chatting up Hosmer who’s returning the yuks, the two gazillionaires comparing their portfolios, features on their new Ferarris, or which yacht has the best resale value. Maybe they’re complimenting each other on their swings or the stitching on their spikes or artwork on their tattoos. “Oh Miggy, what wonderful layering on your new haircut. So becoming!” Hosmer should be thinking of how he’s going to try to steal second and Miggy how he and the pitcher can pick off his ass. Miggy should have been trash talking Hosmer to distract and demean him, while Hosmer should have stepped on Miggy’s foot as he reached the bag.
But no. Time after time this scene plays itself out as a guy reaches base and immediately gets into a Barney “I love you, you love me” moment. I like how they do it in hockey. Beat the living hell out of each other during the game and save the handshakes and other friendly nonsense when the game is over.
The bottom line is opponents need to despise each other and wish for their demise in a painful and creative manner. Oh, they can respect each other, sure, but keep it for the postgame show…or sauna.
Drop a Dime
I wanted to drop a dime on a friend the other day, but there was no where to drop it, so I put the dime back in my pocket and took out my iPhone. All that resulted in was dropping scores of dimes into AT&T’s general fund.
The whole concept of dropping a dime on someone has recently been at the top of my mind as I’ve been reading several books set in the 1970’s and 80’s when pay phones were still an option for placing a call. Sure, mobile phones are a lot more convenient but there’s no romance to it, no panic over futilely digging in your pocket for enough coins, or impatiently waiting outside a phone booth while someone yammers with their cousin over whether to eat Italian or Slim Jims.
I wonder if Clark Kent risks a public exposure arrest because he has to change into his Superman duds in the middle of Metropolis’s main drag, or if college freshmen feel cheated because they have no place to stuff 50 of themselves in order to win a beer bet.
As a reporter, pay phones were my lifeline. I remember covering a trial in Greenville, Tenn. in 1986 for CNN that was given the nickname Scopes II because it involved whether or not the local district could teach evolution. The day the judge would announce his decision I was instructed to call it in forthwith and do a live phoner. The courthouse had only one pay phone and I knew I’d never get to it in time. So I paid the owner of the hardware store across the street 20 bucks to clear his pay phone immediately when I rushed in to file my report. He kept his end of the bargain and I went on the air within two minutes of the verdict being read. The bosses were thrilled and asked me to go on the air with Headline News and then an affiliate. I was then asked to record an audio track CNN Radio could use in their newscasts.
By the time I was done I had been on the phone for 30 minutes. The hardware store owner gave me the kind of look that said “I’d like to perforate you with one of my premium grade pitchforks.”
He then started scolding me that I’d cost him hundreds, maybe thousands, of dollars since that pay phone was the store’s ONLY phone and I used it so long he missed a scad of expected incoming orders. Why he didn’t tell me that in the first place or charge me more than a piddly 20 bucks I’ll never know but I walked away with a big ol’ grin for scooping my competition by buying off the guy’s pay phone first. I did give him five more dollars before asking if I could just call the assignment desk. Yes, that’s chutzpah, but being Greenville, Tenn., they didn’t know what that meant and the guy told me to make it snappy and get the hell out before he showed me his hardware store also dealt in firearms and used me to demonstrate his marksmanship skills.
Nowadays that element of competition is gone. Everyone has a phone in their pocket and the thrill of screwing your competitor by bribing for access to the only phone around is gone.
Indeed, you don’t need any change at all any more to drop a dime on someone. With cell phones and sometimes spotty service the only thing being dropped, is your call.
July 4th Memories: Footballs, Fireworks, Falling Underwear
Fourth of July always meant two things back in Glen Oaks Village, where I grew up in eastern Queens: a glorious barbecue behind the apartments with our four closest neighbors, and foolish decisions regarding fireworks.
First the barbecue. Glen Oaks is a community so large it has its own zip code and is home to about 50-thousand residents. Built in the 1940’s and written up in national magazines, it remains a showplace.
We shared a common backyard that contained a long clothesline for all to use and expanses of soft grass. The neighbors set up long aluminum tables end to end in the backyard and each family had its own grill. Ours was a dinky thing we received as a free gift from the now defunct Bayside Federal Bank for opening up an account. It was just large enough, though, to cook a few hot dogs and burgers for my brother and me and our parents. Those big Weber grills hadn’t yet been invented.
One of our neighbors, the guy we always suspected was in the Mafia, had the best grill. It was about a yard in diameter on a fancy stand and he cooked Italian sausage. We always wondered what truck it fell off.
Another neighbor sounded like that old actor Peter Lorre and just as sinister. When he asked for another hot dog you could always imagine the next thing he’d say was, “or I’ll kill you.” Turns out he was very mild mannered. He just sounded like an assassin.
After eating we’d invariably start tossing around a football, which, in turn, always seemed to knock someone’s clean underwear drying on the clothesline. That action sparked the owner of the drying underwear to stick their head out their back window overlooking the yard and shout things that directed all of us to burn in a very warm deep, underground place. This only sparked us to start aiming for other items drying on the line and if you could dump a fitted sheet you won the admiration of all, and the raising ire of the the sheet’s owner who would call the cops on us only to be told, “sorry, but we’ve got four cases of wet socks ahead of you.”
Now the fireworks. Our dads would score some firecrackers from the docks in lower Manhattan and we’d pretty much shoot them off with no incident, although it was always entertaining to slip a few lit ones through someone’s mail slot.
The worst case was when the brother of one of our friends was on leave from the Navy. He thought it would be cool to wrap up some .22 caliber bullets in an envelope, stuff it in a drainpipe, light it up and run like hell. Guess what? Bullets are faster than idiotic Navy guys on leave. The dumb guy spent the rest of the Fourth, and a good deal of the 5th through 8th in the hospital healing from his awesome stunt.
At least he didn’t shoot down anyone’s drying BVDs.
The Vend-O-Vacillator
Are you a “vend-o-vacillator?” You know who you are and you know if you’ve encountered one. I know I did today.
Here’s how it went down. You’re rushing from your desk to grab a quick afternoon snack to give you enough oooph to get to quitting time. You know that speedball of a Coke and a Twix bar will do the trick. You build up a head of steam towards the vending machine but mere inches from paydirt a lumbering co-worker who began his journey hours ahead of you waddles his butt to the finish line a moment before you.
While you know exactly what you want, the Waddler plans to make this his afternoon activity. First he presses his sweaty nose up against the glass to get a better look at the choices. He will examine each one, from the Raisinets to the yogurt-coated trail mix to the Snickers and Kit Kat bars.
Aha! His right hand approaches the numbered and lettered buttons that will deliver the goods but not until he counts out every penny he’s been saving since yesterday’s bivouac to snackland. You imagine a choice has been made and your turn will arrive but oh, cruel fate, this vend-o-vacillator has second thoughts about the honey roasted pig’s knuckle jerky. He removes his fleshy fingers from the keyboard and once again ponders which cellophane-wrapped comestible will satisfy his urge.
He suddenly notices a new offering which sparks another round of in-de-snack-cision. It’s raspberry-coated Slim Jims with guacamole dip. It seems like just the thing to both fill his stomach and slather on the middle age acne that now decorates his man boobs.
Shuddering with excitement his left hand quickly dives into his pocket, scooping out a pile of silver. He nervously picks out the correct complement of coins and slams them into the slot. When the message light finally invites him to “make your selection” his right hand takes over but it is uncontrollably shaking. E143, E143 he says aloud. He must press the individual keys with the letter E, then 1,4 and 3. Done correctly the silver spiral will rotate, freeing his quarry and dropping it to the space he will enter with his hands and retrieve it.
But, oh no. Instead of ecstasy, the vend-o-vacillator’s face is contorted in pain and disappointment. In his excitement he did NOT enter E143, but rather, E144. The difference was as large as that between a rose and ragweed, American Idol and talent, Donald Trump and sanity. There, at the bottom of the vending machine lay the utter dregs of vending, the lowest of the low, no one’s first choice…sugarless Spam.
Famished and defeated the vend-o-vacillator refused to surrender, even as I begged to just quickly get my Twix and be off. With his last 60 cents and dwindling lucidity he settled for a bag of salted peanuts. Common….salted…peanuts. He sullenly removed them from the machine, sat down and just stared at the unwanted snack asking himself so everyone could hear, “should I have chosen the cinnamon almonds?” Because the vend-o-vacillator’s mind never rests.
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