These days the things we can do for amusement have been pared to the minimum. Given our condition, I did two things today: a long walk and closet organization. As I shuffled piles of tees and polos, some insights accrued.

First, I have rigorous standards when it comes to these rather mundane items of clothing. First, I realized the polo is the shirt of THE MAN. The polo has a long history and it resides in the area of elitism. Sartorial enthusiasts believe that the polo was originally discovered in the West by the British Raj in 19th century India when English military men discovered the unique cut and color of the garment and took it home with them. In short order, Mr. John E Brooks ( yes a real Brooks Brother) brought the shirt to America. Fast forward to the Western Hemisphere, where Argentinian polo star, Lewis Lacey had the inspiration to put a logo depicting a mounted polo player on the breast. We were off and running to 1933 when Jean Renee Lacoste, a French tennis star, known as Le Crocodile added his signature symbol to the garment. Finally, in 1967 Ralph Lauren marketed the shirt as the symbol of affluence and style.

As a young man I was asked to leave a golf course because I did not wear a shirt with a collar (polo) and any shirt that aspires to affluence must be rejected. Moreover there are polo protocols. A polo must always have one or two buttons open… one never buttons the top button under any circumstances. It’s as bad as putting ketchup on a hot dog if your over the age of eight. Too prissy and too preppy. Now that I am old I have a few that I use as a disguise.

Now, about the tees….I do not buy corporate tees that carry the logos of corporations or Major Leagues sports teams. My tees are in the following categories:

Causes: charity runs, minor league baseball (I want the teams to succeed) political positions

Memories: concerts, nationals parks, coffee houses etc.

Tec Fabric shirts; for the gym or the road.

Other shirts are ruthlessly removed from the rotation.

In 92128, our walking has sky rocketed due to social distancing and I have encountered many examples of why the slogan tee should be avoided. Here are some I have seen lately:

Focus On Your Own Shit

I’m A Virgin. This Is an Old Shirt

I Know Your Password

Dancing In The World Alone

Tee shirts are a way to take on everything from adolescent sex to existential matters; I even saw a dog sporting a tee shirt that offered: I Can Fart And Walk Away What Is Your Superpower?

When Simon and Garfunkel told us , “the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls and and in tenement halls, ” they overlooked the power of the tee shirt. I agree with Abe Lincoln’s observation that, “The problem with quotes on clothes is that you can never know if they are true.”

Tomorrow I’ll start on the pants.

o

In our current circumstances a flurry of electronic communications is popping in the 92128 ether. Suggestions for books, web and streaming sites, podcasts and group chat sites arrive daily in an effort to ease the pain of isolation. We are taking care of each other.

Here’s my suggestion: go to that dusty box where the family keeps the old Halloween costumes and see if you have a toque and an apron. This is the time to cook. We are in trying times and the attitude of the great chefs might help us steel our nerves. Julia Child tell us , “in cooking you’ve got to have a what-the -hell attitude.” That type of courage is timely. Proceed without fear to your dog-eared copy of the Joy of Cooking (everybody has one) and take on an aspic or make the mother sauces. Cooking will ease our anxiety.

One of The Gang members proposed that we initiate drive- by potlucks…brilliant. This will engage the most important part of the food experience… the eucharistic. Eucharist is from the Greek word eucharista which translates to banqueting…a platform for people to interact in a mood of joy and abundance. Food is a form of love for others. The Italian Mama with her vast plates of lasagne and baked zitti is one of the cultural images we have adopted to remind us of the true nature of food. In the Bible nine types of love occur and the one that applies here is agape. Agape is defined as the, “unselfish love of one person for another without sexual implications; brotherly love.” This is the love that hides in a plate of home baked cookies.

I think we should all fire up an Escoffier sauce and relax just a little bit. Georges Auguste Escoffier spent 62 years in the restaurant business and was known in France as Le Roy d’ Cuisine. His, “what the hell attitude” gave us the sauce that bears his name, a concoction of mayonnaise, horseradish cream, parsley and chervil… perhaps the cure for our isolation and ennui is to open the spice drawer, and run a few experiments. If we succeed . we can drive it to the front porches of our friends.

If you have the Joy of Cooking you will encounter this quote:” Everyone who runs a kitchen can, in the choice and preparation of food, decisively influence family health and happiness. ” So tie on your KISS THE COOK apron and rattle the pots and pans. It will keep us busy and provide us some comfort.

Gotta run… need to check the stove.

‘Tis the season to celebrate my Irishness and tell the story of a famous Irishman. Last year, I wrote about St. Paddy himself. This year it will be the story of Theobald Wolfe Tone. This tale is quintessentially Irish with strands of bellicosity, heroism and rebellion woven tight for the myth making that the Irish are so good at. The Tone story is -in miniature- the story of modern Ireland.

Tone was a founding member of a group called the United Irishmen, a group dedicated to the expulsion of the English from Ireland’s “four green fields.” Stoked by the revolutions in France and America, Tone and his mates began long negotiations with France to begin an armed rebellion that would help establish an Irish Republic. For these efforts Tone would be forever known as the father of Irish Republicanism.

With typical Irishness a series of mistakes and doomed sorties led to the complete failure of Tone’s mission and his eventual apprehension. Condemned to death Tone made reference to the fact that he was arrested in the uniform of a French Adjutant General and thus he deserved an officer’s death before a firing squad. The English Judge would have none of this and he sentenced Tone to a humiliating public hanging, a death reserved for thieves and the brigands.

Tone was jailed and tortured. One morning he was found barely conscious with his throat cut. In an effort to save him for the scaffold, the judge ordered medical assistance for Tone. The examining physician is reported to have advised the prisoner that if he spoke it would kill him. It is at this moment that Irish myth making plays a hand. Tone -it was reported- looked directly at the doctor and said, ” I can’t find the words to thank you sir …it is the most welcome news you could give me. What should I wish to live for.” In moments, Tone was dead.

Whether or not Tone took his own life to preserve his dignity and the righteousness of his cause or he was slashed by a frustrated English torturer is not important. It was and is one of Ireland’s core stories. In 1916, during the Irish Revolution Tone’s name was invoked repeatedly…he inspired generations of Irishmen.

Here in 92128 I can not outrun my Irishness. My friends know that I have a tendency to embellish, that I can be bellicose, pedantic and melodramatic. Yet, in their generosity they make a space for my Irishness. My Irish mother is perhaps at fault for passing pure Irishness to me. The strange thing is that I am adamantly proud of the qualities that are Irish…an insistence regarding pride and dignity and a willingness to take on a lost cause now and then.

So I am about to sink a corned beef, some Murphys and some cabbage into a broth, and due to mandated social distancing, later in the day I’ll delver the Irish boil to my mates in 92128. I’ll wish all a Happy Saint Patricks Day.

God save Ireland.

Recent events make it clear that irony is the bedrock of the human condition. Since the sixties poplar psychologists , geriatric specialists and a host of others have posited that our health-our quality of life- can be predicted by the number and quality of our human contacts. Now, in a flash of irony we are asked to do the opposite, to distance ourselves from each other in the interests of the greater good. We are in a counter-intuitive place and it is little wonder that we are flummoxed and afraid. What was said to be considered a phobia (agoraphobia) is now adaptive and recommended to enhance our health. We have fallen into the sky.

We are more than a bit lost but we also possess a built-in, spiritual interferon. We can use this time of forced isolation in a positive way. For most of us, what Thich Nhat Hanh said applies, ” right now, we are still alive and our bodies are working marvelously. Our eyes can still see the beautiful sky. Our ears can still hear the voices of our loved ones.” Yes…but for how long? Fear is manifestly at our elbow; the elbow we now use to greet each other. In these times our attitudes certainly vary.

We see some approaching the times with gallows humor, denial, xenophobia and other negative positions; others re-commit to service, double their efforts to understand the ramifications of a pandemic and generally soldier on.

I see an opportunity in our forced distancing and it has to do with our interior lives. This uncomfortable isolation gives us time to think, to become mindful and question ourselves. Like a religious-or corporate-retreat it give us the space to review or recreate our personal mission statement. It gives us a space to strengthen our spiritual immune system and enquire about the things that truly matter. While we act responsibly in our new social contract by isolating ourselves, we might also see some deep truths made manifest. Viruses replicate in a human host and ideas do as well. Time to consider our personal ideas is an opportunity. As the poet said “amputation becomes acquisition.”

I hope we use the time well. Beach walks, reading, meditation…whatever you do…do it well.

Perhaps we will get to the place described by Gertrude Stein when she said, “everything is so dangerous that nothing is really frightening. “

Hope you can be of good cheer and soldier on.

In every place I live I tend to build altars and apses, little displays in snug recesses. These womblike rooms are my favorite places. Surrounded by books, framed art and knickknacks, I am truly at ease. My current retreat has a baseball altar and one for Shakespeare; there are civil war cannon replicas and a carving of a baseball manager screaming at an umpire…my stuff.

I do not know where this need to build bunkers comes from but I suspect the Catholic Church and reading too many books has something to do with it. My favorite address in the world is 221-B Baker Street . I can smell the stale pipe tobacco and see the rack of Meerschaums over by the mess of test tubes and pipettes, dusty tomes are strewn about and the fire is a blazing comfort. Every table top is an altar of sorts with sacred objects in thoughtful arrangement.

As I visit the homes of The Gang of Eight, I see the escape rooms of my friends. For one, the room is a shared study that sports a signed baseball-or two- and a collection of Nesbitt soda memorabilia. There is even a bobblehead of the man himself on display. Another friend’s expression takes a garage -clean as an operating room- and makes it a display of motorcycle art and objects wrapped around a meticulously clean work bench. Another space is a sewing room, a space full of potential creativity.

There is irony all about. In a real sense, the denizens of 92128 are a living museum full of grey haired artifacts. We are representations of the years gone by. Our lifestyles past and present are memorialized in our halting walks and our wrinkled faces. We could charge admission to kids so they can view a real Vietnam veteran and an aging hippie. We could help them remember.

Author William Gibson says it well , ” We are the strange species that constructs artifacts intended to counter the natural flow of forgetting.” Indeed.

So I feel no guilt about building my altars in comfortable places. If you have a collection of rare Nesbitt’s bottles, signed baseballs or motorcycle art you are doing us all a service.

Lest we forget.

Humans are re-active beings and most of the behaviors we see are responsive ones…we put on our jackets because it’s cold; we detour because of the latest sinkhole. While this seems obvious, it is amazing that we still retain the illusion of control. We cannot stop the “slings and arrows” that fly toward our heads, we can only take cover. Sink holes, tsunamis’, hurricanes, illness …all of life’s events mandate our response. We are currently experiencing the far reaching effects of a pandemic and this sparks a meditation on the question of whether -or not- we actually control any aspects of our existence.

Clearly there are higher powers at work in the world. We may be riders on the storm but the storm defies us and our inability to control it. Our judgments are often seen in plans of avoidance; quarantine, dis-engagement, bunkering up. When it comes to power we are seriously outclassed.

The delusion of control is not monolithic and impervious in 92128 and this is the direct result of the decades we have accumulated. Experience teaches us that control is a concept…not a fact of life. Time teaches us that change- and entropy-are inevitable as we walk a bit slower, sprout a few wrinkles and slowly fold ourselves in and out of bed each day. We have lost loved ones to disease and suffered from many events that are beyond our control. We hope for the strength to respond positively to life events.

There is one thing we can control…our minds. We can commit to the idea of making things better. Our reactions to what occurs can be of a type that ameliorates pain and loss. The Gang of Eight all believe in this type of reaction. We march, volunteer, help victims of everything from domestic violence to hunger; at the end of the day we choose to believe in altruism. I met a friend today who is off to a march against human trafficking, my wife is off with other gang members to help the victims of domestic violence. Another gang member is sitting at his computer working for many causes in the helping professions.

Our reactions are all we have and who we are. We are Zen. Teacher Shunryu Suzuki puts it elegantly: “the true purpose (of Zen) is to observe things as they are and to let everything go as it goes…Zen practice is to open our small mind.” The small mind tells us we have control, the Zen mind teaches that our response is all we have.

Let us respond well.

Humans love hierarchies and patterns, they pin butterflies to paraffin and we somehow feel that there is a place for everything…and everything in its place. As children we are encouraged to, “know your place” and we are subject to placement tests in most of our young years. We are arranged in a daisy chain and one’s position is contingent upon new factors we can’t understand. Factors like socio-economic status, race, physical development are the pins that fix us to the world’s expectations.

There is also pride of place. Wherever you are is the best place on earth… a New Yorker often takes irrational pleasure in touting the great city they live in. For some, New York is the biggest city on earth even though it is not in the top ten in population; this bloated view not only pumps up the Big Apple it also serves to diminish everything West of the Hudson River. In a real sense you are where you come from. Once, on a business trip, I drove through the canyon lands of Utah with a colleague from New York. He showed signs of genuine anxiety and I asked what was wrong. He said, “I am not used to vistas … I wouldn’t have believed that you could see for that many miles.” We are the products of our place… they are the limits of our vision.

We operate at great risk in the work world if we forget our place. We must stay in our lane and not presume that our answers are more elegant and effective that those placed above us in the corporation. I read about a commercial airliner that crashed because a co-pilot that had the answer to a life or death situation did not speak because one didn’t question the Captain. He certainly knew his place.

I have often wondered about the power of place to shape character. If you see magnificent mountains, deep green seas and beautiful flora every day does it actually contribute to the nobility of your personality? Do you more readily appreciate the abundance in life if you live hard by rolling fields of wheat? Perhaps.

My current place is 92128, a place for people who have been to many places, geographically and in their hearts. They have lost loved ones, had their share of achievements and defeats, have raised children…they give the place dimension and soul. I have placed myself here because there may be some nobility in the place. At the very least it is a ” hallowed place where my friend’s portraits hang.”

What a great place.

”The object of terrorism is terrorism. The object of oppression is opression. There object of torture is torture. The object of murder is murder. The object of power is power. Now do you begin to understand me? ” –George Orwell- 1984

The point Orwell makes from the depths of a horrible distopia is akin to the point made by Nicollo Machiavelli more that 5 centuries ago when he observed that there is , “no morality in politics”. In short the primary goal of power is to perpetuate itself…come what may. Humans are unique in crafting an idea of power. We alone see power in wealth, strength. celebrity, military might political and corporate influence. The simple fact is we admire power in all its forms and most of us seek to get some. A cogent argument can be made that all religion and law-all moral precepts of ant kind- are created to curb power . We abhor the naked use of power by others but will exercise it with impunity if we have it.

Power is the drunken careening that comes from overindulgence in a cocktail of ego, anger and delusion. Autocrats wield power that ironically leads to their walk to the guillotine, or the pistol at the temple. Economic power does not always lead to a happy life; physical strength wanes and the great athlete becomes ungraceful and doddering. Power is fleeting.

Spiritual leaders have been able to reconcile the differences between power and morality with stunning results. These instances are rare but world changing when they happen. Ghandi, MLK and others were aware enough to understand the power of right actions and they had the courage to take those actions. Most of us are not that enlightened. I have often been a bully , overestimated my abilities ; I’ve seen a handsome devil in the mirror…delusional.

I agree with Plato when he said that the, “measure of a man is what he does with power.” with that in mind, I always try to wield what little power I have with a bit of morality and realistic self assessment. I hope to deal in the power of words.

We are currently in a long national meditation on power. Let us all exercise our powers in the interest of others.

As a short pants boy in Chicago, I was honored to be my grandmother’s companion at Mass on Sunday at 6:30 in the morning. I was never tired at that early hour because I loved the church with its smell of sandalwood and a bright array of feathered hats sported by old Irish ladies in the brightly polished pews. The Jesus horror story was arrayed on the walls in 14 carved plaques but that was not too scary either. The antiphonal songs were soothing and the incantation of Kyries were somehow hypnotic. It was one of my favorite things.

On one particular Sunday the Priest built a sermon around the idea of Grace. He said that a person who was righteous had the grace of God within him.

I thought about this at our regular stop at Nick The Greeks where post- devotional ice cream was served while neighbors chatted about the news of the day and the fates of relatives and friends in the “old country.” Later, at Grandma’s house I was left alone in what she pretentiously called the sitting room. On the low coffee table Grandma had a small heavily decorated dish with a collection of pretties that were important to her. There was a shell. a scapular depicting St Michael, a ring and a small blue stone. At my age this little piece of polished stone seemed precious and beautiful. Could this be grace? Well, I knew how to find out. I cranked up a little spit and popped the stone into my mouth. Soon, I would know if I had grace within me.

Now, decades later the idea of grace is not so simple or so easily tested. Like every important thing in life, Grace defies description. Because it is so ephemeral, many ascribe it to whatever god they believe in; you can not simply swallow it like a medication, it came from some numinous source and you either had it or you didn’t. I have catalogued the instances of grace in my life in an effort to detect some pattern or causality…to finally capture it in my mind and not just in my stomach.

We see instances of grace in sports. A beautiful backhand, a circus catch or a triple axel is certainly a type of grace but the idea is not merely a function of proprioception. It is more important than that. Grace can also be seen in the light touch some use when dealing with others, with their own pain and in the simple elegance in the world’s people, places and things.

In 92128, our current exposure to the idea has to do with growing old gracefully. We all go to the gym, on hikes and some of us run, swim and cycle to hold fast to the grace of our bodies as time grinds us down. We test our memory by long bouts of sudoku and crossword puzzles that force us to remember the names of flowers and obscure operas. We travel and aggrandize new experiences; we even have a scratch-off map that allows you to highlight all the countries you have seen.

With all of this activity, there is still a strong voice that tells me that I have grace…and have had it since I gobbled down that blue stone. I know too, that grace is not under my control. It comes as it pleases from a place I cannot know.

As I watch the GANG OF EIGHT I can certainly see the grace in them. My favorite take on the subject comes from Victor Hugo, ” When grace is joined with wrinkles, it is adorable. There is an unspeakable dawn in happy old age.”

Let us all get there with as much goodwill and elegance as we can.

Crake walked back toward the bar and his coat flared open. “What’s the gat for Bo?” The bale of hay that was the bartender was glaring at him. “I wear it because it’s my friend,” said Crake”. The bartender wasn’t buying and shoved his face so close to Crake that he was nearly in his ear. “you don’t wear it in here”. Crake hit him twice…hard. The big guy flew backward and cleared a shelf of cheap bourbon on his way down.

In a minute the bartender came to his feet and began to knead his jaw. “You wear it in here,Bo” came from swollen lips as the big baboon refilled his drink. “This one’s on me.”

Things had calmed down enough for Crake to fire a question. “You ever serve a fellow named Motley in here?” The booze jockey didn’t hesitate. ” Sure, I knew Motley , came in all the time, he was a martini dry.” “He liked to drink and he liked the broads…. “spent a lotta green and didn’t cause no trouble…good customer.” Crake decided it was time to go for broke. ” Did he usually drink with a particular doll.?” The bartender made a face that looked like remembering and came across. ” Yeah he usually drank with a redhead that looked like a seven course dinner. Built. Classy bit of fluff.”

Crake thought it was time to go for the big prize. “Catch her name?” ” Uh yeah said the palooka..”.Marcie..,.Marcie Hagen.” That other scotch would have to wait, crake finally had a job to do. “Thanks for the drink”, said Crake and reached for his hat. The bartender rubbed his hand over his jaw and gave Crake a , “you bet. Listen, Bo, next time you come in, be nice.” Crake rewarded that with a smile and headed for a payphone with a little privacy.

Sighting over a finger, Crake ran down the page: Hagen, Mack… Hagen Madelaine, Hagen, Marcie. Crake snapped in a coin and fingered the dial. The answer was like a dive into velvet, the voice a near croon…” Hello?” The music of the word caught Crake off balance , like a short jab. He stammered, Is this Miss Marcie Hagen?” “Last time I paid my bills, I was” she half breathed into the phone.

“Well, Miss Hagen, my name is Benjamin Crake .” Crake liked to use ” Benjamin” it gave the whole business a little class. ” I’d like to talk to you about Clarence Motley.” There was a pause that was a little shorter than a fast haircut. Before Crake could say “are you there?” she answered with a slight stammer , ” Uh… Clancy, what about him ?” She didn’t sound so silky now. ” I didn’t cool him, shoe…what’s the beef?” Crake got the message that it was tine for straight talk. ” Do you drink in the afternoon , Miss Hagen?” There was no pause now. “Sometimes, Sugar … on a hot day.” Crake fired back, ” they don’t get any hotter, I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes. ”

Crake could taste that second highball and he picked up Miss Hagen in no time . He moored the DeSoto in front of the bar he had left with the prize of her name . They walked in, landed at a table and Crake walked to the bar with their order: Double Scotch and Pink Lady. Crake remembered extending his mitts to pick up the cocktails and then he didn’t remember anything for a long time.

About three hours later he woke uo with a screaming ache behind his left ear. He wished he could reach for the office bottle to clear his head. As the fog cleared , he saw a figure he knew bending over him. “Welcome back, Bo, sorry I had to sap ya.” “Thought you might like to meet a friend of mine.” A short blob of a man was standing behind the glass polisher looking like a cross between a fat iguana and and a short stack of hotcakes. He walked up to Crake and speared a square of paper toward him. It was a business card.

Crake wiped his eyes and read :

J Albert Montagu

Fine Floor Coverings

Holy League Imports

Van Nuys CA

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