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WORDS TO LIVE BY

 
WORDS TO LIVE BY
Always ready for someone else to write my weekly piece, I present the following efforts of phrasemakers from the past and present. To find these substitutes I had to work as hard as if I were writing my regular page. But I dug and dug some more and came up with things that will not be found in the usual collection of wise sayings and prudential proverbs. Very few of them have seen the light of day before, so expect the unexpected. I’m afraid a number of the items presented are a little cynical in their tone, but they’ve survived somehow, proving that people occasionally want this kind of thing. Someday I’ll print a collection of positive comments on everything in general, which will be a change of pace from the wiseguys. I’m told nobody will read it. Such a reflection on human nature -- always wants to hear scandal and never anything constructive. Well then, here we go:


In all countries the sun rises in the morning. G. Herbert.

A striking coincidence. Ed.

The surest way to a woman’s heart is to take aim kneeling. D. Jerrold.

Still works.  Ed.

I have found it generally true that it takes two to make a romance. T. Dreiser.

At last, the secret revealed. Ed.

The tyranny of a multitude is a multiplied tyranny. Burke.

Do not burn down your house even to annoy your chief wife’s mother. Chinese saying.

However much you dislike your mother-in-law, you must not set fire to her.
London court, 1925.

The judge had read his fortune cookies. Ed.

There is a great deal of human nature in man. C. Kingsley.

So I have always thought. Ed.

You come of good blood and so does a black pudding. Proverb.

All men are bores except when we want them. O.W. Holmes.

Bore: a person who talks when you wish him to listen. A. Bierce.

Creditors have better memories than debtors. B. Franklin.

An honest official has no fat subordinates. Chinese saying.

A louse is a man’s companion but a flea is a dog’s companion. Swift.

The democratic system which we call the government of the people, for the people, by the people and to hell with the people. M. Arlen.

A monarchy is a [ship] which sails well, but will sometimes…go to the bottom, a republic is a raft which will never sink, but then your feet are always in the water. F. Ames.

Differing views. Ed.

Every road leads in two directions. Chinese saying.

It is a blinde Goose that comes to the Foxe’s sermon, J. Lyly.

The vanity of being known to be trusted with a secret is generally one of the chief motives to disclose it. S. Johnson.

You can’t win. Ed.

A man must have very little to do at church that can give an account of the sermon.
J. Vanbrugh.

He who rides in the chair is a man; he who carries the chair is also a man.
Chinese saying.

Those who have never been to Scotland cannot form a notion of what it is to be serious.
M. O’Rell.

Drink up, Scots, and lighten up. Ed.

Put down enthusiasm…The Church of England in a nutshell. H. Ward.

I didn’t say it, I just quoted it. Ed.

In religion I am an anythingarian. Swift.

The rest of the time he was an Anglican. Ed.

Only Anglo-Saxons can govern themselves. W. A. White (American).

Many a man’s reputation wouldn’t know his character if they met on the street.
E. Hubbard.



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DEATH IN THE AFTERNOON

 
DEATH IN THE AFTERNOON
I start today with an unusual story that caught my attention the other day and left me scratching my head in disbelief. It describes a kind of micro-Mutiny on the Bounty which took place in 2004 on dry land in Long Island City. The victim was a businessman named Bruce Levy, 52, the owner of a cleaning plant. One of his employees, Jerome Fletcher, -- no, nothing to Fletcher Christian -- recruited another man to kill Levy and seize a $10,000 payroll arriving at the plant the same day. A woman employee kept Fletcher informed of the arrival of the payroll. A girl friend lent Fletcher her car on the date of the murder and he used it for the killer’s getaway. Later he used it for his own getaway south where he was later arrested. A fifth accomplice also participated, but no details were given. It seems that at least three of the five conspirators have pleaded guilty to one charge or another because there’s no mention of a trial in the story. Maybe there will be trials for two whose cases are still pending, one of them the actual killer.

I intend to dig into this case a little to find out how it’s possible to collect five characters together to gang up on one man for an amount of no more than $2,000 apiece if shared out equally. How did it all start? Did Levy ever suspect anything? Could it have been stopped? How was the case cracked? Finally, is it really right that society should be burdened with the support of these lubbers in idleness for the rest of their lives? I hope to write more about this subject.

My police years may be over but they’ve left their mark. Crime interests me. Not just what pops up all around us today, but also crime as it exists in history, some of its manifestations forgotten for unknown reasons while others remain vivid in memory. For instance, I give you Bonnie and Clyde. They are more famous today than they were in 1934 when the posse caught up to them. This last glorious shootout was a failure on their part since the law did all the shooting, but before this in a space of two years they had murdered an estimated thirteen people, six of whom were policemen.

So they weren’t gentle souls. They were pathological killers in fact. But they weren’t alone. Right in the heart of the southwest territory they ruled with machine guns they had rivals who were just as destructive as themselves even though their names have not come down to us in the same way. Two of these were the Young boys of Springfield, Missouri, who achieved fame on New Year’s Eve in 1931 in the following way:

They started of course with the murder of a policeman. This was the kind of thing that always brought out the remaining police in force. Tipped off that the boys were at the family farm ten miles outside of Springfield, the county and city police set off in two cars for the encounter. They surrounded the house and summoned it. Receiving no answer they opened the ball with a tear gas bomb through a window. Then the sheriff and a deputy crashed through the back door and were immediately mowed down with shotguns. A detective escaped and sent two men back to Springfield for help. An infuriated patrolman charged the front of the house and got a shotgun blast in his face. Another detective fired at the house from a storm cellar in the rear, but the cellar was flanked by a wing of the house, which exposed him to another shotgun blast fired from a window.

Another detective was then hit by a rifle slug in the forehead, making a total of five men dead, one wounded, two still standing and two gone for help. At this point they arrived with the same or the slaughter might have continued.

The help consisted of seventy-five men from a Coast Artillery unit in Springfield , bringing ambulances and machine guns.# They riddled the house with bullets until firing from inside stopped and they rushed the place. Inside they found no one at home. The Youngs had escaped through a tunnel to an orchard far from the house..

The two, Harry and Jennings, were at large for two days until they were found holed up in a rooming house in Houston, Texas. When the Houston police broke in on them, they shot each other rather than be taken alive. That was the epilogue to New Year’s Eve in the Ozark Mountains of Missouri.

Missouri has quieted down quite a bit since the days of battles like these, but it didn’t happen overnight. In between there were incidents, well like the famous Kansas City Massacre. Eighteen months after the Young affair, in June 1933 shoot first was again the order of the day in Missouri. A desperado named Frank Nash, who had escaped from a 25-year sentence at Leavenworth Penitentiary had been recaptured and was being returned by train to K. C. in the custody of the two FBI agents and the Arkansas sheriff who had found him. They were to be met at the Union Station by two more FBI agents and two Kansas City detectives.

What they didn’t know is that they would also be met by seven of Nash’s associates, armed to the teeth and planning a rescue. They disposed themselves around the station and managed to conceal themselves from the police by mingling with the railroad patrons. Nash and his escort came out through the front entrance of the station and started to get into a waiting FBI car. At this point they were attacked by two men jumping from behind a parked car. One had a machine gun. But the first blood was taken by another shooter firing from behind a second car, who shot both the K.C. detectives dead on the spot. After that the gangsters rushed the FBI car firing away and killing Chief Reed, the Arkansas escort, but also killing Nash, while two agents managed to duck their fire in the back seat. Another agent, named Caffrey, was killed by a shot to the head.

At the end five men were dead, Nash and four police. One attacker, Pretty Boy Floyd, had been wounded, but escaped with the others. In October 1934 police caught up to him in Ohio and shot him to death. His accomplice, Adam Richetti, was captured and eventually executed in 1938. Another well-known gangster Verne Miller, was apparently killed in a gang feud in November 1933, judging by the condition of his body when found in a ditch in Michigan. The four other co-conspirators got off in 1935 with two-year sentences and fines of $10,000 each. I’ll return to all this sometime in the near future.
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SING IN ABERRATION SING IN ABERRATION

 
SING IN ABERRATION
Am I on time with this? I scarcely know any more. Things keep jumping up and hitting me in the backside and throwing me off my schedule and there’s nothing I can do about it. This time, would you believe, it was the hospital again. I’m not an invalid, it’s just that I seem to spend time in hospitals a lot. And it’s not because I just happen to have a couple of them located right across the street from me.

This time was a little different. I went to the place immediately opposite my house but I found a condition there that I had been kind of expecting since the day before, which was Christmas. It was Black Tuesday. You know, like Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving when the whole country goes shopping at once? Hearing some Christmas conversations, I had concluded that the day after was going to be the medical equivalent. No one was going to spoil their Christmas holiday for a little thing like an infectious disease or a crippling injury, but the day after was going to be the day they descended en masse on the doctors and the hospitals demanding immediate attention to their “emergencies.” I arrived at the emergency room to find it jammed with all those opportunists getting in the way of legitimate cases like myself who hadn’t been waiting things out through Christmas but had been suddenly stricken the day after without previous notice. What a sell! as the Brits say.

I found my self being squeezed right out of the door of the emergency room, packed to the rafters with sufferers -- probably all hypochondriacs, really, if you ask me -- until rescued by my doctor, who shipped me over to the neighbor hospital where the fire sale was a little less intense and I was assigned a bed by 11:00. But please, readers, take a lesson from me; don’t get sick at Christmas. There is no room at the inn.

On Wednesday I settled down for a normal hospital stay, to be concluded or continued after the tests were run and the results analyzed. Nothing unusual there. However I found that a new element has now entered into the hospital atmosphere with which most of us are acquainted. This is the coming of the “hospital howl” which now is to be heard ringing through the halls much like Cole Porter’s beat-beat-beat of the tomtoms when the jungle shadows fall. It wasn’t a bit like the tick-tick-tock of the stately clock as it stands against the wall.

My second night, when I was in a normal state of alertness again, I first heard it, an ungodly shriek turning to a bellow that could have come from King Kong. Could I have finally landed in the psycho ward, I asked myself? Has it come to that? And who was this banshee shattering the midnight air with his hellish outburst? I went to the nursing station to find out. Nobody there seemed very worried about it. Call hospital security? For a removal to the psycho ward? Oh, we can’t do that. He’s a patient, you see. Yeah, but so am I, and I came to the hospital for my health and this isn’t conducive to health, it’s the opposite.

They continued to explain that the hog-caller was not really an extraordinary type of patient. In fact he wasn’t the only noisemaker on the floor. If I changed my room, I’d only run into the other one. What we’ve done, they said, is give this man an injection which would soon shut him up and let everyone go back to sleep. In the meantime, better get used to it. He’s suffering from dementia, which comes often in old age and will increase as the number of seniors continues to grow. The hospitals simply can’t treat all these people as psychiatric cases and just have to put up with them. So go back to your room and this time shut the door and get yourself some sleep.

Good advice, I guess, except that the only miracle that came out of the miracle drug they gave the disturber of the peace was an increase in his uproar, to which music I finally fell asleep in the dawn. Not that I ever figured out what tune he was playing. For the most part he was totally unintelligible except when he began a new aria with Hey! progressing from there to Hey!! and then up the scale to Hey!!! after that descending into gibberish. If he had a message for the world it passed by me.

I got my first look at this wonder man the next day. I was expecting something on the order of Freddy Krueger, but in fact he was a totally insignificant old dwarf looking like Santa Claus without the beard. Where he got the Bull of Bashan voice I don’t know, but I could picture him as a ring announcer telling the crowd “In this corner weighing 220 pounds we have Mohammed Al-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e!!!” I gave him a dirty look which didn’t bother him at all.

And so it continued by night and by day. I got used to it. So did the other victims. Once in a while I’d run into another male patient during the ululating and we’d shake our heads and roll our eyes at each other. Most of the females seemed to be very small and old and absorbed in their own thoughts, so I didn’t see much reaction from them. They were past caring, I suppose. I went through three roommates in four days, but only one of them was conscious enough to resent the reign of terror. I actually thought he might march out to the nursing station himself, but he had had a hip replacement, which ruled that out.

Hospitals have changed. As I’ve said, I’ve probably spent more time in them than most men my age. About eight or ten stays in fact. They were all necessary, they weren’t all short, but thankfully none of them have been for anything life-threatening, in case you’re picturing me as a basket case barely clinging to life. My first visit was in the Forties when I had an emergency appendectomy at Fordham Hospital in the Bronx, which has been since torn down. It was a coming-of-age experience, the kind of thing they make movies about now. I was becoming aware of the existence of another division of the human race, females, whom I thought I might like to become better acquainted with. As represented by the nurses looking after me, it seemed like something I should look into when I was restored to health. This turned out to be a correct anticipation, but I owe my first intimation of it to the Fordham gals with their white uniforms and their hair held in by snoods and the kids’ books and the breakfast rolls and the kind words they distributed to their lucky patients. I wish I could say I still liked hospitals as much as I did then, but in those days no one got hooked up to an IV feed or a heart monitor, so freedom rang. When I go to one now I know I’m going to jail for a while. I can live with that, but does my experience mean that every hospital existing is now a little Bellevue?

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THE D.A. TAKES A CHANCE
Today I see a letter to the editor in my local Long Island paper that is sent by the District Attorney of Nassau County, Miss Kathleen Rice. Miss Rice, now in her first year in office, has started something new out here, called “case guidance”. It sounds kind of like the Big Brothers and Big Sisters who teach young children to read and write. Only in this case the “guidance” will be given to cops because, according to Miss Rice, they need it when drawing up their court complaints against their arrestees. She says “this assistance …is designed to ensure the legal sufficiency of cases at the arrest level before an expensive trial and before the taxpayers have spent significant resources incarcerating a defendant.”

This concern for economy is very welcome of course, especially since the D.A. hired her sister-in-law for a major job in her office, for which she’s getting $5,000 more per year than the previous incumbent, and $30,000 more per year than she got in her last job. After that you gotta cut costs someplace. Apparently she believes the way to cut costs is to prevent the police from prosecuting hopeless cases and locking up people for no good reason. It’s impossible to see what else she could mean by her talk about expensive, presumably useless, trials and avoidable costs of locking up defendants, presumably innocent ones. Certainly she can’t be trying to say money is wasted when guilty defendants are tried or jailed. Cost-cutting can’t go so far as to eliminate these costs. But she obviously believes it should be done with regard to the, ah, groundless, fraudulent
-- what word shall I use? -- cases brought by the police.

This is what she implies, although she doesn’t actually name any such cases that have come to her attention. Maybe she’s just afraid that one will pop up sometime and she wants to be ready if it does. Preparedness is a good thing, as long as there’s reasonable cause for it. Preparing for non-existent dangers ignores the advice of General Patton, who told his officers to consult their hopes, not their fears, if they wanted to win battles.

Just what is the D. A. up to here, anyway? It may be something completely innocent and I may have misread her language, but on the other hand she may be up to that old D.A. trick of spinning the numbers to improve the bottom line, which for a district attorney is the conviction record. The way to achieve this is to avoid losing cases if at all possible, so as to produce a winning record. One of the best ways to accomplish this is to avoid overcharging defendants and instead charge them with lesser degrees of the crime they committed, thereby eliciting a guilty plea or a conviction by a jury.

“Overcharging” is something cops do, if you listen to the district attorneys. The cops aren’t legal scholars, you see, and they don’t know any better than to charge people with crimes as they’re itemized in the Penal Law, not as they’ve been informally amended by the operations of defense counsel, judges and, yes, district attorneys. For example, the Penal Law says “A person, with intent, who causes physical injury to another by use of a deadly weapon or instrument” is guilty of assault as a felony. The naïve cop therefore charges his prisoner with a felony for using a baseball bat. But when he gets to court, he is briskly informed that he has only a misdemeanor since no skin was broken. Some cops don’t take this as well as they’re expected to do. Sometimes a dialogue like this ensues:

Cop:     “Waddya mean, breaking the skin? That’s not in the Penal Law.”
D.A:      "Well, that’s how we do it here.”
Cop:     “I never heard of it. Who dreamed it up?”
D.A:      “Oh, all of us. DA’s, judges, defense counsel…”
Cop:     “Defense counsel? They running things here?”
D.A:      “No, but…”
Cop:     “Listen, you go ahead and reduce the charges all you             
              like.  But I'm not signing the affidavit, got me?”

In the eyes of cops and often of crime victims, district attorneys are congenital compromisers, who are always ready to make a deal that will get them a quick conviction and another notch on their gun. The victims are likely to react to this after the cops have forgotten about it. This is because the police involvement in the case usually diminishes after the initial arraignment -- where conversations like the one above do sometimes take place -- and things are left in the hands of the district attorney, with only the friends and relatives of the victim to harass him. Since in many cases he’s also being harassed by the friends of the perpetrator he’s likely to bend in the direction of a compromise in almost any case.

There are lots of cases that fall outside these boundaries. They are the ones that originate with the police or the district attorney, such as organized crime investigations, stock swindles, government corruption, accident rings, medical scams and the like. Basically the complainants, if any, are only of secondary importance in these cases and the real complainant is the government. If there is any negotiating to be done it’s between the government and itself.

Another major exception of course is any case involving murder of a cop. Even here cops at one time came to feel that their interests weren’t being protected by the courts. Now they have corrected that situation by making sure to flood every killer’s courtroom with a large delegation of police in uniform glaring at the suspect. Since the Supreme Court has now refused to bar courtroom audiences from wearing buttons with victims’ pictures on them, this tactic might begin to be used as well,

Returning to the letter which begat this commentary, I just can’t help being suspicious of the motivations of the District Attorney who wrote it. She sugar-coats her message with a raft of compliments to the “hard-working” police “risking their lives” for the rest of us, while at the same time she’s suggesting they don’t know what they’re doing and justice isn’t safe in their hands. With her scheme, defendants will get the “improving [of] due process” and it’s also “a win for [those] who believe their charges are unjust“. This last category takes in 100% of all arrestees. But it’s all right, I guess, because she says her new deal will allow her office to “complement these cases at the outset.” Do you know what that means? No more do I. But I fear the worst.
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SOMEBODY ELSE IS TAKING MY PLACE

 
SOMEBODY ELSE IS TAKING MY PLACE
I’ve used this space to write about myself as a cop and about other cops, but I’ve never written about myself as a victim. But it’s happened and I’m not taking it very well. It seems somebody got ahold of my ID and used it to bilk two banks for payments to organizations that I had supposedly joined and to whom I owed money. The total involved so far is about $1,450, of which I’ve actually only lost $700, since I caught the other overcharges and had them cancelled by the bank before I paid them. What I didn’t do is go back in my records to see if I had had other visits from these swindlers, instead of dismissing the incidents as one-time things or maybe even honest mistakes. When I did go back I found that the gang had been milking my accounts since 2003, each year extracting a membership fee totaling $700 in the end.

I suppose it was an honor to belong to the automobile clubs or whatever they had me enrolled in, but it was one I could do without. I could also do without the negligence of the banks who issued my cards and never picked up on these racketeers. They weren’t a secret; I just went to a website that crusades against them and found hundreds of complaints on record from all over the country denouncing the racketeers for criminal impersonation, false promises of reimbursement, and delaying tactics calculated to wear out the victims and stifle their complaints.

That’s what I gather from the websites. At the same time it seems possible that different tactics might be used, i.e., satisfy me if I complain and thereby prevent trouble that might interfere with the racket and wake up thousands of victims who’ve never caught on to it. There hasn’t been any sign of this in their dealings with my fellow suckers though, so instead of subjecting myself to the wiseguys’ stonewall tactics, I’ll be going to the banks and asking them what they thought they were doing when they accepted forged evidence that I had joined a non-existent automobile club and wanted the bank to pay it money out of my credit card account.

That should be enough to back them into a corner and make them disgorge. I learned one thing working for a bank. When a bank cashes a forged check it is responsible for the money lost by the forger’s victim. The only way out is for the bank to deny the forgery and claim the signature was good. Sometimes this works; sometimes it’s actually true. I don’t know the percentages, but I do know that really good forgers are few and far between, so I give myself a good chance of proving my claim. This assumes there’ll be resistance from the banks. On the bright side, it assumes that recovery of my losses in 2005, 2004 and 2003 isn’t ruled out by the statute of limitations.

My advice to readers is that they should study their credit card statements closely and challenge any charges they don’t understand. Apparently the first reaction of victims finding such charges is to call the outfit that imposed them and demand restitution. This is frequently promised but rarely delivered. The auto club isn’t in the business of paying out money to anybody. You’re better off dealing with the bank that issued the card.

Banks are responsible organizations which do make restitution for losses caused by them.  When they have to. They want proof, as I’ve pointed out. In the case of disreputable outfits that have compiled a record of chiseling and cheating, the question is, what are the banks thinking of when they continue to do business with them? TLG in a company’s name should be a sure tipoff to them. But they continue honoring the charges made on credit cards for the purpose of paying TLG for its “services”. This is bank negligence and it’s the reason I think I’ll make good my losses even though they go back three years. If I don’t, well I’ll have had a good lesson for which I’ll be truly grateful. Q.E.D.

Besides looking for the initials T L G, it pays to take note of their place of origin. Connecticut is the state most of these scams are coming from. Connecticut has lots of banks and insurance companies which issue credit cards around the country. The employees of these issuers are the most probable source of information to be used by the scam artists. Here we have more bank negligence, if you should encounter resistance when making a claim and want to intimidate the banker who’s holding back your rightful restitution. It might be enough to make him squirm and reconsider his shortsighted approach. I’ll find out for myself, I think, if I get accused of negligence about my payments in past years and I want to give my accuser some of his own medicine. “So I should have checked my statements better, huh? What about you? Your own employees are the ones feeding information to the mob so they can rip off your cardholders. I’m going to the White House with this!”

No one normally thinks of Connecticut as a mobbed-up state, but every once in a while there’s a roundup up there and another million-dollar betting ring is broken up. This is executive-type crime, befitting Connecticut, one of our classier states. It has its wild side, though. We can’t forget that the last governor went to jail. What a mortification. The state of Yale and Darien and Greenwich and all those country clubs had sunk to the level of…New Jersey.

I hope I haven’t seemed to be whining here about my victimization by the Connecticut mob. I freely admit I brought it on myself by neglect of my monthly statements. In my banking years I saw plenty of times how people got hurt by this kind of neglect. One case was that of a retired fireman who found out his account had been subjected to withdrawals of thousands of dollars made without his knowledge. The culprit was quickly identified on our videotape. It was his daughter. What’s the matter with you guys? he said. How did you let her do this? The account was in his name only and he had never given her any kind of permission slip to show the bank. That’s right, we said, we’ve got to admit we were negligent. We owe you $24,0000. We have to tell you, though, that we’ll have to arrest your daughter and charge her with the theft of this money. We have to make a crime report to the FDIC and we have to show them what we did about the crime. If we do nothing, we’re in violation of their Rules and Regulations and we’ll be heavily fined.

Suppose I waive restitution of the $24,000? Oh, then we’ll have no crime to report and also no loss from it. You think that’s better, huh? Yeah, we do too.
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PEPPER GAME
Here we go again. More trouble finding something to write about. I’ve brought this up before, so I’ll lay off here. I believe I’ll try a new tack anyway. I’ll write about nothing. That was the recipe that was so successful for 'Seinfeld '.

When anyone says he’ll write about nothing, he means he’ll lay off the heavy stuff for once and write about trivia. Trivia is all around, you see. Like June, it’s bustin’ out all over. You can use it as a subject and still not give up the customary pursuit of wrongs needing to be righted. It’s just that you lower your sights and deal with minor types of wrongs instead of big ones.

For instance my World Almanac has lots of lists in it, one of them a list of the Fifty Greatest Screen Legends as compiled by the American Film Institute. It’s bothered me for a while because, well, some of their picks don’t seem so legendary to me. To wit:

The usual names start the list, Gable, Wayne, Bogart, Grant, et. al. But where’s Bob Hope? No Bob Hope? What kind of list is this? What’s Orson Welles doing on it? He was a nonentity compared to Bob. What about Danny Kaye? Where’s he? Put him on. Put Tyrone Power on and Jack Lemmon. De-list Robert Mitchum and James Dean and Sidney Poitier.

My rejects aren’t un-persons, but they’re simply not in the category of my replacements. Tyrone Power was a sensation in his early years. Kaye and Lemmon had staying power. Dean didn’t; his career ended abruptly, as everyone knows. Mitchum and Poitier didn’t fill theater seats like my nominees.

Now who are the 25 women whose names will echo down the years? Their list differs from the men’s in that there are no obvious outsiders on it. But I question Sophia Loren’s right to be there. She was a star and sparkled all right, but not so much in America as in Europe. I have doubts about Lauren Bacall too. Was she really that big? Bigger than my candidates, Jean Arthur and Loretta Young? Maybe the solution is to expand the list to 27 ladies and stay out of trouble.

The talent scout for the Institute who picked the list of women seems to have been someone like myself, locked into the Forties and still under the spell. Unlike him, I have broken loose a bit and learned to admire Meryl Streep and Sissie Spacek, among others. That isn’t easy on a diet of one movie a year.

Drunk with power, the Institute went on to name the 100 Greatest Movies of All Time. Again Orson Welles was a pet and got his whatsit, “Citizen Kane", a caricature of William Randolph Hearst, listed as the absolute g-r-r-r-eatest of all time. Orson was a rad of course, and politically correct and all that, but a legend? That’s going too far. Unless it was a reference to his appetite. That was legendary all right.

Funny, but if Citizen Kane is such a masterpiece, how come I’ve never had the opportunity to see it? Apparently it’s so precious it’s kept locked up in a vault like a painting by Leonardo Da Vinci and only released in leap years. That’s odd, because Gone With The Wind, also classified as a masterpiece by the Institute, is always showing somewhere. People want to see it, but seem able to get along without “Kane”.

The rest of the 100 Greatest is a mixed bag. Since I’m not writing a book I won’t dwell on them too long. I see four glaring omissions immediately: “Snow White”, “The Awful Truth”, “Boys Town”, “Going My Way”. Two of these were directed by Leo McCarey, who wasn’t politically correct, and one by Walt Disney, who wasn’t either.

The movies list runs from 1900 or so up to the present, with a lot of doubtful picks on it, but the only thing that can be done about it is to watch a few thousand pictures and then publish your own list of favorites. That would make me a cinch for the Dubious Achievement Award if it’s still being given. If not, it would probably be revived for me.

I’ve now dealt with the movies for once and for all. It’s time to move on to other sources of frustration. One is the television show “Cops”. Like the great majority of TV shows I see, I sample it instead of watching it right through. It usually concludes with some bedraggled junkie being dragged away from the stolen car he’s wrecked after a ten-mile chase, causing the cops to handcuff him, read him his rights for the TV cameras and inform him he’s under arrest for six different felonies. But all is not lost. At the top of the screen a message flashes telling one and all “The Suspect is Presumed Innocent”.

Innocent of what? The reckless driving we’ve just been watching for an extended time? The unlawful speeds he traveled at? The driver license he didn’t have? The battle he put up when the cops tried to pull him out of the car? Possession of the drugs found in the car? Use of the car without permission of the rightful owner? The damage to city property when he bounced off the hydrant and crashed into the lamppost?

We viewers have seen all these things and not being insane we aren’t presuming they didn’t happen. The cops were actually present on the scene when they did, so they can testify to them in court. When they reach the jail the warden will presume his guilt and accept him for custody. The district attorney will prepare charges accusing him of his crimes. The committing magistrate will remand him to jail to await trial or bail. If required, he will hold a hearing and listen to witnesses testify to their knowledge of the crimes. In all this sequence not one person will presume him innocent. If they did, they would have to release him instantly.

That’s the so-called “presumption of innocence”. It exists, but it’s confined to one group of people -- the trial jury beginning at the time they start to hear the case. I actually heard this explained by Warren Burger, the longest-serving Chief Justice of the United States, at Lincoln Center in New York in 1969. Any attempt to convince people it exists otherwise is simply a defense-lawyer swindle meant to bluff the public into distrusting its own perceptions when confronted with a crime. Well, as Dominick Dunne says “They’ll do anything -- anything to win an acquittal for a guilty person”. And TV will help them.
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ELECTION REFLECTIONS

After telling the world I don’t write politics because I’m not in politics anymore, not even on the low level I formerly occupied, I find myself today writing about…politics.  The recent elections have had enough of a hangover effect for me to do so, that is, get two articles out of them instead of one.  That isn’t as good as the Roslyn school scandals used to be, from which I got a dozen pieces, but it’ll have to do. 

Unlike many elections, the sparks didn’t stop flying as soon as the polls closed, with everybody settling back down to normal living, but the excitement continued into another election, the one in the House of Representatives to anoint a floor leader for the winning Democrats.  Mrs. Lugosi, I mean Pelosi, the House Speaker-to-be, wanted one guy and her party wanted another guy.  That’s the way the voting turned out anyway, and now everyone’s waiting for her revenge on the winners.  This is the kind of thing that caused Will Rogers to declare “I am not a member of any organized political party.  I am a Democrat.” 

Mrs. P. campaigned during the election on an anti-corruption platform, but her choice for leader, Mr. Murtha, did not have an irreproachable anti-corruption background himself, which cost him his chance of winning.  The man who did win, Mr. Hoyer, came from Maryland, which meant that Maryland won the honesty prize against Pennsylvania, the home of  Mr. Murtha.  This would come as no surprise to readers of John O’Hara, the Pennsylvania novelist, who enjoyed describing the wheeling and dealing of the politicians thereof.  This doesn’t necessarily mean the Marylanders should get a clean bill, when after all they  produced Spiro Agnew, the man who brought bribery almost inside the doors of the White House.  But which of us is without sin? as the Bible says.

Mrs. Pelosi is now believed to be planning to assign Mr. Alcee Hastings of Florida to the chairmanship of the House Intelligence Committee on the basis of his seniority there.  The problem with that is that he is a former federal judge who was impeached and removed from office for bribery, with Mrs. Pelosi voting for the impeachment. 

There wouldn’t be any hesitation about rejecting  Hastings’ assignment if it weren’t for the fact that he is a member of the Congressional Black Caucus.  Does that make him untouchable?  We don’t know yet. 

If he gets the appointment, it won’t be out of keeping with an old American tradition of cutting some slack for minorities trying to make it in our society.  They aren’t held to quite the same standards as the generality of the population.  In the Nineteenth Century it was the turn of the Irish.  They made Tammany Hall a synonym for crooked politics, but still came off as a crew of lovable rascals of the Robin Hood type, who, after all, only stole from the rich to give to the poor.  They had  real enemies of course, but these eventually overreacted by imposing Prohibition in an attempt to force virtue on the public whether it wanted it or not.  The result was that Irish saloons became a blue-chip investment for anyone with money to spend and Irish politicians got fat off the anti-Prohibition reaction which eventually installed them in office for decades during the Twentieth Century.

The next beneficiaries of American indulgence were the Italians.  If they displayed solidarity with one another in politics, the public accepted it whether or not the parties involved were as clean as a whistle or as shady as a lovers’ lane.  In 1943 Frank Costello, the “Prime Minister” was taped in a phone conversation with Judge Thomas Aurelio, for whom he’d just secured a Supreme Court nomination.   The judge pledged Frank his undying loyalty and Frank preened himself a little about how his word on a deal meant one could “rest assured”.  One could.

That was the first time the phrase “bullet voting” got into print.  It meant that flying squads of Italian activists were transporting voters to the polls to cast just one vote for one candidate without regard for any others on the ballot.  The candidate was Aurelio, who was enabled to win by these tactics in spite of the unanimous opposition of the media, the city administration, Wall Street, Park Avenue and, I guess, Central Park.  He was a judge for the rest of his life.

Costello took a great interest in judges because he never knew when he might be appearing before another one of them and he found it reassuring to be able to look up at the bench and find a familiar face looking back at him. 

All this is history.  So is the 2006 election, from which we have moved smoothly into the run-up to 2008.  This will be the real deal.  Everything will on the table, both Congress and the White House.  If people are looking for time to recover from this year and don’t want to think about ‘08, they won’t be allowed to.  The drums are beating and the candidates are out assailing the voters.  It’s nessun dorma all over again.  No one shall sleep. It’ll all continue for two years straight until parturition occurs and we have a new-hatched President.  Unfortunately, on the basis of past performance he or she seems likely to begin with some monster disruption of the national life to that will crash his administration on the ground before it ever gets off the runway.  Consider  the precedents:

Reagan:  Created an immediate recession by allowing the Federal Reserve to cut the money supply to crush inflation.  (It worked, but the first year was rough.)   All the rest was honeymoon time until the Iran-Contra imbroglio in the second term.

Bush 1:  Made his mistake in his last year when he raised taxes and lost votes.

Clinton:  Started off bad with gays in the military, then with Rube Goldberg health plan cooked up by wife.  Recovered from this but couldn’t stand success and immediately plunged into Lewinsky affair, resulting in impeachment proceedings. 

Bush II:   Everything was going okay until he decided to take out Saddam Hussein.  Survived 2004 election, but Saddam’s revenge came two years later.

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TIME AND TIME AGAIN

 

STRIKEMEPINK(IFIDON'TTHINK)
I recently heard that there were about three billion websites now operating around the world, but instead of saying like a sensible person "That’s enough" I’ve decided that means there’s always room for one more, and here it is. I took its title from a sports column we used to have in New York which lives in the memory of all its old readers. It featured characters like Al Weill, the fight manager with the wonderful built (sic), Professor Ilitch of the Prosperity Institute with his Secret Play for beating the horses, available to the public for a reasonable price, Phainting Phil Scott, the English heavyweight, and other such individuals often found in the vicinity of Madison Square Garden or Belmont Racetrack.

Not to mislead, I don’t intend to write sports or introduce unusual characters found on my travels, but instead to deal in a general way with issues that bother me, and now and then to retail a joke or a story or a verse that will be a appreciated by a cultivated audience such as I hope to attract. How will I know they’re cultivated? Because I attracted them.

The benchmarks that will find me on a search engine are Catholic, ex-cop, law and order guy, tackles issues with originality and humor too. That’s me. The judges are you.

TIME AND TIME AGAIN

“Return with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear”. When I was a kid that was something we were continually being urged to do. The urging came from the announcer on the Lone Ranger radio show at 7:30 every evening. We were too young to have any yesteryears of our own, but we could share those of the Ranger, who flourished in the West at about the same time as Tom Mix or Buck Jones. The time frame was a little vague, but that didn’t stop us from believing in the Lone Ranger with all our little hearts.

At this stage of the game, though, I do have my own yesteryears that I can invite readers to share with me. Dredging them up is not a problem. I have plenty of landmarks and signposts to help me find the way. Is it strange that I can date a number of events in my life through remembering the magazines I read at the time ? For example I can look at a 1943 issue of “Time” and tell you where I was when I first read it. I don’t have to be told it was printed in ‘43 because it’s unalterably linked to the venue I found myself in at the time. Tell me where I was, I’ll tell you about the ‘zine; tell me about it and I’ll tell you where I was.

Nothing miraculous here, it may be a common occurrence for all I know. All it proves is that I was a heavy reader and in those days very much hipped on “Time”. It was the beginning of a lifelong preference for non-fiction over fiction. “Truth is stranger…etc.² So I’ve found it. In fact the magazine in question is a case in point. The picture on the cover was that of Heinrich Himmler, surrounded by corpses. The artist was anticipating here. Himmler’s activities were only rumored at the time. Two years later, when they became known to the world, the shock they gave it outdid anything any fiction writer had ever managed to provide. I think it reinforced my preference for fact over fiction.

Time’s covers were a fixed quantity in those days. They all seemed to be drawn by Ernest Hamlin Baker and all his subjects wore a uniform. It was wartime, after all. Generals, admirals, commanders took their bows in this way. Even kings, if they wanted the cover, put on a uniform of some sort. I confess they all became a blur in my mind. MacArthurNimitzPattonArnoldEisenhowerHalseySpruanceLeMayMarshall, all one shining hero, it seemed, and they were only the Americans. The Brits got the same treatment, they too had their day in the sun. The only one I really remember was a fellow who wasn’t on our side at all. Seeing the picture of a German in a spot sacred to the Allies was calculated to get one’s attention all right. His name was Erwin Rommel and the choice of his picture was a pretty good message to the Germans as to whom we’d like to see in Hitler’s place. Unfortunately Hitler saw it too and made sure we’d be disappointed by eliminating Rommel. No wonder there was always so much talk about the cover picture being a jinx.

As I’ve said, the covers mostly ran together in my mind and I don’t have a specific memory of the great majority. I read the stories, absorbed what I absorbed, and forgot the rest. Every so often, though, there was a break in the regular routine. Some unarmed, non-uniformed individuals broke up the military parade. Bob Hope was one. Just to read about him was fun. The description was perfect: He came onstage, it said, with a unique mixture of arrogance and fear. That described Bob to a “T”. It has stayed with me .

Stan Musial is the next entertainment figure I remember This was postwar, I’m sure. The country was lightening up and was ready to have some fun and watch some baseball. In fact in 1947 there was another baseball cover, none other than Leo Durocher, with his own message for the world “Nice guys finish last”. Gee, Leo, ease up a bit, will you? The war’s over a couple of years already.

Well, maybe it was, but we found another one to take its place. This was the Korean outbreak, from which I remember seeing Rosalind Russell on the cover in December 1952 when I was heading home for Christmas on a train from Camp Gordon in Georgia. The story inside was about her show on Broadway called “Wonderful Town”. Just the place where I was headed.

1952 was also the year in which Governor John Fine of Pennsylvania held the fate of the country in his hands, which naturally got him on Time’s cover. He controlled the state delegation to the Republican convention and could throw the presidential nomination either way, to Taft or Eisenhower. It was all very dramatic and the stories describing the vicious maneuvers in use by the hostile factions were enough to make one’s blood run cold. Governor Fine enjoyed his role as the arbiter of destiny, in the end coming down for Eisenhower, the winner, after which he was never heard from again. Fame is fleeting.

Another Broadway lady that hit the cover in the Fifties was Gwen Verdon, who danced ‘em dizzy from ¢53 to 1960, after which she laid off for six years to raise a daughter. She lived to be 75 and occupied herself with occasional roles in Hollywood. This was her choice, but I thought she was down on her luck when I saw her in a funny show called Nadine. I told the people with me, “You see that woman? She used to be the biggest star on Broadway. She was on the cover of “Time” when they didn’t put entertainers on the cover!” It was good to read later on that life had been treating her right after all.

Who else? Well there was Augie Busch, the Budweiser man in ‘57 or so, which provoked letters from people who disapproved of beer . There was my boss, Police Commissioner Steve Kennedy in 1958, there was Sean Lemass of Ireland in the same year, I think, both surprises, for which reason I’ve remembered them better than more famous people. There was an English writer named Joyce Cary, who used to be the idol of their book section, but he’s as forgotten as Governor Fine by now. There was the time they said John Wayne played Genghis Khan like a Mongolian idiot and John answered with a letter telling them he was a college graduate and could so speak English only Hollywood wouldn‘t let him. There were the Joe Stalin covers where he always looked monumental and deserving of worship. He had his friends at the magazine even if Luce the publisher wasn’t one.

I went on reading Time right into the Sixties, but all the while feeling that they and I were drawing apart as I got to be more and more a cop and Time didn’t dig cops. They were into minorities in a big way and didn’t have the same covers any more, since diversity required pictures that wouldn’t sell copies. Now they have themes. Now I read it in five minutes in a waiting room when I used to take a half hour. But the memories persist.

What else? Oh yeah, I went on reading Time until for a good while into the Sixties, but all the while feeling that they and I were drawing apart as I got to be more and more a cop and Time didn’t dig cops. They had gotten into minorities in a big way and didn't have the same personality covers anymore, since diversity required too many pictures that wouldn't sell copies. Now they have themes. Now, finding it in a waiting room, I read it in five minutes where I used to take a half hour. But the memories persist.
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