Last Sunday morning, the members of my small social circle of baseball fans were greeted with the shocking, terrible news that Bud Rosenfield, our good friend and a fine man, had just died, cause not communicated. Bud was (AND I HATE USING THE PAST TENSE LIKE THIS) a wonderful man—lively and fun, and smart and passionate. Also young, meaning he was younger than me–or at least looked it. In his career as a lawye
Back in the day when I was getting my rear end regularly handed to me by the admissions committees of medical schools, someone offered the following analysis: “They’re not staging the Olympic Games. And it’s not all about you.” Meaning, the mission of a medical school is to supply a steady stream of doctors and other health care professionals to the communities that the school serves. In the case of a public school,
Two weeks into my freshman year of college, I write and submit my first essay. The class is the history of western civilization. We are studying various thinkers of Grand Importance, including Aristotle and Saint Augustine and others whose names I have long since forgotten. The graduate assistant returns my work with the following comment: “When writing about history, it is customary to use the past tense.” I remembe
Raquel Welch died yesterday, and with her goes another little piece of my childhood. Or perhaps, I should say, pre-adolescence. Whatever. I’m not really an expert on these distinctions, despite going through them again, as a parent, with my son, now closing in on 18. Circa 1971, my parents—uncharacteristically—purchase a poster of Raquel Welch to display for a party. Maybe the goal is to entice guests downstairs and
I began this essay at 12:53 AM, on a Sunday night—or I should say, Monday morning. It is now 2:15 AM, and still I’m not ready to go to bed. I’m not ready for this weekend to end; I’m not ready to go back to work tomorrow morning and get on with my life. I’m also not going to fuss endlessly over these words, as I often do, and just get them online so I can be done with them. Stream of consciousness. Sometimes it works
I can think of only one proper way to begin this tribute to my father, and that is to retell his two proudest achievements from the 1970s: For years David defined himself with these two touchstones, at least to immediate family. He would drop the phrases into conversation––“former chief of staff, played clarinet at the Guthrie”—when he wanted to emphasize who he was, not that the issue was ever in doubt. Mount Sinai
As my 40th birthday approached, I figured I’d ease through the day. No big deal, just another October workday in New Jersey. Then at 8 AM that morning, my grandfather, Harry Gass the Cantor, called me up on the phone. “Happy birthday! You’re FORTY!!!” he proclaimed with great gusto. And he started singing. That happened….so many years ago. Harry, like so many other fine people we all could name, has passed on, while
The one noticeable blemish of PW&F is the missing middle “g” in the sign, a consequence of fierce playa winds and insufficient architectural/carpentry skills by the alleged artist/caretaker of the project. The “g” was recovered eventually, but I decided to leave well enough alone and proceed without it. The missing letter fit into the backstory of the installation, which is that it’s
Well, here I am in a hotel room in downtown Reno, Nevada, the time on the clock too weird and distressing to mention. But I wanted to get this post out the door (or onto the Internet, to be more precise) while my chosen title was still valid, or at least approximately valid, because it’s now in the wee small hours of Saturday, August 27th. As the savvy traveler knows, the casinos often offer perfectly nice hote