As long as we're talking about novels today, I figured that this fit in quite nicely.

My pal Bart Baker is a successful writer of about a dozen TV movies and several feature films.  He's also recently started writing novels the past few years, which I've mentioned here, most notably Honeymoon with Harry, which I heartily recommend.  Yes, I'm biased, since I edited the book, but I'm not wrong -- it has a 4-1/2 star rating out of five on Amazon, and its been optioned by the movie production company, New Line for Warner Bros.  (You can get the book here.  Did I say it's really good?)  

Anyway, the novel has been out for a while, but for reasons unknown to me, it just got published in, of all places, Hungary.  Bart sent me a copy of the Foreward, though he has no idea what it says because (aside from not speaking Hungarian) he thinks it got heavily edited.  He remembers mentioning several family members -- like his father -- who he doesn't see anywhere among the words.  But...I'm in there!  (Which is why he sent me a copy.)  What's most hilarious, however, is that I'm referred to as Robert J. Elisbergnek. 

I have no idea why on earth they’d change the spelling of someone’s last name.  They didn’t change “Robert.”  Was Barack Obama known as "Barack Obamanek" when he visited Hungary?  Perhaps so, for all I know.)  But there it is -- Elisbergnek. 

What with Steven Seagal bizarrely in the news as Putin's Special Representative on "humanitarian" issues -- because when you think "Steven Seagal" you generally think, "humanitarian" -- it made me think of my very tangential connection with him.  And no, we never met.

But consider this my tribute to Humanitarian Steven Seagal, no matter how tangential.

As I mentioned a while back, I wrote songs for a brief while with a fellow named Andy Marx -- one of them actually even got used in a Showtime movie called The Wharf Rat, with Lou Diamond Philips.  (I wrote about it here and embedded the song.)

During some of this time, Andy was also working on movies as a unit publicist, and at one point he had been hired for the 1990 movie, Hard to Kill -- which starred Steven Seagal.  Andy had the idea that we should write an end-title song for the movie.  Since he of course knew the producer, he could submit it to him.  

Mind you, not having read the script, I had little idea what the story was about, though Andy gave me the general plot.  It was about how Seagal's character is left for dead after an attack kills his wife.  In a coma for seven years, he finally recovers, and after all that lost time he sets out to avenge the memory of his wife and track down those who killed her.

We also had no clue what they were looking for, of course, so we tried two versions -- a ballad, and one that was up-tempo and more "driven."  The best I could figure was that "lost time" and memories of a loved one seemed important.

Alas, it was not to be.  The producers didn't want either.  But the good news is that I went on to write articles on my own website!

Anyway, I figured with the Seagal guy back in the news, I'd embed both versions of what we came up with.  And I think they stand on their own as songs, not inherently tied to the movie.  Though of course that's what they they were for.  That's Andy singing and playing, and I'll include the lyrics so you can sing along.  Sorry that I don't have a bouncing ball...

​All of my days
Are like a circle without end.
Never knowing what to trust
Or who's a friend.
Everything's changing in the world I thought I knew.
But something happens whenever I'm with you.
                      
Time stands still
When I see you in the light.
And when you're lying next to me
Through every night.
Time stands still         
Everytime I hear your name.
It will always be the same.
Time stands still.
 
You are a memory
That always will be near.
Yours are the promises
That never disappear.
Rivers flow on and on forever to the sea.
And forever's just a moment whenever you're with me.
 
Time stands still
When I see you in the light.
And when you're lying next to me
Through every night.
Time stands still
Everytime I hear your name.
It will always be the same.
Time stands still.

 
I'm in a world
Where I've never been before.
Every moment we're together
Makes me want you even more.

 
Time stands still
When I see you in the light.
And when you're lying next to me
Through every night.
Time stands still
Everytime I hear your name.
It will always be the same.
Time stands still.
 
Time stands still.

​In the eye of a hurricane,
The world seems safe and warm.
But it's a false sense of security.
The calm before the storm.
Now, it's been said that all will come
To those who stand and wait.
But the wind will soon begin to blow.
And then, it's far too late.
 
     Time waits for no one.
     Years go by too fast.
     The glory of the moment
     Is past.
    
     No one can wait around for
 
     Time waits for no one.
     Midnight closes in.
     A chance that's missed will never
     come again.
          
 No one can wait around for Time.
 
On the edge in the city,
Alone, nowhere to turn,
Every face is a stranger.
The soul begins to burn.
The darkness hides the answers,
And the truth can be unkind.
And when the wind begins to blow,
It leaves the lost behind.
 
     Time waits for no one.
     Years go by too fast.
     The glory of the moment
     Is past.
    
     No one can wait around for
 
     Time waits for no one.
     Midnight closes in.
     A chance that's missed will never
      come again.
 
     No one can wait around for Time.
 
     (Repeat chorus)

The longtime morning show host of classical music station WFMT in Chicago, Carl Grapentine, signed off today after 22 years with the broadcast.  He's been broadcasting for 42 years, starting in Detroit, but he's been at WFMT for 32 years.  He'll continue at the station, he's not retiring, but it'll be for special projects and a regular podcast.  

How he came to WFMT is an amusing story.  He was working in Detroit at classical music station WQRS that had, in fact, modeled itself after WFMT.  He had made his first connection with the Chicago station a few years earlier when he was visiting the city at a broadcast convention and had met Norm Pellegrini, the station's longtime Program Director.
 
“That brings us to the summer of 1985,” he remembers. “I was in Chicago for a few days so I called Norm and asked if I could stop by, say hello, and see the new WFMT studios at 3 Illinois Center. We were sitting in his corner office overlooking the lake when someone popped in and asked me, ‘Did you say you were from the Detroit?  I think your radio station was sold this morning!’”

“Naturally I was shocked. Later in the day I made some phone calls and found the story to be true. But the important detail is what Norm said to the news. ‘Y’know…we have an opening here!’ That was late July 1985. After the exchanges of some taped auditions and an in-person interview, I was invited to join WFMT. My first day on the air was January 9, 1986.”

Thanks to the magic of streaming on the Internet, I've gotten to hear him on occasion here in Los Angeles, though I really haven't listened to his show much in recent years -- with the two hour time difference, a Chicago morning show starts around 4 AM on the West Coast.  The guy has a terrific program and is a wonderful host, with a warm voice and engaging personalty -- but I have my limits.  Still, I would be sure to listen to him on my trips to Chicago.

This week, however, I made sure to check in for his finale.  And I got up a bit early to hear today's last morning broadcast.  He deserved nothing less, for a particular reason, which I'll explain.
​

I want to put Carl Grapentine and the relationship he had with my mother in perspective.

I have a good friend RIch Capparela who is a terrific classical music announcer.  He's been on several stations, but mostly KUSC here in Los Angeles.  And for many years, he had the morning show.  So, I figured he'd appreciate the story.  When I told him, he didn't just appreciate it -- he was stunning by it.  "I would never do that," he said.  It wasn't that he didn't want to be nice -- Rich is actually an incredibly nice person.  A listener once asked if he'd do a favor for her mother who loved his show and asked if he'd record something for her birthday, that the daughter would play and make it seem like it was the daily broadcast, to trick her mother as a birthday gift.  And Rich did that.  Pretty nice.  But nicer still, when the mother had to go into the hospital for some reason, Rich went to visit her here.  Awfully nice guy, as I said.  It has an even better pay off -- they fell in love and got married.  So, when Rich Capparela says he wouldn't have done what Carl Grapentine did, that speaks volumes.  His reason was a very good one -- it was because of the responsibility. If something happened at the station and he couldn't make the call when he said he would -- or if he just simply forgot -- or for whatever reason he couldn't make the call, he just didn't want the responsibility of screwing up and causing a problem for someone.

But Carl Grapentine made the call.  In fairness, it probably helped that he'd been taking phone calls from my mother for years and likely felt that he knew her, and liked her.  But whatever the reason, he made the call.

So, I made sure to set my alarm early and get up to listen to his final morning show broadcast.

I should have phoned him and asked him to give me a wake-up call...

The celebrated writer Harlan Ellison passed away the other day at the age of 84.  If you jump over to Mark Evanier's site, he has a couple of good pieces on him here and here.  (And check back there in a few days, as well, because he's swamped now, but has some other stories he'll be posting.)  However, there's also an excellent, long and detailed obituary that's really more of a personal remembrance of Ellison in the Chicago Tribune.  You can read that here. 

Among other things, I had no idea about him suing the makers of The Terminator (though him suing anybody doesn't remotely surprise me) and winning a settlement, which included adding an acknowledgement to him in the film's credits.

All the articles on his passing have one thing in common -- their conflict between praising a tremendous writer and wonderful man...and his profound curmudgeon who could be brutally harsh.  One thing that writers did love him for is his unabashed support for writers against their mistreatment by publishers, studios, executives and pretty much anyone.  He could get away with it because, being Harlan Ellison, he couldn't be any other way, but also being such a wonderful writer who worked in many different fields, he had no fear of being confrontational.
 
I only crossed paths with him a couple times, and he certainly was a unique fellow.  One time was at Writers Guild retreat where he was one of the guest speakers.  I remember his first line, even though it was from over two decades ago.  "I'm a better writer than everyone in this room."  (He probably was.  But what a way to win over a crowd.  He did eventually, but it took a while...)

The first time I came into contact with him was  from a two-day seminar he lead when I was at UCLA grad school, getting my MFA in screenwriting.  For Day 1, he got three famous sci-fi writers to discuss what a planet society could be like (the climate, landscape, people, politics…), and then that was put into a pamphlet.  Then on Day 2, three other famous sci-fi writers discussed what stories could come from that.  I recall they named the planet, “Medea:  Harlan’s World.”  I had the presence of mind to save my pamphlet – though like a fool, didn’t take many dozens – and got all those participants present to sign it.  Those who participated in Part 1 but who weren't there were Poul Anderson, Larry Niven, Frederick Pohl, and Hal Clement.  But the people who did sign my pamphlet were Ellison, Frank Herbert, Theodore Sturgeon, Robert Silverberg, and Thomas Disch.  If you don't read science fiction, you likely won't know these names -- though may know Frank Herbert, who wrote Dune.  If you do read science fiction, you're likely agog.  (What ultimately came from this pamphlet and seminar is a book with those short stories and others.  You can read about it here.
​

​​​Probably a couple decades later, I ran into him when I was working at Universal Pictures, and I had a rare treat – being able to impress Harlan Ellison.  I told him that I had a copy of that pamphlet with all those signatures, and he was boggled.  “That’s worth a lot of money, you know…”  Just impressing Harlan Ellison may have been worth more.

After posting my article this morning about the passing of my cousin Elinor Miller at the age of 102 (or, "...going on 103, as she put it.), I thought I'd bookend it with another complimentary piece.  That's because today is the 102nd birthday of another dear lady I know, Adeline Cohn, who lived in the same independent living residence where my folks moved.  So, here's the tale of her 100th birthday party, written July 10, 2016

​I spent last month in Chicago, dealing with my father's estate, but I just popped back to town for a quick couple of days -- and for a wonderful reason.  It centers around the lovely, endearing and joyous Adeline Cohn.

Adeline lived down the hall from my folks, and I adored her.  In fact, on my last trip in, she and I had dinner a couple of times.  I'm back now because last night her family had a party to celebrate her 100th birthday.  And they invited me.  Though I'm still catching up on my life and have a lot of estate matters swirling around, there was absolutely no way I was not going to come in and attend.
​

​Adeline is a spitfire. Still sharp and lively, in very respectable health, it's always a bit of a challenge setting up those dinners with her, because she has to check her calendar.  Hey, when friends ask me about getting together for dinner, I tend to be more free than Adeline is.  She has a social life that remains that active, much of it centered on her deep love of playing bridge.  But she has other dinners to go to, concerts -- she has season tickets to the Chicago Symphony and Lyric Opera -- the Ravinia Festival, and other events.

Adeline even still drove up until about a year ago.  And though I usually don't find that sort of thing as wondrous as it sounds ("Oh, isn't it great that he's still driving?!!"  No, I tend to think, it's not.)  In Adeline's case she actually was still a pretty good driver.  She only gave it up -- with great reluctance, because she loved the freedom it gave her -- when her daughter Donna convinced her that if she was ever in an accident, "It will always be your fault," no matter if it was the other person who caused it.  When you're 98, everyone will presume it was your fault.  So, Adeline gave up the car keys.

But she stayed vibrant and active, and simply found other ways to get around and do things.  When I was in Chicago last month, a friend came down to visit -- she's a nurse, so she's spent her share of time around the elderly -- and we had brunch with Adeline.  "She is the liveliest 100-year-old I have ever met," she said in awe.  Though in fairness, Adeline wasn't 100 at the time.  She was only 99 years and 11 months...

Her actual birthday was July 1 -- the day after my dad's -- and I telephoned her that morning.  "Adeline," I said, "it's not often when I get to say this, but...Happy 100th birthday!"  It is a joy to say such thing.  (Last year, I wrote about attending the 100th birthday of my cousin Elinor Miller.  The pleasure of such things doesn't wear thin.)

It was a wonderful talk, as it always is with Adeline.  "Can you believe that I'm 100??" she'd say with wonderment, not just that day but even in the past year or two leading up to it.  (She knew she was going to make it.)  "And I'm in still in such good health." She's led such a good, interesting, and expansive life.  And even though I'd just been in Chicago for a month and had so much to catch up on back in Los Angeles, there was no way I wasn't coming back here to celebrate 100 with her in person.

The evening was wonderful.  About 50-60 people were at her daughter and son-in-law's home.  I was going to say that most everyone was a family member or long-time dear friend (how I got in there, I don't know...but I adore Adeline, so I guess that helped ), but then pretty much everyone who meets Adeline sees her as a dear friend, and she brings you into her life.  ("You're not a friend," she'd say to me, "you're family.") She's no soft-touch pushover, mind you, she's very sharp and observant with great standards.  But open, warm and a joy.

One of her actual dearest friends, internationally-acclaimed violinist Miriam Fried, rearranged her schedule to be there -- again, who would miss it, if they had the chance to be there?! -- and performed at the house.  So, too, did her grandson Tom Stone, a longtime member of the Cypress Quartet.  And some others.

It was a wonderful celebration even without all that.  Just being around Adeline is celebration enough.  And who knows how the gala will be celebrating the next 100 with her.  Knowing Adeline, it's not a completely safe bet she won't be there.

Now, I'm back to Los Angeles.  Bu a joy to have come in.

This morning, I headed to Downtown Los Angeles to join the masses in protest outside City Hall.  Speeches and entertainers were scheduled, before a march to the Federal Building.

The crowd was huge, and the speeches impassioned.  Honestly, I thought the event last week in Westwood was far better, even if overwhelmingly smaller.  The speakers were particularly good -- three congressmen (including famously now, Maxine Waters) and a lot of local and state officials.  They talked about what could be done and what was being done -- and there even were busses for taking blankets and toys and necessities down to San Diego detention centers.

The speeches Downtown were mostly telling us what was bad and terrible and horrific about Trump and his administration and this action separating children from their parents, along with a lot of immigration stories about themselves, including one young woman who was undocumented and told about her mother and father bringing their family to California.  To be clear, those speeches are incredibly valuable in building up emotion and support for unity.  But for me, speaking only personally, I didn't need convincing.

I have no idea exactly how many people turned out there, though the Los Angeles Times reports "tens of thousands."  MoveOn.org says 70,000.  (This appears to have been the biggest in the country.  They report Washington, D.C. and New York as each other 35,000.  And Chicago at 60,000.)  The crowds stretched in all directions -- this above is just looking at the rear.  And when I left after 90 minutes, people were still arriving on the Metro trains with signs.

I did leave before the march, which is actually the main thing I was looking forward to.  But after 90 minutes of speeches, I had no idea when the march would begin.  And since I was pretty much convinced at that point that putting babies in cages was a sick way for the government or humans to act, I took off, knowing that there was a flowing mass of outraged, motivated people shouting their anger still as loudly as when it all began.

​And everyone was absolutely civil.  Just really, really, incredibly furious.
​

Though next week is when the big protests rallies are scheduled around the country over the Trump immigration policy that separates children from there parents, they had an earlier, smaller one today in West Los Angeles.  There might have been a few others around the country, but the point of this one was a bit different, initially set up as a way to get toys, blankets and necessities to the children.  Despite the short time organizing it and small locality, the turnout was quite good.  It seemed like about 500-700 people, but there were still many coming when I left after an hour-and-a-half.

It was supposed to be held at the Federal Building in Westwood, but a speaker said they couldn't get permission from the government.  However, the City of Los Angeles gave them approval to organize on the sidewalk next to it.  (Come to think of it, that might be why there was a young woman with a sign imploring people to keep on the paths.  It made no sense, since the grounds were basically dirt, and so it wasn't like you would be trampling grass.)
​

I was told about the event by my friend Nick Melvoin, who was recently elected to the L.A. School Board and was named Vice President.  He was one of the speakers, but the roster was impressive for such a hastily put-together event.  There were a couple of members of the L.A. City Council, the state senator and assemblyman, and also the two U.S. House representative for the area -- Rep. Karen Bass, and Rep. Ted Lieu (who you might have seen on Friday playing the audio tape on the House floor of crying children, being reprimanded by the temporary Sitting-Speaker).  I didn't stay around to hear them, but did hear another congresswoman, Rep. Maxine Waters, who gave a fire-and-brimstone speech shredding the president.  Not a bad line-up for something this quickly organized.

[UPDATE: Here's video of Maxine Waters' full six-minute speech, not just the one-minute played on TV and misrepresented by Republicans.  Short version -- she laid out the case of the dangers of Trump and his administration, and then using that as a foundation said that GOP officials should be confronted peacefully and publicly shamed to let them know their actions are not acceptable.  Not violence, but to use your voices.  As you'll see from above, her words of even peaceful confrontation aren't even mentioned by me in my original write-up, it was such a small part of what she actually said.]

There were more speakers during the 90 minutes I was there -- with another hour-and-a-half to go), including a representative of the Southern Christian Leadership Council (Martin Luther King's group), other religious figures, and a few celebrities and entertainers, most notably Kristen Bell.

Yes, yes, I know.  You were hoping for a picture of Nick Melvoin.  But sometimes we have to make decisions that might not be popular.

She actually gave a very good, thoughtful speech, mostly focusing on kids from her perspective as a mother.  (So many questions that children ask, she said, you can't answer, like "Do dinosaurs burp?"  But when they're older and see pictures in history books of this moment, and they ask, "Was this real??  Did you do anything?", that was a question we should all be able to answer "Yes.")

Side note:  about 45 minutes later when she eventually left, some people near me saw her heading off at a distance and called to her for a selfie with their toddler.  She wandered over and not only took a picture with the baby, but spent time talking with it.

There was an odd realization that hit me after about an hour or so.  The event was well-attended with people of all ages, from quite a bit older to parents and their kids, some being very young, along with areas for children to make signs.  And as I was looking around at some of the six-year-olds (and younger) playing on the ground and hugging onto their mothers and sitting on their dad's shoulders -- it struck me how terrified they'd be if they lost sight of their parents for just two minutes.  I couldn't imagine their reaction of their parents were gone -- just gone, for days and weeks.  If not longer.  The perspective was visceral and heart-breaking.  And sickening.

Fortunately, that wasn't an issue for anyone there.  And the spirit and anger was strong.  What I didn't know, though, until I got to the grounds was the larger purpose of the event.  As I noted above, they were gather items for the children who had been put in detention centers in San Diego, three hours to the south.  It turns out that they had also hired several buses to take as much of the material as they could -- they said they got 10 times more than they expected and were asking for people there with trucks -- and also bring people down to deliver it all and to try and get into some facilities.  Had I known in advance, I might have tried to go along, but I wasn't prepared for what they said would be an 11-hour journey.

All in all, a very well-done, admirable and sadly necessary day.  It'll be interesting to see what happens next week in Los Angeles and around the country.

​And oh, okay, giving in to popular demand, here's a photo of Nick Melvoin...

You may have seen the news story today that a group of prominent community leaders in Washington, D.C. have filed suit that the liquor license for Trump International Hotel there should be revoked because he, as owner, is not "of good character."

I note this because one of the complainants is Rabbi Jack Moline -- who as longtime readers of these pages know -- is one of the Board of Directors of Elisberg Industries.  (You can check out more on the good fellow under "About Elisberg Industries / Our Corporate Board."  Or also read this article here that I wrote on Jack, with whom I've been friends since we went to high school and Northwestern University together.)

Hey, when our fine Board of Directors has been put together, we do our best to provide only the finest for our appreciated readers.

I've tried to embed the press release below, and it should work.  You can scroll to the last page where it shows the bios of the various judges, pastors, reverends and rabbis who have field the complain, and see Jack's bio there, second from the bottom.  I note, as well, that right below him is Rabbi Aaron Potek, who is says served as campus rabbit from 2013-2015 at...Northwestern University.

With the World Cup starting over the weekend, and watching England's exciting opening match against Tunisia (that was tied 1-1 through regulation and then England scored during the four minutes of Extra Time to win the game), I was reminded of an article I wrote here four years ago To the Day, June 18, 2014.  It told the story of perhaps the greatest sports miracle that I ever witnessed -- and concerned not only the World Cup, but England.  I thought it only appropriate to re-tell the story.

​Now that the World Cup has started, and the United States has come up with a miracle victory, I thought this would be a good time to tell the story of not only one of the greatest, unknown World Cup miracles, but one of the all-time great sports miracles, period.

It's how my family and I got to see the World Cup in London, 1966,

And I'm serious.

Okay, no, it's not the upstart United States hockey team beating the Soviet steamrollers.  Or the unknown Roulon Gardner defeating the unbeaten, invincible legend Alexander Karelin.  It's not Kirk Gibson hitting a home run on one leg, or Doug Flutie's Hail Mary.  But those are more remarkable physical achievements by talented athletic.  This was an act of otherworldly intervention.

When I was but a wee kidling, my family took a summer trip to Europe.  One of our stops was London, where as fate would have it, the British were hosting the World Cup that year.  As maniacal as we know the rest of the world is over soccer, England might be the home of soccer insanity.  In a land known for tradition, soccer riots are de rigeur there.  If you're not rioting, you're not trying.

Nonetheless, my dad thought it would fun to see a World Cup match.  (Note:  The concept of it being "fun" to see a World Cup match is not relatable for most soccer fans, most especially those who are the aforementioned British.  "Fun" is a nice get together for tea, or taking your dog for walkies.  Being able to see a World Cup match in England is closer to being life-affirming.)  And so, uncaring of the obstacles, my dad found out how to apply to the world lottery being held to get tickets   He sent in his form and enclosed his check, and then went on with his life.  Meanwhile, throughout England there was national prayer held nightly in homes throughout the country, if only the Almighty would grant them a ticket.

We got four tickets.  

But that's not the story, it's not even close to the miracle.  It's just the heavens warming up.  Because, you see, we just get four tickets to the World Cup, we got them for...the Opening Match!  Which would be filled with grand celebration and royalty.  But thing is -- that's not the story, either.  Because, again you see, featured in the Opening Match of World Cup 1968 was a team that it was likely British fans -- so knowledgeable of all the great teams in the world -- would dearly would love to see.

That team was England.

Yes, that's right.  By just randomly sending in to the worldwide lottery, we got four tickets to the Opening Match of the World Cup between England and Uruguay, held in London at Wembley Stadium.  And here's the thing:  no, that's not the sports miracle, either.

I should note that we were very happy to get the tickets.  Not "mad-crazy-happy, my life has been made whole" like anyone in England would have been to get those four tickets, but certainly happy.  But happy as in, boy, this will be fun.  I mean, to be honest, one has to put this in perspective.  Wembley Stadium is huge, after all.  It seats 90.000 people, which is 80,000 more than the town, Glencoe, we lived in.  So, the chances of seeing the match very well were small.  And not being mad-crazy soccer fanatics, not being able to see the game very well in the nosebleed section would certainly lessen the majesty of the moment.  But still, that didn't matter all that much, since I was pretty young and didn't know the rules of soccer all that well.  (I can't speak for the rest of my family, though I suspect I knew more than my mother.  You kick the ball and hope it goes in the net.)  But just being there in the massive crowd, somewhere, anywhere, amid all the excitement, that would be cool.  Just to be able to say we were there.  Wherever "there" was.

Where "there" was turned out to be -- okay, are you ready:  mid-field, center line, halfway up, directly across the field from where the Queen of England was sitting in the Royal Box.

Okay, that's the sports miracle.

Let me repeat.  With the entire world of sports fanatics converging on London, England, for the World Cup, we got four tickets to the Opening Match in which the host country England was playing, seated at midfield halfway up Wembley Stadium across from the Queen of England.

Seriously.  

And to be clear, this isn't the fuzzy memory of a little kid recalling things far better than they actually were.  Exaggerating for posterity.  No, I have photographic evidence.  

I took pictures.

​​(Sorry for the guy's head.  I wasn't great at composition at that age.)

Look directly across the field.  Do you see that "box" just below the horizontal white line, marking the upper level?  That's where the Royal Family is sitting.  Directly opposite us.  If you look closely, I believe that Queen Elizabeth is waving at you.

I told you I wasn't lying.

It was pretty remarkable.  As I said to my dad just a couple days ago, reminding of the story, if he had decided to sell these tickets it would have paid for the entire trip.  "And," he added, "your college education.  And your brother's." 

The crowd, the ceremony, the excitement, the game, it was great.  Memorable to one's bones.  Absolutely wonderful, historic.  There was only one disappointing thing about the match.  Ever since I knew we had the tickets, one of the things I was looking forward to seeing was England score a goal amid that maniacal crowd going soul-bursting wild for the home team.  (Even at that age, I grasped the concept of such drama.)  And the final score of the game between England and Uruguay was...0-0.  

Zippo.  Or as the soccer folks like to say, "Nil."  Or more accurately, nil to nil.

​​(More action photos from the collection of photo-journalist Robert J. Elisberg.  Notice the compositional improvement after many minutes of experience represented here by the lack of heads getting at least completely in the way.  Hey, when you're a little kid, people are bigger than you are.)

So, no bursting of massive cheers by the heart-loyal English crowd at the site of the goal for their beloved home team.  No cheers over a goal from anyone.  On the good side, at least we weren't there to see England lose.  In fact, just so you know, the zero goals were not the result of a mediocre team.  Indeed, host England went on to win the world championship.  They just didn't choose to get any goals that particular day.

Hey, that's the way some miracles go.  Sometimes, the fates decide to put the miracle in perspective.  After all, you shouldn't take the good and miracle for granted.

But a dozen years before Al Michaels asked the question of sports fans at the Lake Placid Olympics, I had already been able to answer the sports question.  Yes, I do believe in miracles.

When I next get together with the Queen, I'm sure we'll swap tales of that day.  No doubt it wasn't as much a sports miracle for her -- I'm sure she had an in, or went to a scalper -- but it was nonetheless quite a day of national pomp and circumstance, so I'm sure she had to have written about it in her journal.  For all I know, she's got snapshots of me in return.

When talking with my dad about this the other day, he noted one other thing.  "How did I get those seats??"

It was a miracle, dad.  The greatest sports miracle ever.  At least to some people.

Back over a year ago or so, I was talking with my friend Myles Berkowitz, who I've mentioned here many times.  (a filmmaker and writer-director-star of the movie 20 Dates, the inventor of LifeSize diet product; political worker, fundraising guru, entrepreneur, real estate something or other, ​professional Dad's Club president, and more.)  Despite his insistence to the contrary, his politics are not libertarian as he says they are.  He is, instead, a Mylsist, following a political foundation known to no one else in the world.  It is part very liberal, part a touch conservative, quite a bit libertarian certainly, and it also follows positions unknown to most mortal men.  And twists them all together.  He occasionally begins a sentence, "I know you'll disagree with this and scream at me..." and more often than not, I say, "No, I actually agree," which tends to stun him.  In fact, I agree with him about 60% of the time.  Maybe 25% of the time, it's worth considering.  And the remaining 15%, while I may disagree, I always admire his thinking that gets him to that place.  His ideas don't appear randomly, everything is given intense thought (giving rise to my oft-used admonition, "You are seriously over-thinking this, and driving yourself deep into the weeds.")  He is a Mylsist.

Another phrase that begins many of his sentences is, "You know what I'd do if I was in his place..." -- and I always stop him now and stay how much I dearly love that lead-in, because what follows is always a joy.  It's usually something that's incredibly smart, and has absolutely no practical bearing.  "That's great, Myles, it makes perfect sense," is usually the first part of my reply.  The second part generally is one of the following:  "You do know, of course, that you'd be..." -- and here you can fill in the blank -- "fired immediately / thrown out of the building / never re-elected for public office / sued / arrested for disturbing the peace / beaten to a pulp."  To which, to his credit, he usually laughs and says, "Yeah, probably."

I actually don't get into a screaming match with him over this outlandish ideas.  As I said, even when I disagree, he has really smart thinking that gets him there.  The only time I find myself yelling at him is when he says something that's, in fact, incredibly fair-minded, thoroughly disagreeing with Trump or a Trump flunky, but trying to figure out how they could instead possibly have made a somewhat-similar point but done so in a sane way that would make sense and not be racist or misogynistic or fascist.  I've finally begun to scream at those and cut him off, because I can't deal with the over-reaching attempt to to explain the inexplicable.  My response is generally along the lines of, "MYLES!!  STOP!!!  I can't take it anymore!  Quit trying to figure out what they should have said.  We KNOW what they 'should have said,' but they Don't Ever Say That because they're racists and misogynists and fascists.  Which is why they say the hate-filled things they do!  So, trying to figure out what they should have said is pointless.  You are getting lost in the weeds.  Stop it!!  Stop it now!!!!!!!"  And usually, to his credit, he laughs (Myles laughs a lot) and says, "Yeah, you're right."

Two days ago, Myles called me up.  He said he had checked out my website here and caught up on a lot of what I'd been writing lately.  (It did not pass my observation that this meant he doesn't read my site here often, a point I mentioned.  In fairness, he doesn't have to since we discuss so much of what I'm going to write anyway that he has a pretty good idea.  But still -- that's no excuse.  But I digress...)  And he said, "Y'know, I didn't realize you write as much as you do.  You have an article every single day.  Sometimes even two.  And after reading all these articles you have here all the time -- I finally see why you yell at me to stop trying to figure out what Trump and his people 'should' have said.  When I do that, I see why it sort of makes your head explode."

"Yes, Myles.  That's it," I replied.  And yes, he laughed. ("And by the way, you should read my site more often.")

I must add too that in the recent California primary, his ex-wife from years back was on the ballot.  (And no, I won't say for which race.)  Myles is still in touch with her, and -- bizarre as it may seem -- even was giving her advice for her campaign.  (I told you he dabbled in politics.  I left out that he's a mensch, though I've explained that in other articles.  An annoying mensch, but a mensch nonetheless.)  I told him, however, that I couldn't vote for her.  And didn't.  And since she made the November ballot, I won't.  For all the positive things he told me about her, I said that I couldn't vote for someone who divorced him.  It wasn't just because of the general principle of friendship, it was more that, to me, it showed a profound lack of judgement on her part...  

I bring all this up for two reasons.  One is that I enjoy writing about Myles when the spirit moves me, since he's such a unique piece of work.  The other is because of that conversation I mentioned in the first sentence above that we had 10 months ago or so.

That's when he gave me one of this theories.  I always listen to his theories, pay them close attention, and either immediately accept them as really smart, or put them in limbo to see how they pan out.  Many crash-and-burn, and do so quickly, almost immediately, in fact.  But some flourish and show brilliance.  This is one of those latter.

What he said those 10 months ago was, "You know who Trump reminds me of?  I had this boss, and he was a maniac.  He would intentionally cause these horrible problems in the office.  Things would be a disaster.  And then he'd come in and fix them and say, 'See, look at how I fixed the problem.'  The problem that he created.  He loved intentionally creating chaos, and then telling everyone how brilliant and invaluable he was fixing it all."

The theory was interesting as to how it related to Trump , but I wasn't 100% sure if I agreed with the "it's all intentional" part.  Maybe one or two things, but I thought Trump was so maniacal that the chaos he created was mostly a result of his disordered, sick mind.  And I still tend to think that.  But -- I now don't think it's just "some of the time."  But a lot of the time.  Much of the time.  Maybe I'm even nearing the point of saying, "Most of the time."  (Maybe.)  However, it's become clear to me that Myles was right, long ago -- that Trump is indeed someone who  at least likes to intentionally create problems, chaos and disasters so that he can come in and say, "I alone can fix it."  That may be some obvious today to some, but Myles was insistent over a year ago.

What we have is a man who brought the world close to nuclear war by prodding Kim Jong-un, calling him crazy and "Rocket Man," threatening him with "fire and fury."  And then as the world starts pushing towards red alert, he says, "Hey, let's have a summit" and what an honor it is to meet you and how that terrific Kim Jong-un has got a great sense of humor, that he really loves his people -- and we no longer have anything to worry about nuclear war and can now sleep at night.  Well, of course, the reality is we have a massive amount to worry about, since the murderous repressive dictator who killed his half-brother and uncle still has nukes and got a deal from Trump without giving anything up -- and rather than sleeping at night, we have to stay wide awake and vigilant.  But to the Trump sycophant cultists, they see the world was on the verge of nuclear was and he "fixed it" (sic).  Never mind that he was the one who brought the world to the edge of nuclear war.  And that that hasn't even remotely gone away.

Even some professional analysts have come around the the Myles Theory from long ago.  I heard one on MSNBC after the summit who said, "When an arsonist starts a fire, he doesn't deserve praise for putting it out."

I told this to Myles.  He didn't laugh, though, but immediately said, "YES!!  That's what I've been saying!"

Who knows what he'll say next time?  It may be...oh, a wee bit questionable, or really smart, but it will absolutely be worth listening to.  But I think that what he said more than a full-year ago about intentional, he was most definitely onto something early.  I still think a good part of Trump's chaos is merely the natural by-product of a chaotic mind, that can't help but be the case with a mind so diseased.  But it seems clear to me now that there's actually often a method in his madness, and intentionally creating problems -- whether to fix or blame on others -- is indeed a deep part of the sickness that is Trump.

Happily, I have a Myles Berkowitz to help get me through it all.  Not necessarily because he says things that are so wise and comforting -- he does, some of the time, though not remotely most -- but more because talking with Myles is such a thoughtful, insightful, and wondrously-observant distraction.  Not that it's necessarily way off-topic, indeed it can be utterly laser-focused on-topic...but that it comes from an angle that is off in its own Myles direction.