From The River To Graduation

 

In the spring of 2020, life handed high school seniors lemons. A big, stinking, rotting bushel of lemons. With the finality of their graduations in sight, Covid cancelled graduation ceremonies, eliminated sports championships, and otherwise wiped out all semblance of the normal rights of passage to adulthood. The only thing resembling lemonade was adult society pissing on these students’ dreams. Even worse, as history shows, all the restrictions, not only during that spring but in the ensuing years of college, were very, very wrong.

You would think that from this mess students would hold fast that, four years later, nothing would screw up their college graduation. For students and many of this country’s elite colleges and universities, you would, again, be very, very wrong.

Let’s be very clear what’s happening on the college campuses from the Atlantic to the Pacific oceans: thugs masquerading as social activists are, successfully, shaking down America’s universities to line their own pockets in the form of scholarships for Palestinian students and jobs for Palestinian faculty (courtesy of my alma mater, Northwestern). They are playing on, and winning big, at the game of liberal guilt and its related recoiling at conflict.

But why would college seniors let this issue and these agitators get in the way of their commencement? I won’t romanticize the era of Vietnam protests and the actions of students then. There were, however, direct consequences to graduating, which was that the men would be in the draft and have a good chance of fighting in a rice paddy. There are plenty of students and faculty who have direct or indirect family ties to Israel and Gaza, and this conflict is intensely personal for them. And sure, there are larger geo-political issues at play as well. Still, for the vast majority of graduating college seniors, even from elite universities, the greatest challenge next month is finding a reasonably-priced apartment to rent while working at their first professional job.

So what accounts for the lack of any pushback from the vast majority of unaffected students? I think the answer is students these days have no idea how to oppose. It’s less brainwashing than brain deadening. Students are masters of liking on social media and signing digital petitions. The normalcy of Zoom life has dulled any sense of indignation.

In the big picture, should America worry about a bunch of students who didn’t get to wear a funny hat and walk across a stage to get a piece of paper? No, this class will survive, if not annoyed by yet another disruption to their lives. But America should be very, very worried once this class gets out into the workplace and starts to ascend to positions of leadership. What have been the life lessons from these college year? What examples were set for them? How did they overcome an utter vacuum of adult “leadership” that offered neither hope nor competence? In the next decade or two we will learn how badly these years have thwarted their development. It’s not a stretch to think that this will be in complete contrast to what comes out of China where, for better or worse, nothing gets in the way of their pursuit of global domination.

It is said that West Point’s class of 1915 was the “class the stars fell on” with the record number of graduates becoming generals. Of course these men were at the perfect place in their careers when WW II broke out. Timing, even if they had nothing to do with it, was everything. And it isn’t to say that each and every general (or admiral from the Naval Academy) was the greatest ever. But they were pretty damn good, and rose to the challenge of defeating tyranny across the globe.

For the college class of 2024, they can’t event get a glass of lemonade.

© 2024 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.

Gone But Not Forgotten

“They’re tearing the old place down.”

It’s a phrase that evokes memories—some sharp, some faded, but always with some emotion attached to it. Often times there’s a sigh of relief when some eyesore shack finally getting its due; other times it’s the wistful memories of a bar that could not outrun Father Time (or the Liquor Authority). For Northwestern grads, the physical manifestations of the Ryan Field (née Dyche Stadium) we knew are about to turn to dust with wrecking balls starting their work leveling the century-old edifice. Whether there are fluttering hearts of despair is an entirely different issue.

As befits the tangled relationship of Northwestern football and its fans, the news of rebuilding the stadium hit hard with cries of worry for…the beloved hot dog stand next to the stadium. Would it survive? How? With two years of hungry construction workers on site, Mustard’s Last Stand’s future seems assured, and probably very lucrative. The apparel shop across the street had a different view—it saw two years without game day fans’ wallets and the storefront mysteriously fell victim to a devastating fire. I’m not saying it was all in the name of insurance money, but some things in the Chicago area never change.

My own feelings are a little mixed. Visually, the original stadium had pleasing, dare I say grand, arches echoing the collegiate building style of the 1920’s. Over the years, additions and skeletal bleachers gave the place a hodge podge look which was exacerbated by the hodge-podge look of the few fans in attendance. Aesthetics aside, there were plenty of festive tailgates and our fraternity had members in the marching band, which was incentive enough for us to stay through the halftime show.

Fun game day festivities eventually morphed into a workday as a campus newspaper photographer. It was a great gig, and every game I got to improve my photographic craft as well see how D-I football moves and sounds on the field. When TV announcers comment that broadcasts don’t convey just how fast the game is, they aren’t joking—those clips of photographers getting run over by players hit a little too close for me.

I also got to know the other side of sports, the side without the money. Sunday mornings were for my hangovers and covering women’s field hockey and lacrosse at the stadium. The players were there mostly for the love of the game (even if they managed to wrangle a scholarship), but it was a relief to cover an event without the press pass bureaucracy or sheer volume of people around the field. The large stadium surroundings created an unusual intimacy with only the players, coaches, and refs on the field and a few friends in the stands. For a place that could fit 50,000 people, it’s amazing how clear one voice could be heard.

And what does the grand future hold for the new Ryan Field? The drawings of the outside have an unfortunate likeness to a prison toilet seat. Inside, however, no expense will be spared with state-of-the-art lighting, sound, and Jumbotrons—all great for the video-addicted students and, more importantly, TV coverage. And maybe this is what slightly gnaws at me. The first thing that came into my mind when I saw the renderings is that this whole thing looks like an oversized TV studio. It’s not like the old place was Wrigley field, but when you walked by, you knew exactly that it was a football field. The new place could be an alien landing pad, which might explain the toilet seat aesthetic.

In a few years the shiny new thing excitement of the stadium will have worn off, and I’m sure I’ll catch a game there. Maybe one of the super-ultra-high-def TV cameras will catch me in the stands. I’ll be the guy wiping sauerkraut off my shirt—Mustard’s makes a messy dog.

© 2024 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.

Kmart and the Christmas Spirit

If you are looking for a sign of Christmas cheer, Manhattan’s Astor place is not where you would start. Dividing the East and West Villages, it is a portal through which visitors can pass to seedier parts of town no matter how much neighboring NYU tries to spruce up the place. More than a century ago the area housed millionaire mansions and John Wannamaker built a branch of his eponymous department store to serve the local society ladies. As times passed and money moved uptown, only a few local stalwarts–Cooper Union, the Public Theater, and McSorley’s around the corner–kept any order in the area’s mess. Into this descended Kmartnsome 27 years ago, where a national brand and low prices on everyday goods brought together college kids, low-income locals, and, it turns out, Santa’s helpers.

Now charity shopping days are hardly unique, whether it is picking up a letter from the post office or dropping off canned goods to help feed the hungry. But when the Archdiocese of New York (the good folks behind St. Patrick’s Cathedral) puts their mind to a Christmas shopping event, you are in a whole new league. Not just the pros, but the major leagues. As with any organized sport there are rules, and the number one rule for St. Nicholas Shopping Day (hey, the name doesn’t have to be that original) is…no toys. 

You read that right.

You see, Catholic Charities runs its own social services, and many might argue far more efficiently than anything the government could come up with. And so with a budget of New York-sized proportions, a targeted and complex operation of military precision and scope opened up on the first Saturday of December. Which brings up back to Kmart and the no toys policy.

If the point of the church’s social services network is to support the indigent, then what better way to give a true gift than to make sure their congregants in need have clothes on their back and a blanket over their bed? And what better way to match this need than assembling a couple of hundred volunteers with a specific list of items for each family and requiring them to keep a strict per person budget? And where could you maximize this strict budget? Kmart.

And so my wife and I, along with mutual friends, would zip down to the Astor Place Kmart on the appointed day and get to work. Upon checking in, a volunteer would hand us a t-shirt (red or green, again, not much need for excessive creativity) and a shopping list. It was an eye-opening experience, reading the needs of what we took for granted. The lists were their own story, similar to ones of generations of those in need, but each spoke in a different way. The social worker responsible would assess the family’s needs. Some families might be recent immigrants from Central America with, understandably, no winter clothes. Others might have just moved with the clothes on their back but, literally, no sheets on their beds. And so the social worker would create the list–a father needs a work coat for day labor; a wife needs a coat for church; a two-year-old needs pajamas; a teenager needs school clothes; the whole family needs sheets and towels. Ages and approximate clothing sizes were provided. And then the competition began.

Sure we were volunteering and helping, but this being New York everyone was trying to outdo everyone else, even if it was for God’s work. Calculators came out, discount percentages were precisely calculated, and bargaining ran amok. While each recipient had a budget, usually $50, it meant that a family of four had an overall budget of $200. So the horse trading would begin–my wife would insist a four-year-old needed an extra dress for school while I countered that dad’s winter work coat wouldn’t do any good without gloves and a hat. Angry stares ensued, un-Christian language was whispered under our breath, and even harder bargaining ensued. But the beauty was that everyone was in the same boat, and everyone heard the conversations. Other volunteers chimed in–a new set of hats, scarves, and gloves just went down in price, $3 more dollars in the kitty; a new rack of girls’ dresses just hit the floor, half off. And so it went until our budget was met and everything on the list was checked off.

And we wanted more. For half a dozen years the event got bigger and bigger. We got to the store earlier and earlier and wanted only the largest of families. Pushing shopping carts, we would ask other volunteers how things were going, and they would bemoan the difficulty in shopping for a family of three. We would nod in serious consolation and then casually mention this was our second family of six that morning. While it may have all been in the name of Jesus’ army of followers, we weren’t about to lose the war of looking good doing it. There was a certain absurdity to the whole thing–bewildered regular shoppers could not understand why the store was so crowded; we would use the store’s freight elevators to go between floors; more than a few prayers were said that warm weather would drive down the price of overcoats. It was a coffee-fueled blur, an urban bazaar of constant motion grabbing items off of racks and shelves, a race to find an empty shopping cart to start all over again.

For a few minutes, though, everything stopped. Walking through the front door, clothed in a perfectly-pressed black cossack, white collar, and silk scarlet zucchetto on his head, was His Eminence Timothy Cardinal Dolan. He moved through the crowd shaking hands, posing for pictures, and sharing a few words with a television reporter. And then the perfect moment arrived–taking a microphone his voice would go throughout the store giving thanks to the volunteers and reminding us all of the importance of the work we were doing. It was a blue light special of faith.

My wife and I live in Florida now, so we aren’t there to do the shopping. During Covid, Catholic Charities bought all the materials ahead of time and volunteers assembled the requested packages. Kmart is now long gone. But I know that for thousands of families over the years, there was a helping hand to those in in true need. It’s a reminder of the real Christmas message, a reminder that needs no toys.

© 2023 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved

Take A Cab On Sunday? Not For This Runner

 

Looking back at it, I must have been the easiest mark. As the attractive brunette woman approached me, my bag bulging with posters, t-shirts, and assorted sports drinks, her question was obvious, “Are you running the marathon on Sunday?” 

“Yes.” I replied, hoping for some praise and, perhaps, some social interaction the following week.

“I’m not running this year, but I have before.” she said. “Let me give you just one piece of advice—you’re going to have a blast!”

And with that she walked away, having dispensed her wisdom and not her phone number. As the first Sunday in November approaches, I think back on that moment in 1992 and reflect on why I ever ran 20 marathons, 14 of them New York.

In the summer of 1991 my father died. During the race that year, one of the 25,000 runners stood out, a man in his mid-40’s plodding firmly along in the middle of the pack. His t-shirt read, “In memory of my son Michael,” and in the center a picture of a young man, probably no older than 20. Having turned 26 that year, only one thought came through my mind. If he could do that for his son, then I could do it in memory of my father.

The ludicrousness of this plan amused my friends and family alike. I’m a decent enough athlete, but nobody would have even joked that I would run a marathon. This was made abundantly clear by my brother who, after surgery, overheard me mentioning to my mother that I had gotten into the race. The following day, still lying in his hospital bed, he asked, “Was it the morphine or did you really say you were going to run the marathon?”

I finished that first marathon in agony from a knee injury and twenty minutes slower than my predicted time. But walking back home in the November twilight, I heard the crowd roaring. Surrounded by a coalition of supporters, a frail, bearded runner was shuffling his way along the final few miles. The man was the founder of the race, Fred Lebow. Cancer was ravaging his body, but he was determined to run this course, the one he created, at least once. If you can’t get inspiration from watching that, perhaps you don’t have a pulse. And interestingly, if it hadn’t been for that bum knee I would have finished sooner and missed the whole thing. Between that random t-shirt and a nagging injury, I was starting to get some interesting messages about marathons.

So why did I run those races? Suffice it to say I knew I wasn’t going to win. My money is always on some fast, skinny African coming in first (and second, third and fourth for that matter). Was it to be in good health? Of course. In memory of my father, and to commemorate the spirit of Fred Lebow? Sure. But still, why?

As it turns out, on marathon day runners become The King of New York, and the people do everything to help. And in return, I gave everything I had over 26.2 miles to thank them. 

As befits royalty, the streets are closed off. Legions line the streets cheering on the thousands of runners streaming by. Toward the end, the crowds clap, cajole, and convince you that yes, the finish line was almost there. After the race, a smiling volunteer, in the best Olympic tradition, places a finisher’s medal around your neck and then wraps you up in a fashionable-for-a-day silver Mylar blanket. Complete strangers, eying my stiff post-race gait and ambulating baked potato look, come up and congratulate me. Even my regular bartender buys me drinks. Who wouldn’t put in the time and training for this treatment? Who wouldn’t want to return year after year?

So if you are part of the crowds on Sunday, or just watching on TV, know this. Those grimaces of pain on the runners’ faces and looks of exhaustion are all real. But at the end of the race, everyone has a blast.

© 2023 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.

Shall We Play A Game?

 

In corporate technology sales, certain stories go around as proxies to show how to overcome challenges. The stories are usually true, albeit through many variations, like the old game of telephone. In this telling, set some time in the late 1990’s, a Xerox salesman is asked if he is worried about the impending arrival of the paperless office. He replies, “I’ll worry about the paperless office when there is a paperless bathroom.” Sure, it’s a sly little poop joke, but the broader message is still true: don’t believe the hype—it’s been said before and nothing has changed. It’s also how I feel when I hear talk of artificial intelligence (AI) taking over the world.

The latest histrionics about AI come from a place well known for its daily histrionics—Hollywood, and specifically the writers who were just on strike. Among their great fears, other than getting much of their mindless puffery they call scripts produced, is that ChatGPT and its ilk will suddenly spit out endless award-winning scripts, thus putting the writers out of business. Having read some ChatGPT output, it is, at best, at the Fast and Furious 9-level of fluff. On the other hand, if AI can somehow make Ben Affleck show an emotion while acting, that movie ticket might actually be worth the AI investment.

But what is AI? Is it Turing’s man, where humans can’t discern if the typed reply comes from a machine or another human? Many thought we had reached that point when they started typing into a customer service chat box, only to find out that not only was there no human at the other end, but also it would admit that it was just a machine and you would have to call a real human after all. “AI” bloat has gotten so bad that the new washer and dryer in our home has an “AI” setting. Call me a cynic, but I doubt there is a Pentagon-level supercomputer dedicated to figuring out my laundry’s precise moisture content.

But we still aren’t any closer to defining the intelligence of AI. Sure, computers have beaten chess grand masters and Jeopardy champions, but wasn’t that just lots of brute force computing? Programmers can create deepfakes that certainly bend what we perceive as real, but can we say for certain that it is a problem? What we do have is plenty of fear, manifesting in a bi-partisan effort to legislate the prohibition of AI launching nuclear weapons. “While U.S. military use of AI can be appropriate for enhancing national security purposes, use of AI for deploying nuclear weapons without a human chain of command and control is reckless, dangerous, and should be prohibited," Rep. Ken Buck, R-Colo., said in April. I hate to break it to Ken, but we were there nearly 40 years ago in the movie War Games. While cutting it close, we found out then that human ingenuity could overcome AI’s (or the ‘80’s dial-up modem version) worst intentions.

Even the Biden administration has gotten into the act, issuing an executive order, under the guise of the Defense Production Act, to notify the government when developing any system that poses a “serious risk to national security, national economic security or national public health and safety,” as well as, according to reports, to take steps to begin establishing standards for AI safety and security, protect against fake AI-generated content, shield Americans’ privacy and civil rights and help workers whose jobs are threatened by AI. In other words, AI needs to fight AI to stop AI-fighting humans who are fighting AI. Good luck with that.

Without a doubt we are in an uncertain time with AI technology, whatever the form it takes. And maybe that technology could cobble together a rebuttal to Descartes’ philosophy of “I think, therefore I am” without simply pulling down the Cliffs notes off the Internet. But until it can think as Descartes in the first place, I’m not going to lose any sleep about some Terminator/Skynet end of the world. And with that, I will address one concern no computer has—a need to go to the bathroom. Where I assure you there is plenty of paper.

© 2023 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.

Hail To The New Owners!

 

Growing up I remember my father was the model of decorum at church. He made sure we arrived with enough time to take off our winter overcoats and settle into the pews well before the service started so that we would not disturb any other parishioners. During hymns, he stood up with the congregation yet never uttered a peep in song. This wasn’t some weird Anglican protest but a silent testament to one of my father’s few deficiencies—despite a love of music, the man could not sing. Not a lick, not a note.

During the other religious services on Sundays, fall football, I would join my father in our pew, er couch, and do what fathers and sons do while watching sporting events. We would get the Giants/Redskins games twice a year, but by quirk of regional blackout rules, it was the only time we would get to see the Redskins except in the playoffs. My father’s allegiance to the Washington team meant that viewing those games was considered holy time and I would take in the play of saints Sonny Jurgensen, John Riggins, and “The Hogs” offensive line. It was also the only time when sacred decorum fell to the wayside after a Redskins’ touchdown. A full-throttled roar of song would burst from my father’s mouth as the verses “Hail to the Redskins/Hail to Vic-tor-y” filled our apartment. It wasn’t exactly the singing of angels, but team spirit can sometimes mitigate sonic disaster.

Present-day Washington should have erupted in song last week with team owner Dan Snyder finally selling off the politically-more-sensitively-named Commanders. Yet somehow the $6 billion emancipation of the local football team barely made any news. This is a sum equal to, or larger, than five state budgets. Real money, even in Washington.

Maybe the winning traits of the town’s baseball Nationals and hockey Capitals has taken some of the sheen off of Redskins/Commanders fandom. Perhaps the years of ongoing stories about sexually harassing female employees have taken their toll. Over a decade of not just bad, but awful, play on the field hasn’t helped any. Yet somehow, I imagine there is excitement. A college classmate of mine, she a Washington native and diehard Washington football fan, married a Giants fan. While his medical residency took them to New York, they settled in the Washington area where he established his practice. How this got negotiated I do not know, but somehow, as the Facebook tailgate posts attest, they raised their three kids as Giants fans. With their oldest daughter getting married in two months, I pray that the future son-in-law isn’t from Philly. Not even the Almighty can give that much grace.

My own pro football allegiances have waxed and waned over the years. I stood by the Jets, even in the upper deck of Shea Stadium in December, until they joined the Giants in…New Jersey. During my Northwestern years the Bears grabbed the Super Bowl and an eternal place in my heart. After college and back in New York, even when either of the Meadowlands teams won, it never seemed quite right that they had abandoned the city. Now here on the Gulf Coast of Florida, prayers aren’t for a miraculous return of Tom Brady but anything above a .500 Buccaneers season.

When the NFL season opens in September, I will be able watch almost every game. It will take a while to figure out which free agents landed where, and some of the uniforms will look different. As a New Yorker I will still stand vigilant against the Triad of Hate (Cowboys-Skins-Eagles) and I wouldn’t think of cheering on the Fish, even if they are in my new home state. But in honor of my father, if I see the Commanders score a touchdown I might, just maybe, hum a few bars of “Hail to the Redskins.” As some might preach, forgiveness begins at home.

© 2023 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.

The County of Kings Loses Its Crown

 

This past Tuesday, June 6^th, marked the 79^th anniversary of the D-Day invasion of France and liberation of northern Europe. Outside of years ending with 4 or 9, it doesn’t draw much attention these days; maybe a picture in the newspaper of an aging vet making one last visit to the American cemetery overlooking Omaha beach. In war movies, there was always a kid from Brooklyn ready for the fight—quick to put up his fists, good at poker, and proud not to be from Manhattan’s money. And while it was inevitable that the kid ended up dead by the end of the film, his death was never in vain. His sacrifice meant his buddy, platoon, or allied comrade would be able to get back home alive. But this same past Tuesday, June 6^th, marked the day that the real-life kids from Brooklyn, those who made the ultimate sacrifice, may very well have lost their lives for what is now a lost cause.

This past Tuesday, June 6^th, New York City unveiled its first “Public Health” vending machine in Brooklyn. And by New York City I don’t mean some street artists with a prankish sense of humor or a wayward bureaucrat with extra tax money to burn. No, this was the Health Commissioner, a medical doctor who is the city’s top health official, presiding over the press conference right on Broadway (same name as Manhattan, but putting on a really bad show) and standing next to the vending machine. Suffice it to say he had the Mayor signed off on this one, with a press release on the city’s website to boot.

The veneer of “public health” simply cannot hide the stain of death it purports to stop. Immediately available, for free, were fentanyl test strips, designed for the responsible addict to make sure the drugs that will kill them eventually aren’t laced with another drug that will definitely kill them immediately. Next are ever-helpful Narcan kits that can save an opioid overdoser from certain death if only that opioid overdoser weren’t unconscious from the opioids and their fellow users were too strung out to help, or even call for help. Maybe the Mayor signed off on that as well.

But where hope really went to die was in the trio of other “health” offerings in the vending machine—crack pipes, lip balm, and condoms. I wish I were making this part up, but now the City of New York is literally supplying, at taxpayer expense, the tools of the trade for…crack whores. That is, in a nutshell, where we are as a society—the government is now waging war against anything resembling civility, empowered by a populace that votes for public officials acting in direct contradiction to the populace’s best interests. Or any interest for that matter.

We used to count on the outrage of a community to tackle problems. In times past the cover of darkness would see that vending machine smashed up or even floating in the East River. Call it Brooklyn “spirit.” Maybe this week’s orange haze across the city is the perfect metaphor—a coughing stench that just lulls people into a stupor of helplessness. Kind of like smoking a crack pipe.

Marking the 40^th D-Day anniversary, President Reagan said in part, “The men of Normandy had faith that what they were doing was right, faith that they fought for all humanity, faith that a just God would grant them mercy on this beachhead or on the next.” I’m not sure even the boys of Pointe du Hoc could climb the cliff and win today’s battle of Brooklyn. Maybe it’s best that few, if any, are still around to see how this country has lost faith in itself.

© 2023 Alexander W. Stephens, All Right Reserved.