Red, White, and Claus-A Christmas Story

From Thanksgiving to December 25^th, they are all over the place. A bright red triangle with white tassel ball at the point and matching trim at the base. For years now the fuzzy wool has been replaced by synthetic fibers, and they are made in countries that don’t celebrate Christmas except for the commercial export potential. The Santa hat.

I own such a hat, and it crowns my head during my Christmas day air travels. And every year as I climb into my father-in-law’s pickup truck, my wife will look up and grimace, give a less-than-Santa-stare, and mumble something about getting rid of that hat. And every year I will completely ignore her suggestion.

In November of 1996, my mother was diagnosed with cancer—probably fatal within a year. Seeking more aggressive treatment, she underwent her second day-long surgery within a month at a different hospital. All of a sudden Christmas day was upon us, and with little time to think about presents, my brother had hurriedly picked up two Santa hats on the way to visiting our mother. And so it came to pass that my brother and I, he a few inches taller than my six-foot frame, ambled down the cancer hospital’s corridors looking like absurd over-sized elves.

Yet for all the sadness we had gone through recently, it struck me how lucky we were. Despite our mother’s desperate condition, we passed by patients who were, and this was hard to believe, in far worse shape. Men and women hunched over in their wheelchairs slowly made their way around, a forest of tubes and IV’s attached all over their bodies. Relatives followed nearby, trying vainly to keep a brave face for the sake of their sick family members as well as themselves. It was a scene to which I had become accustomed, but this Christmas day was different. Looking at us, the patients gave a little smile. The family members first mimicked that grin and then let out a hearty “Merry Christmas” our way. Nurses and doctors gave a passing nod of approval. The pall of sadness had, for a brief moment, lifted.

That was my moment of Christmas meaning. It was the little glimmer of hope that a hat could give. The little humor. A little laugh. A little sign that things could be alright. This was a place at the cutting edge of modern medicine, yet death always had good chance to notch another victory. My own search for the meaning of Christmas had gone through any number of phases—working retail and hating endless repeats of the season’s songs, enjoying the material benefits of a good year’s gift giving, and even an annual appearance at church. Suffice it to say I was much more Charlie Brown looking for a decent tree than spiritual reckoning with the gift of Jesus on this world. But what my brother and I had stumbled into was giving just a little hope to those lacking it. Wasn’t that what Christmas was all about?

I can’t say what happen to those folks we passed that day 23 years ago, but for our mother, it was, as Churchill might have put it, the end of the beginning. Her survival was by no means assured, and it took months of treatment for her to recover and restart her life. But that day, unlike the days and weeks before, there was a little laughter in her room, a few presents exchanged, a little food eaten after weeks of liquid nutrients. Our gift that Christmas was hope.

And so as a reminder of that hope, on Wednesday this 54 year-old man will be wandering the airports of America, Santa cap on, his hair greyer than 23 years ago but not quite Kris Kringle white. My fellow travelers will smile and flight crews on the short end of the scheduling stick will tell me my reindeer are parked outside for refueling.  Even a few small kids might point at my hat and ask their parents why even Santa has to change in Atlanta to deliver his presents. And as I climb into my father-in-law’s pickup truck, my wife will look up and grimace, give a less-than-Santa-stare, and mumble something about getting rid of that hat. And I will, once again, completely ignore her suggestion.

May you all find your particular meaning to Christmas, a message of hope, a message of peace. If you aren’t sure how to start that journey, you could do a lot worse that put on a Santa hat.

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved

Morning In Marinette

Only if you haven’t turned on a TV lately could you have missed Mike Bloomberg. In a lack of subtlety brazen even by political standards, Mayor Mike bought ad time across the country like a sailor on shore leave discovering dollar happy hour at the bar across from his ship. In this case, Bloomberg bought a $30 million round proclaiming, in sepia-toned still photos, his grand accomplishments and self-described ability to defeat President Trump. 

Reagan’s “Morning in America” spot it was not.

Of course that 1984 ad, while shot in California, was more of a mythic place for invoking overarching themes of American pride and prosperity. What most people don’t realize is that the ad’s title is actually “Prouder, Stronger, Better." All of which begs the question, is there a place in the country that feels prouder, stronger, and better? It turns out there is, and I got the chance to spend a few days there.

Marinette, Wisconsin is on the Michigan border, some 45 minutes north of Green Bay. Home to Fincantieri Marinette Marine, builders of the Navy’s LCS ships, the factory started as a WWII dirt floor plant and, after a $100 million remodel (and plenty of concrete for hard floors), now produces decidedly 21^st hardware. The LCS class is a low-draft vessel that, through a modular design, can change its mission with a few fork lifts and properly-equipped storage boxes. From launching surface-to-air missiles, amphibious Marine assaults, and probably a whole bunch of classified things they didn’t tell me, the ship is a force to be reckoned with. At $400 million a copy it might not break Bloomberg’s billionaire bank account, but the 100,000 gallons of fuel oil to make it go might give him pause. Then again, with his Napoleonic fervor about eliminating fossil fuels, Mike would be too busy trying to put in solar panels to turn on the ignition.

What made visiting the factory so interesting was the people. This wasn’t just a factory, this was a heavy industrial plant. The workmen (and a few workwomen) had dirty overalls, clothes soiled with steel dust, grease, and other muck that just doesn’t wash out. They carried heavy tools. They were focused on their dangerous work. They were strong.

Once a ship is floated into the water, a factory civilian takes over as the officer in charge. Nothing moves on or off, no change made, no bolt tightened without his sign off. Such an officer was Big Tom. While his name isn’t actually Tom, he is big. 6’3” and probably some 280 pounds, Big Tom owned the boat, and probably 75 pounds of extra heft from a Wisconsin diet of bratwurst, cheese curds, and beer. But get him talking about the ship and he was like a teenager in puppy love. He purred about the inspections of every system, x-raying individual welds, and presenting the results to the Navy. In the pilot house he pointed out how every computer cable had to tested, making his point by separating a strand from its bundle, his thick fingers working with the delicacy of a flower collector taking off an individual petal for pressing into a book. This is a man who is proud, very proud, of his labor.

And then there was Maryanne (not her real name) who ran public relations and events for the boat yard. Lithe with a long mane of red hair (and about a third of Big Tom’s body mass), she made her steel-toe work boots seem more of a fashion statement than a factory floor requirement. By coincidence I happen to have pictures on my phone of the LCS ships made by a rival in Mobile, Alabama. Glancing at them her faced puckered and she simply said, “Oh, the tri-hulls [a difference in the competitor’s design]. Ours are better.”

Prouder, Stronger, Better. In the complicated mix of union politics, conservative culture, and economic hope, it is this kind of town where the candidates will target their resources to pick up every last swing vote. We will find out who wins that election in November. But one thing is for sure—when the sun rises tomorrow it will be morning in Marinette.

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens. All Rights Reserved.

The FGLI College Welfare Shakedown

A weeknight knock on my fraternity room door usually meant one of two things. Perhaps one of the guys in the house wanted to discuss the finer points of science with my Phi Beta Kappa astronomy/physics double major roommate. The universally more likely reason was not to quench the thirst for knowledge but to douse a dry throat from my perpetually-stocked beer fridge. By instinct my hand had almost opened a can when I was startled to hear a voice ask for ten dollars. “Vince got arrested and we need cash to bail him out, otherwise he’s going to stay all night at the police station.”

n one of those you-only-see-this-on-cop-shows-moments, Brother Vince had been pulled over by the local constabulary for, yes, a broken taillight. While sober and otherwise law abiding, he had missed a court date to adjudicate a speeding ticket and thus had an outstanding bench warrant. In a moment of clarity unusual for college students, Vince had the presence of mind to have the fraternity phone number memorized and not use his proverbial one call back home, thus tipping off his parents that he had recently taken the family ride 40 miles over the speed limit. My Hamilton, along with those from the other guys, promptly sprung him and he returned with an embarrassed, beet-red face that no Hollywood makeup artist could have hidden.

I hadn’t thought about this for nearly thirty years until an otherwise unremarkable article in my alma mater’s Daily Northwestern newspaper caught my eye. The headline talked about an emergency fund moving across bureaucratic responsibility lines and I thought this could be a feel good story about the University stepping up when a student’s family encountered some terrible misfortune. To my surprise, the story included a student complaining about a delay in receiving her check to cover airfare for…a visit to her sick grandmother. In such family crisis situations a university can, and should, help its students by rearranging paper and test deadlines. In a similar vein, over the years I have had to ask my bosses for bereavement leave, which was graciously granted every time. And while not lacking for compassion when it comes to grandma, this begs the bigger question: when did private universities become welfare offices?

The answer lies in the newest campus culture crusade—the first-generation, low-income (FGLI) college student. In the traditional narrative a student from meager means overcomes their circumstances and works hard in high school, thus earning a hefty (or full) scholarship for tuition, room, and board and then works the crappy dining hall dishwashing line for book and movie money. The family chips in where they can and a collective sacrifice elevates the student and society. With an $80,000 a year price tag, reality has left any discussion about college costs; sadly, so too has personal responsibility when receiving charity.

Today our FGLI student is a “victim” who always needs more “help” in college. Even on a full ride there is a never-ending set of expenses for which somebody else is expected to pay. The “Student Enrichment Services” site racks up an impressive list of this aggrievement. Need a long-term laptop loan? No problem (although it begs the question how you filled out that free electronic common application). Want to hit a ballet performance downtown as part of the dance club? Somebody else will pay for it, “to help reduce the financial burden these activities may cause students.” Need a winter coat? Suit up for free (and all that climate change aside, how did you not know that Chicago is cold in the winter). Next thing you know, people are going to ask if you need food stamps. Actually there’s a suggestion and link for that. I’m not sure what color the FGLI flag flies, but it probably should be the dollar-bill green of accountability-free liberal guilt. After graduation these kids are in for a shock when their manager doesn’t offer an $800 United gift certificate along with time off to go mourn Uncle Zippy’s passing.

There’s still a bone I have to pick with Vince as I don’t think I ever got my ten bucks back. Maybe he used it to pay off his ticket, learned his lesson, and banked the rest for beer money, which suits me just fine. Unfortunately, I also now know that my modest annual fund contributions to Northwestern go to something far less educational.

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens. All Rights Reserved.

What Color Is Your Tennis Ball?

Open almost any newspaper, watch a Democratic Presidential debate, or scan a college course catalog and you are sucked into diatribes on white privilege, income inequality, “learned experience,” and reparations, Of course this somehow forgets that this country has moved so far ahead on race relations that it elected a black man as President. Twice. I was told, however, there was still an outpost of oppression flagrantly displaying itself every two weeks in, of all places, Flushing, Queens. Thus off the island of Manhattan I went to take in the US Open tennis tournament.

Let’s face it: tennis, like golf, is a country club sport. Rooted as a pastime for moneyed elites to get a social workout and local bragging rights at Ivy League colleges or country clubs, the sport has never been about, or for, the masses. While boasting the largest tennis stadium in the world, the grounds are hardly a paragon of equity. Sure you can wander the outer courts in the early rounds and see some top-20 players up close and personal. But the only way to see Roger Federer or Serena Williams without binoculars or a $1,500 courtside ticket is to hang onto the practice court fencing and contort your body in unnatural ways. Taking the Number 7 rush hour subway to the tournament is good warm up.

Unlike country clubs, there is no genteel signing the chit for your refreshments, probably because country clubs would be embarrassed at what the Open charges. Moet champagne is available for $25. A glass. Souvenir t-shirts run $48 each. Walking around, my wife casually mentioned that the woman next to us was wearing $900 sneakers. Income inequality in this context is measured by which color Amex you use, with green being a laughable entry-level fob.

Race, in its own way, towers over the place in the form of Arthur Ashe Stadium. It is both monument to and reminder of a black man from the segregated south rising to the greatest professional heights of this very white sport. And yet looking around the fans and the player draws last week, the faces still showed up as nearly all white. The fact remains that the road to tennis fame comes through practice time on courts, coaching, and tournament travel. These things cost money, lots of money, year after year, and that demographic does not skew to the minority community here or abroad. But in this year's first round, one match showed how simply going out and playing, no matter your race or background, can move a crowd and inspire others.

The last of our day session matches featured Russian Anastasia Potapova and American Coco Gauff in Louis Armstrong Stadium. Anastasia, at the age of 18, is one in a long line of taller Russian blonds. Coco is a short but athletic 15 with a youthful face that barely registers that old and, in contrast to the rest of this narrative, 100% black. The stadium has two levels-the bottom for ticket holders where we were sitting without much company and the upper deck open seating. Up top was filled with a line waiting to get in, so even by US Open standards you knew something was going on.

The tennis itself was about what you would expect from two unranked teenagers. Potapova whacked at each shot with all the force she could muster in a style that could be best described as Maria Sharipova without the athletic gifts but all the grunting. Gauff had solid ground strokes, but not yet the power behind them. As the match progressed, Coco’s playmaking and use of the court’s angles showed a more mature understanding of the game within the game. Unforced errors abounded, challenges to line calls frequent, and net play a mere accident of a short baseline return. In cold war fashion, the players split the first two sets, setting up a final set showdown.

It was at this time the lower level started to fill up, and not with usual crowd. Almost every new spectator in the seats was black—some in pairs, a few groups of female friends, and the occasional single straggler. One of these fans was a concession stand grill cook in her chef’s hat and apron. As the last set progressed and the players changed sides, the cook left, walking up the aisle smiling, holding her smart phone tight like a trophy. The final few games were a raucous affair with the crowd cheering on Coco’s every winning shot. Gauff won the match and the place shook with delirious cheers.

It was then I finally I understood why the cook was smiling and didn’t even need to see the end of the match. In a sea of whiteness she saw the future and had its picture on her phone. The future was chirpy, young, and talented. The future had infinite promise. The future was proudly black.

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens. All Rights Reserved.

I’ll Have A White House, And Make It A Double

With the summer in full swing and a presidential election over a year away, Americans are focused on the annual rituals of playing at the beach, watching bad reality TV, and enjoying a cold beer on a hot afternoon. That is unless you are a Democrat running for President, and then you are taking that beer way too seriously. In fact this may be the first election requiring a 12-step chaser.

This all came to light from, of all places, Facebook. For those who know me (and surely what doesn’t Facebook know about me by now), I am the least likely target for Democratic fundraisers. But there it was on my timeline, Sen. Kirsten Gillibrand with her hand raised attempting a beer pong throw. Wait, what? The graphic morphs into the question, “Will you give Kirsten $1 if she makes the shot?” and then the final images of her crushing the successful throw. Puzzled at this episode of Senators Behaving Badly I returned to my timeline where yet another ad appeared. This time Gillibrand proclaimed she enjoyed a whiskey at the end of evening, and a one dollar donation gave me the chance to join her for a drink on the campaign trail. Surely this was some sendup for The Real Housewives of Upstate New York. What on earth was going on here? Was this some fake video or Comedy Channel promotion?

Turns out this was all legit. In order for Democratic candidates to advance to the next round of debates, each had to raise money from at least 130,000 people. A donation of at least $1 counts, hence the lowball ask and even lower-quality video production values. Of course if you want to see specialists of asking for a buck at work, just head to the land of presidential candidate and Mayor of New York City Bill DeBlasio. We’ll pause here so you can stop laughing at the notion of the DeBlasio candidacy. Every Manhattan street corner now has a beggar with a paper cup and some tale of woe that asks for a dollar, and the Dems could learn a few things from their hustle.

Since Mark Zuckerberg thought I was the DNC’s best friend, the ads came fast and furious. Corey Booker, sober and somber, put forth something that could only be described as an eight year-old iPhone on a selfie stick. The background was dark and he had that “the-actives-locked-the-pledges-in-the-fraternity-basement-and-turned-out-the-lights” look. Or it could have just been anywhere in Newark. Elizabeth Warren played it straight with routine clips from her campaign and her endless “everything will be free” muttering. In retrospect it could have been Kate McKinnon’s SNL impression instead of the actual Senator as there isn’t much of a difference, especially for a dollar

I had dried out from the junior senator from New York’s binge drinking when Amy Klobuchar popped up. Spouting her I’ll-do-that-for-a-buck rap, she declared the current administration “all foam and no beer.” Apparently the sorority of Delta Drinkya Under is targeting under-24 college bros who take offense to a short pour.

The last of this onslaught came from Joe Biden. Pity poor Joe, the man that Mean Girl Kamala Harris portrayed as just this side of Jim Crow. Of course his fellow party mates had piled on weeks earlier castigating him for associating with segregationists. The segregationists in question were Biden’s fellow US Senators with whom he was trying to negotiate legislation to broaden civil rights that would benefit all people of color, like Kamala Harris. But Joe’s shtick for a buck was simple—he’d send you a sticker. Now that’s something I could get behind. Maybe I’d bump into him on the campaign trail and we’d shake hands, my personal space a touch too encroached. I would invite him to the nearest bar and we’d hoist a beer, glasses clinking. He’d sign my sticker as a souvenir and we’d talk about simpler political times, times when it was morning in America.

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens. All Rights Reserved.

A Sporting Fourth

At this time of year we look at our country and see fireworks, high-calorie grilled meats, and men in wigs reading script from oversized yellow poster board. In general, our only thoughts across the Atlantic were John McEnroe fighting his own revolutionary war on England’s grassy lawns. Yet this year our country has flipped the narrative and undertaken a full invasion across the pond. The British, as is their wont, have stood up magnificently to the onslaught; Europe, continuing its losing record, has folded without much of a fight. And while there is plenty of happiness, darker signs tinge the celebration.

To start, last week Major League Baseball brought the Montagues and Capulets to London to renew their ancient grudges. Befitting the Globe Theatre, the games were more spectacle than tense drama. Pimm’s cup vendors roamed the stands, politely plying their boozy wares; message boards flashed explanatory notes about the rules that probably made as much sense as reading Chaucer (sober or well-Pimmed). And in a nod to Pride Month, Freddy Mercury won the mascot race, although if the cigar-chomping Winston Churchill had come in first I would have demanded to see if Barry Bonds was under the costume.

But in these contests not of two hours’ traffic the Brits witnessed the death of something great: pitching. And this death wasn’t the spellbinding tragedy of Romeo and Juliet, but rather the farce of A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream’s mechanicals. 50 runs in two games farce. Throw in four errors in the second match and you had maybe the world’s most expensive tee ball exhibition but without the hugs, pizza rolls, and fruit juice boxes for six-year olds afterwards. In other words, MLB could have beamed in a couple of Mets games on the Jumbotron with the same effect and far fewer dollars and pounds.

Crossing the English Channel and befitting the 75^th anniversary of D-Day, America once again has shown great strength in France in the form of our Women’s National Team. That would be the National Team that plays the non-national sport of metric football, a.k.a. soccer. Their World Cup tournament these past few weeks has rivaled the greatest of military campaigns Europe has ever seen. Defenseless opponents were wiped off the map; tighter games showed the skill, athleticism, and poise of a team on a mission. On Tuesday night Carli Lloyd spent the last 15 minutes of the game taking the ball down the corner, boxing out her opponents like Charles Barkley with a rebound, and killing the clock like a Bond villain. Come to think of it, Ms. Lloyd could transfer those skills to the Knicks. They have plenty of salary cap space left, but it might be a professional demotion as I’m sure Carli likes winning.

Like all great teams, USWNT has taken advantage of the breaks that have come their way. Take England’s inability to convert soccer’s greatest gift…a penalty kick. With the opportunity to tie the game late in regulation, the Lionesses let go a pea shooter of a shot that was deftly corralled by our keeper. This was not, as Winston Churchill would have put it, their finest hour.. Freddy Mercury—dead, alive, or mascot—would have posed a greater scoring chance. Add it to the list of problems Boris Johnson faces when he becomes Prime Minister.

But for all the greatness of this team, the joy of watching them is starting to slip. They’ve become what they were so very much not. They’ve become the men’s team. Not the team that didn’t make the last men’s World Cup, but the bratty Euro players that are so un-American. Time was Abby Wambach would run into an opponent, hit the ground, popped back up, and do it all over again. No muss, no fuss. Mia Hamm scored and ran back to her team’s side of the field, her arms exultant but without theatricality. Then again she scored so often she might have worn herself out celebrating any more. It was a game played by the best who wanted to win, not some tryout for endless Internet memes.  

Now we see a different sort. Megan Rapinoe posing post-goal as the sequel character to a Marvel Avengers movie. Alex Morgan “tea sipping” after scoring against England, which really sounds more like a fight between Meghan Markle and Kate Middleton at a Kensington Palace garden party. Ms. Morgan and the rest of the team falling like dead soldiers at Flanders at the mere wisp of an opponent’s jersey crossing their path. A hard tackle yields the pantomime of grievous harm, only to turn into an immediate sprint charge toward the goal. The announcers charitably call it “selling” a call, but we all know what’s going on, especially in super-slow high-def. The more Fellini the action, the less appealing it is to an American audience. We like our winners, especially the underdogs, but guts and grit rendered with grass stains win hearts.

I’ll be tuning in on Sunday, albeit a little reluctantly, to see USWNT take on the Dutch Orange. So ladies if you want to put on a show, give your regards to Broadway. Otherwise heads down, make those penalty kicks, and finish off a glorious July 4^th weekend for us all.

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens. All Rights Reserved.

The Incredible, Edible, Problem

There’s an old joke in the restaurant industry, “What’s the difference between a cook and a chef? About $50,000 a year.” Nomenclature and money aside, most people wouldn’t give this a moment’s thought until, that is, the eggs start burning. For unbeknownst to us food consuming mortals, the gods (or at least their lawyers) of food service are in a fight of Olympian proportions over kitchen titles and responsibilities.

This great battle pits Hyatt hotels against their Chicago employees union which, according to the Chicago Tribune, involves litigation over how to stop a kitchen catastrophe. Going back to the chef/cook title, it turns out that in this particular union shop chefs are management and cooks unionized workers. Each has a long menu of exclusive responsibilities, including who takes what food out of an oven. This all came to a head last year when a chef, sensing impending egg burning, pulled out a tray of quiche, thus intervening into a “quiche ‘emergency.’” The cooks took offense to usurping what is normally their job and filed a grievance. Two arbitrators delivered different decisions, and the lawsuits, like appetizers, were served quickly. Personally I side with chefs on this one, as I’ve never been asked if I want my quiche rare, medium, well done, or extra crispy. And in a delicious only-in-Chicago irony, Illinois Governor J.B. Pritzker has vested personal, financial, and political interests on both sides.

While this minutia of collective bargaining may not make much difference to your brunch plate, I am reminded of what happens when eggs go very, very wrong. In college, our fraternity’s Saturday breakfast/lunch was mostly reheated leftovers from the past week and something vaguely greasy to sop up Friday night’s remaining alcohol. Occasionally a sober brother stepped up to make something from scratch, and thus “Chef” Mark whipped up scrambled eggs that morning. Mark knew his way around food, and was happy to tell us as such whenever we asked. And even if we didn’t. But instead of the usual flavorings of salt, pepper, or maybe a dash of cheese, he chose a heretofore unused additive—beer.

Predictable to everyone but its creator, these “Oeufs á la Old Style” were a disaster. Coming down the steps to the dining room, our nostrils were met with the aroma of soured, long-fermented hops. And not the hops beer makers show in long panning shots of some Bavarian hillside. Think industrial agriculture at its most grinding and chemical. Finally gazing upon the curds we saw a two-toned mess-one half yellow and the other jet black, a seeming color tribute to our Big10 Conference rival Iowa Hawkeyes. I vaguely remember it tasting like a football field. After a rainy game. But what were we to do, call for help? It might have gone something like this:

“Hello this is 911, Operator 584, what is your emergency”

“One of the brothers burned the house’s eggs.”

“I’m sorry, did you say that your hen house is on fire and your brother is burned.”

“Oh no. Sorry. One of the fraternity members scorched our breakfast.”

“Sir, is this a police, fire, or medical emergency?”

“Do you have a culinary division? We may be losing a Michelin star here.”

“Sir, let me give you some cook’s advice. Toast some bread, fry some bacon, and slap it all together with your eggs. Because if I’m sending anyone to your place, it’s the cops to lock your stupid French butt up.”

So where are we in this great egg dilemma? Should diners settle for singed quiche in solidarity with the common man working the oven in the fight against capitalist exploitation? Does management have the last say about how to deliver the perfect high-cholesterol meal? I will leave this all to lawyers, courts, and union negotiation. All I know is that you can’t burn eggs, throw it in a pie pastry, and call it quiche. Real men don’t eat that.

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens. All Rights Reserved.

The China Syndrome

The email arrived, cheery in its encouragement. “Just keep writing,” it said. So came some relief from my friend Bill who actually gets paid to write an opinion column. I had bemoaned to him the state of commentary, most problematically the dearth of topics fresh for new insight. Who needs yet another piece on, take your choice, college campus “safe spaces,” the De Blasio explosion of street vagrants, anything to do with Washington, D.C. politics, or the unfairness that is Tom Brady existence? And then, quite suddenly, the universe provided an answer from the most unlikely of sources, U.S. Senator Charles Schumer.

For those unfamiliar with the modus operandi of New York’s senior U.S. Senator, “Chuck” Schumer has raised his Sunday morning press conference to a near-religious level. Knowing the battalion of bored reporters and cameramen working the weekend graveyard shift desperately need a story, Chuck has, for the past few decades, taken it upon himself to provide weekly copy and video to the fourth estate right around communion time. The ensuing day’s coverage gives him a bounty of free media coverage that is the envy of every politician in the tristate area. The topics are indistinguishable from week to week; the script generally follows some “crisis” that his office has spent “a considerable amount of time researching” with a solution involving expending billions of federal dollars and hiring plenty of unionized employees to “fix” the issue. Yet recently Schumer came up with an idea that, unbelievably, combined high comedy with a touch of Trumpian paranoia.

“Given what we know about how cyberwarfare works…the Department of Commerce must give the green light and thoroughly check any proposals or work China’s CRRC [the firm making subway cars] does on behalf of the New York subway system,” quoth The Senator. His press release then adds ominously, “This kind of national security responsibility is just so big, and so complex, that the MTA [the folks who kind of run the subways]…should not have to foot the burden of going at it alone to assess whether or not CRRC’s low bids for work, and current contracts across the country, are part of some larger strategy. We just cannot be too careful here…”

Yes, it has actual syntax and proper punctuation, but otherwise is undistinguishable from a Trump tweet. Add that weird “Shhhhhyyna” pronunciation and you could hear it from The Donald himself. And the subject, a contract for new subway cars, is almost as petty.

Perhaps Schumer imagines a nefarious plot out of a Hollywood action film. With the clack of the tracks in the background, the camera bounces and sways with the passengers, a mass oblivious to the impending danger while focused on their phones or maybe even reading a paper. A quick cut focuses on a single finger hovering over a keyboard, a blinking curser next to the word “Execute?” on the background screen. The slow-motion digit descends with a telltale “click” and we are thrown back to the straphangers looking around as the lights flicker and then, with a screech of metal and sparks flying, the train comes to an emergency stop. Bodies crash into each other. A faint announcement comes over the intercom, mostly unintelligible and sounding, well, like Chinese. New Yorkers start swearing like New Yorkers.

Welcome to Tuesday’s commute. Or pretty much any day ending in “Y.” Clearly Chuck doesn’t take the subway on a regular basis or he would realize this apocalyptic vision is the average ride. The threat isn’t a theoretical foreign intervention, the threat is the very real MTA.

And at the basest level, what national security problem is there? Somehow I doubt Chinese President Xi wants to hack and find out how many times I swipe my fare card, or that Foreign Minister Wang is secretly slowing down trains so that Yankees fans are late to the game. In fact, a little Chinese authority might not be such a bad thing for the subway system. Holding the doors open and delaying service? Off to detention camp. Deface a subway car with graffiti? Off to detention camp. Jump a turnstile to avoid the fare? You get the idea. And in the end, when it comes to faceless bureaucracies that are answerable to nobody, there isn’t much difference between China and the MTA.

So Senator Schumer, if you really want to improve the subways, ask the people who actually ride it every day. But be careful, the answers may get so nuclear hot they bore a hole through the earth’s crust to the other side of the planet. The original China Syndrome.

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens. All Rights Reserved.

Easter Lessons From My Muslim Cab Driver

Under any other circumstance, the cab driver pantomiming the recoil of a double-handled machine gun would induce extreme panic. His hands were definitely not at ten and two; more like the clock was about to expire on our earthly time.

For over 20 years Easter has meant a trip to the Washington, DC area for services and celebrations with my mother. Our favorite church is opposite the White House, and for two decades the pastor provided great insight and reflection upon the meaning of the passion, crucifixion, and rising from the dead of Jesus Christ. While I can’t speak for the rest of the congregation, we also looked forward to his insights on two secular, but no less religious, topics. As a UNC graduate, and with Easter often falling during the final four, our minister had very strong opinions about college hoops and how good should triumph over evil. To nobody’s surprise, Duke never made it as an example of good. And the start of the baseball season always brought out lessons about hope and eternal opportunity. As he was a lifelong Baltimore Orioles fan, the congregation definitely could see our minister as a man whose faith has been sorely tested.

Which brings us back to our overly-demonstrative taxi operator.

As with many large American cities, driving a cab in our nation’s capital is primarily a job manned by immigrants. On this bright Easter morning, Muhammad cheerfully picked us up and started speeding toward our church destination. Perhaps inspired by the miracle of empty traffic lanes, he started asking where we from, what brought us into town, and other cabbie chit chat. Returning the favor, we found out that Muhammad was from “a town outside of Kabul” which, geographically, meant little to us beyond “Kabul.” This being a few years after 9/11, the conversation then naturally turned to his experience with practicing Islam under the Taliban. It was at this point that our driver’s workable English morphed into charades while also going well over the speed limit on an otherwise deserted George Washington Parkway.

“Rat-a-tat-tat” he voiced, while simultaneously mimicking the gun recoil with both his arms. “They just beat it into you. All the time.” My mother and I nodded, simultaneously murmuring a sympathetic “Mmmm.” “I just want to pray, not be told how by Taliban.” Again, something we could all agree upon. With this triumvirate in agreement on the nature of peaceable assembly and practicing of religion, Muhammad managed to release his imaginary gun and return his hands to the very real steering wheel. Relaxing his demeanor and pressure on the gas pedal, he casually turned his head and asked, “So tell me about this Jesus and this Easter thing.”

Oh my.

Clearly the price of divine intervention at 60 MPH was God having a good laugh at my explanation of His Son. Sunday school had been many decades ago, and my less-than-daring twice-a-year church attendance meant I was still good with most of the popular hymns—liturgical instruction was going to be a big stretch. But if the man asked, I would reply, and so I gave the holy highlights of Jesus (Immaculate Conception, miracles, crucifixion, resurrection, absolving of sins). Muhammad took this all in, carefully considering this scant but heartfelt mini-ministry. “That was very interesting.” he concluded. “Thank you very much.” He seemed genuinely appreciative, perhaps even a little bit better informed. Equally clear was that professional Episcopalian missionaries had no fear of losing their jobs to me.

Despite some absurdity, surely this was an example of the day’s message of peace and love. What could be better than three people spanning half the globe hurtling along inside a steel and glass chariot discussing faith and God? For as my mother and I paid our fare and left the cab, Muhammad provided the final word—the simple wishing to us of a “Happy Easter.”

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved

Taxing State Of Mind

It’s April 1^st, which means tax filing day is near. I, for one, intend to celebrate until the 15^th and no, my accountant did not find a huge refund. We need to party now, because next year the crush of new taxes Albany has enacted will be an Excedrin-proof fiscal hangover.

First up is a new way to pick our pockets every time we shop. Next year the state is banning the use of plastic shopping bags, save a few, carefully constructed exceptions from the well-lobbied interests. Ostensibly this is all to save the environment, what with Flipper choking on Ziplocs and all. If you want to actually carry your groceries out of the store, counties have the “option” of a five-cent-a-paper-bag tax. Since taxing is the same as breathing in New York, we all know there isn’t a local body that can resist “free” money.

All of this activism is meant for us to walk around in lockstep with our reusable shopping bags dangling off our shoulders, virtue signaling our green bona fides. Perhaps those bags should also include a copy of Chairman Mao’s Little Red Book of Quotations so we can all get into the collective spirit. Of course, there are plenty of unintended consequences of this new movement. New Yorkers already recycle plastic bags in the form or trash can liners and garbage bags. The irony is that in order to throw out your trash we will have to buy plastic garbage bags, thus literally paying a tax on top of another tax.

Next is the vaunted “Congestion Pricing” tax, picking motorists’ pockets every time they want to drive south of 60^th Street in Manhattan. Every store that stocks daily necessities (including garbage bags), every restaurant, and every landlord will pass on the costs for deliveries south of this urban Mason-Dixon line. On top of that, I fear love may feel squeeze as well. Many remember the Seinfeld episode where Elaine, faced with a shortage of her favorite contraceptives, had to determine if intimacy would be “sponge worthy.” Similarly, dating may now be “Congestion Pricing” worthy—is pursuing that gal or guy “on the other side” worth paying a tax over and over again? Think Capulets and Montagues needing an EZ Pass.

And who is supposed to benefit? None other than the Metropolitan Transportation Authority, “operator” of the city’s subways and buses, as well as the commuter railroads. To those who use the MTA, operating is more of a euphemism—not working on time and in filth is more accurate. The projected $15 Billion that drivers, star-crossed lovers and otherwise regular folk alike, will cough up is supposed to help the MTA fix up its decrepit infrastructure. Does anyone believe this? Not a chance.

The MTA and I share the same birth year, and over 53 years I haven’t shoveled dirt and put down miles of new railroad track, but the MTA isn’t much further ahead on this account either. Four years ago they opened a mile-long connection between Times Square and the now-opened Dubai-on-the-River Hudson Yards development. Of course, anyone who can own or rent an apartment in Hudson Yards doesn’t take the subway, they take an Uber. An Uber which, as of the first of this year, has a $2.75 tax added for every ride. A block from my apartment the Second Avenue subway finally opened—a mile-and-a-half long and on the drawing boards since the end of WWII. Now the MTA gave this a try in ’70’s, but like many things from that decade, it failed miserably. They also set a record cost at $2.5 Billion per mile, four times as much as a similar project in socialist paradise Paris. Not to be outdone, at some very undetermined point in the future, work will finish on a tunnel connecting the Long Island Rail Road between Penn and Grand Central Stations, with an estimated cost of $3.5 Billion per mile. With the subway, bus, and rail fares going up in a three weeks, only an April Fool would think that any amount of money will change things.

Maybe we all need to take a deep breath and relax, and Albany has been talking about helping us with this by legalizing marijuana. While (excise and sales tax) whiskey is my solution, many see this either as natural progress or overdue social justice. But you can be sure on one thing—everyone sees plenty of tax dollars in every joint.

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.

Take Me Out To The ATM

With every opening day the argument renews about whether it’s worth paying to see baseball in person, given the mortgage-inducing price for even a routine game. My at-home competition, like many American households, is a 50” high-definition TV, clean bathroom that has no line, and reasonably-priced concessions.

Working from home affords a few advantages, including avoiding daily torture on New York City’s public transit and not bumping into millennials who can’t look up from their phones. But last April featured $15 upper deck seats for a matinee Yankees game and no boss to notice my empty desk. Alighting from the subway and walking towards the ticket booth, the crowd and I passed by a full anti-terror squad in body armor and fingers wrapped around the trigger guards of their long guns. This probably meant: a) the visiting Twins represented an otherwise unknown threat to national security, or b) ISIS was looking to trade for some middle relief.

Ticket obtained without gunfire, the next adventure was simply trying to enter the stadium. Anticipating herds, barricades were arranged in a strangely familiar way. It was the back and forth lines of cattle pens, and instead of hamburger my Amex was about to go to slaughter. Navigating the back and forth of this impromptu 5K race course, we all ended up at…the magnetometers. Alas, my TSA Pre-Check is only good at the airport and my fellow fans didn’t seem to understand the do’s and don’ts of permitted goods. If fairness, the prohibited items list barely fit the largest Kinkos banner size.

After navigating this not-so-quite fan-friendly entrance, it was up to the top deck and a baseball game. Lunch al fresco would be a beer, hot dog, and pretzel. $26 later and my meal in hand, I was ready for what the announcer proclaimed would be my “fan experience at Yankee Stadium.” Apparently this meant providing my own entertainment or otherwise telling me, like a studio audience, when to “GET EXCITED.” A pair of townhouse-sized hands clapped on the scoreboard in not-rhythm to the sound system. Even worse, for all the money flying around, the hands only had three fingers and a thumb each. Other agitation included a “Kiss Cam,” “Fan Meter” and other minor-league entertainments between innings (or just between pitches, given the pace of this game).

Looking around, I spotted blocks of brightly-colored shirts scattered around. Naturally this meant middle school students on a field trip, which begged the question of the educational value of their outing. Then again, the kids were probably safer here than in their actual school and they could work on a math and biology problems. The number of fingers on a hand would be a good start.

If all of this carnival seemed designed to distract, it was working as planned. The actual competition on the field consisted of two errors by the home team, not one but two plays overturned on replay, and the visitors had already scratched out a few runs. Two hours on and only in the fifth inning, it became decision time: make a break for it or stay to what could be a very bitter end. But there’s a saying in baseball, “You see something new every time.” In this case the Yanks were getting no-hit by just one pitcher. This was in contrast to the Astros game I attended where the Yanks were no-hit with a combination of five pitchers. I was in and then also out $21 for a final beer and peanuts.

And then the game happened. The Yanks scored but then left men on base. The innings started to move by more quickly, and suddenly we were in the bottom of the ninth, another run in and a man on base. Gary Sanchez strode up to the plate and BAM! Home run! The players went crazy and the fans left deliriously happy.

Worth the price, you ask? It’s a tough call, even for this “budget” afternoon. But today I’m just focused on two words: “Play Ball!”

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved

Today’s Answer Is In The Form Of A…

Like a panning shot from Lawrence of Arabia, sands now consume my neighborhood. No, grocery stores have not closed, so I’m not in a “food desert,” and public transit (kind of) works, avoiding a “transportation desert.” But the past few weeks have marked a different type of climate change—I live in a Question of the Day desert.

For those unfamiliar with the Question OTD, it is an “icebreaking” ritual that introduces a group strangers to each other before some main event. You may have gone through this “community bonding” during a corporate retreat or other team building exercise; for me it comes at the beginning of my CrossFit class. Assembled before the coach we say our name, how long we have been working out, and our response to the Question OTD.

Over time, the casual listener starts to learn a few things. Lacking the tether of a downtown desk I attend later morning or midday classes, which invites a broad range of folks with equally odd schedules. More importantly my head tends to be tethered to my pillow at 5:30 in the morning while the young masters of the universe are throwing around their barbells. Through many an answer to the Question OTD, I’ve found out this motley group has two emergency room doctors, a ward of nurses, and a couple of chiropractors-basically an in-house hospital for my inevitable injuries. Beyond professional recognition, with every passing class there’s an increased familiarity amongst us, with news about weddings, births, and personal best lifts softly filtering through.

A new coach recently started with the most vanilla of questions, “What is your favorite flavor of ice cream.” Clearly he wasn’t from New York, as the more relevant question might be, “Where’s the best bagel; what bar has the cheapest happy hour; or, ever practiced box jumps over a subway turnstile?” Another coach loves to ask about the ultimate desert disc dilemma—‘N Sync or Backstreet Boys. At the end of every December she asks for our New Year’s resolution. Mine is the perpetual quest to drop ten pounds, hers is the perpetual quest to “be in a relationship next year.” I resist the temptation to suggest more Frank Sinatra and less boy band.

While adhering to the general rules about polite dinner conversation (no sex, politics, or religion), occasionally things go the wrong way. A slightly frenetic coach loves obscure TV and cultural references, which is fine unless you grew up, like some participants, in Croatia. This creates a bonding opportunity when the rest of us nod appreciatively and search our Slavic dictionaries to translate “We didn’t watch Punky Bewster either, but apparently that’s all coach did growing up.”

So what went wrong? Recently I noticed our classes started with a simple hello and straight into warmups. When asked, the coach explained that the Question OTD was eliminated, “to increase the fluidity of the exercise experience.” I’m not sure what that means, but it sounds more like instructions to hurry up at the airport urinal because the boarding gate door is about to close. More importantly, I’m losing crucial information. Come Super Bowl time, the Question OTD invariably revolves about who will win the game, thus letting me know which Patriots fan to “accidentally” clock with a kettlebell. If I twist an ankle and ask for assistance, could I mistake the woman next me for a medical professional when she is, in fact, an angry feminist civil rights lawyer? Her fluid right hook might be the only indicator I was wrong.

And so the oasis of this little gift is gone: pop culture references are wilted; hope of knowing the best breakfast bite a mere mirage. But since you asked, my name is Alexander, I’ve been working out at CrossFit since 2013, and coffee Häagen Dazs. By the pint. 

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved

On the College Waterfront

One of my favorite Sopranos story lines involved Christopher Moltisanti not doing something. Naturally Christopher was involved in a scam, in this case a boiler room pump and dump stock market racket. But that not doing something was taking the Series 7 securities exam. During the test scene, a decidedly Asian-American replied “here” when the proctor called Christopher’s decidedly Italian-American name. The proctor didn’t even blink. I felt for Christopher, as years ago I had taken (and passed all by myself) the Series 7. As an added irony, back then you had to walk by a Federal prison, downtown New York’s Metropolitan Correctional Center, on the way to the nearby test center. Credit the Feds for their not-so-subtle hint/humor.

This all came to mind with the news of high-end bribery and deception in applying to elite colleges. Sure enough, there were allegations of proxies taking the SAT’s instead of the actual students. In one case it is alleged that a student (through their parents’ money) arranged to have a proctor correct mistakes on their bubble sheet. More amazingly, it seems you can pay to have your own private classroom with an individual proctor. And then there are the stories of Photoshopped pictures “proving” the athletic prowess of various candidates

My last college application went into the mail in December, 1982. I get that the world has changed, college admissions is a wild and chaotic place, and elite colleges (and some upper-end public universities) now have a completely different rule book (one that seems unwritten, to the frustration of almost everyone). But flat-out bribing sports coaches and corrupting standardized tests seems extreme—quite literally mob tactics.

Now my own high school experience was definitely not Middle America average. I went to a New England prep school, the kind with lots of red brick buildings and tasteful amounts of ivy covering the walls. There were plenty of kids around with surnames that matched those on the buildings, buildings (and family fortunes) that had been around since the War—that is between the Civil War and WWI. The story went around that in the generation previous to mine two school officials would get together for their annual meeting to figure out who would go to Harvard and Radcliffe. This wasn’t to advise the students, it was to advise the two schools. Applying wasn’t a formality, but not the significant factor back then. And while the final results between “the list” and admission may not have been a perfect match, back then you wanted your name on that list.

By my time the Mr. Chips admissions culture had passed, but certainly not the influence of a name. But not always. A woman a year or two ahead of me had the name of at least one building on Harvard’s campus. A very large building. She was whip smart, great grades, varsity athlete, campus leader, etc., etc. It didn’t occur to anybody that she wouldn’t be headed to Cambridge, that is until she didn’t get in. I think she consoled herself at Princeton or Dartmouth for the next four years. 

This rare exception aside, my recent high school reunion reminded me that on the whole, hard work was the best asset for applicants. A group of my classmates were walking around together on campus and it dawned on me that they all had gone to Harvard. And looking at them, they all deserved it. Each had the top grades in high school; each had natural intellectual gifts that they maximized; each earned their spot. They were now leaders in their various professions; one even ended up with an Olympic medal. My own Harvard quest was probably best summarized in the movie Risky Business when Princeton’s admissions officer declares Joel Goodsen’s record as “Good, but not really Ivy League.” And that would be fair.

We aren’t going to solve the college admissions fairness debate here, and no doubt the moneyed will always have advantages for SAT tutors, legacy pedigrees, and donating a dorm just before junior’s application. But the sad part of this story is that the kids weren’t even trying, weren’t even pretending to play the game. They (and their parents) were making an offer that everyone should have refused.

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved

State of the Beer Union

Going through The Wall Street Journal last week there was yet another article about national discord, attempts at reconciliation, and ultimately failure to cooperate. Shockingly, it had nothing to do with the circus in Washington, D.C. or North Korean diplomacy. Rather, the American beer industry is acting out like children or Members of Congress, whomever you feel is less mature.

This particular article dealt with the US beer industry (or at least the American subsidiaries of multi-national conglomerates) and its attempts to stem the decline of beer consumption in this country. The idea was to come up with a catchy phrase along the lines of the dairy and meat industries and their successful “Got Milk?”, “Beef, it’s not just for dinner anymore.”, and “Spinach, not just Popeye’s crack.” campaigns. All was rolling along in communal marketing harmony until the good folks at Bud Light declared war. Using the sets and costumes from Monty Python’s Holy Grail, their recent ads featured medieval marauders attacking all those who used corn syrup in their brews. Dilly, dilly cried the competition, and like Nancy Pelosi and her weird hand clapping behind the President, everyone went back to hating each other, no closer to a common ad line.

All of this begs the bigger question: to paraphrase the voiceover of the movie Casino, “How did they managed to screw up paradise?”

Paradise in this realm would be my mid-80’s collegiate years. For a weekend party, the fraternity would have five or six kegs of Miller delivered. The beer would go for $25 a keg or so, plus deposit and tap rental. In corporate-speak, this offered a “great value proposition.” Inexplicably, local favorite Old Style went for a few bucks more. As it was Old Style, the words “great” or “value” were never applied. Neither were the words “tasty” or “drinkable” for that matter. Heineken was nearly 40 dollars a keg, so we only bought that for rush week to impress potential pledges. I really enjoyed rush week. 

And what did the beer makers have to fear back then? Wine coolers? Like you remember that Bartles & Jaymes actually had a “y” in its name. Blender drinks? Sure for two hours of TGIF cocktails, but not for an all-night party. Wine? Wait, there was wine back then? You mean the stuff people who had jobs could afford and knew how to order? Besides, what was the fun in chugging a Merlot?

Fast forward to today’s low-suds drinking environment. We live in a land where the wine is explained to us with pictures and phrases on the labels. Gin, vodka, and even bourbon come in more flavors than Halloween candy. There’s something called spiked seltzer. Line up drinks from a kid’s birthday party and a 20-something’s cocktail mixer, and you’d be hard-pressed to see any difference—and a sippy cup isn’t necessarily the giveaway.

Maybe the solution is some first-person research. A stone’s throw away from my apartment (well two throws and an infield relay if you play for the Mets) is a bar called Five Mile Stone. From the outside one always sees a busy scene of smiling young customers enjoying their “food and fare.” Easing onto a bar stool, one picks up a “beer menu” with descriptions about a “hoppy nose,” “organic barley,” and other verbiage usually reserved for Whole Foods shoppers. A bartender approaches in his youthful armor of jeans, plaid shirt, suspenders, and a beard so full it could stop a battle ax. The overall effect resembles a beer wookiee. He asks me what I want to drink, and I look around nervously, desperately searching for something vaguely familiar. But no, all the taps have weird animals on them in every color and in seemingly extra-terrestrial shapes. And then it hits me—beer isn’t an American staple anymore, it’s the bar scene from Star Wars.

Help me Obi-Wan, I just wanted a Bud Light.

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved