The Beautiful Grift

 

Today America welcomes a record-setting 48 countries to compete in this year’s FIFA World Cup soccer competition. Despite an endless number of stadiums that could hold this event, the kickoff will be in…Mexico. Yes, we’ve literally outsourced hosting athletic events to cheaper providers.

If all of this strikes you as odd (Canada has a few games as well, begging the question if President Trump was really serious about adding these countries as new US states), you would be right. This should be a Democratic Socialist dream time—a game so simple that (and think of Pele) you can learn it in your bare feet kicking around a bundled-up ball of socks. But as Democratic Socialists in this country (and from around the world) have shown, not only has the big money corrupted the dream, but also the dream is now dead.

Of all people, New Jersey Governor Mikie Sherrill sounded this alarm the loudest. In true Jersey Democratic Socialist style, her new reign has featured additional taxes and business-crushing regulations that continue the Garden State’s rapid decline. Audacious even by Jersey standards, she announced that Jersey Transit train tickets would be, hold your breath, $150 round trip between New York City’s Penn Station and the “New York New Jersey Stadium” (a.k.a. Met Life Stadium, a.k.a. the new Giants stadium). Now that wasn’t for all eight games, that was per game. It is also a round-trip ride that normally goes for $13. Left unseen was the sight of Jersey mobster loan sharks scratching their heads wondering how you can get away with that kind of robbery.

Sherrill justified this price point as a response to “New Jersey Transit losing $45 million” for this service. The logical extension to this is that Jersey Transit loses $90 million a year for all of the Jets and Giants games they serve. If true (and as we will see it isn’t), this would be only slightly less painful than having to watch all the Jets and Giants games. Given that Sherrill is an engineering graduate from the Naval Academy, I’d expect her math to be top notch. Given that Sherrill did not walk in her college graduation for unspecified conduct violations, I’m always leery of trusting any of her numbers.

So what could possibly be going on here?

Maybe Sherrill is still aggravated about New York City’s commuter tax every time a car goes into Manhattan.

Maybe she’s pissed off that everyone seems to be staying in New York and just using the Jersey stadium to watch the game, pee, and then go back to New York.

Maybe she’s annoyed that the name “New York” is associated with Jersey’s hosting—as if the New York name is the pixie dust that hides the World Cup’s dirty little secret.

What Sherill should have done is articulate the reason behind the money grab—it’s that her predecessor signed a deal that, even by the most fluid of sporting economic models, guaranteed that Jersey taxpayers would pay to have the games, not earn money by hosting.

Buried in the details of the hosting agreement were FIFA’s demands to eliminate sales tax on tickets; take over the entire parking lot for “fan experiences,” VIP tents and security (thus eliminating tax revenue from parking), and second-only-to-the-President-visiting security requirement (paid for, naturally, by the state). There’s even a requirement that FIFA could demand a temporary dome over the stadium—not at FIFA’s expense, of course. The money has got to come from somewhere, and what’s an extra few bucks after folks have paid (directly to FIFA) a grand or more for nosebleed seats.

The other side of the Hudson, in a state that isn’t hosting so much as a pickup game, isn’t fairing any better than this. Mayor Mamdani is declaring a “state of emergency” on game days and closing off access to Penn Station except to ticket holders. Which is odd, since the only state of emergency on game days is usually associated with the Jets and Giants defense. Although closing off Penn Station might not be such a bad idea, as five innocent commuters were slashed by (of course) a repeat violent attacker the night before President Trump visited just above at Madison Square Garden for Monday’s Knicks game.

Maybe this will be the tipping point to end the absurdity surrounding these large events, much like breakdancing nearly broke the Paris Olympics’ sense of any sporting purpose. I’d feel better if the US team had a chance, but quite literally the entire world is showing up with their best. Unlike bombing Iran, our soccer precision is not as advanced—as a country we don’t celebrate faking seemingly bone-crushing injuries only to get up moments later and run like the wind. I’ll cheer our lads on, refusing to comment on their “kit” (uniforms), how they play on the “pitch” (field), or if they dribble through a “nil-nil (0-0 tie) game. My celebration will be knowing that the $150 I spend on really good food and drink in front of my TV isn’t going to Jersey’s bottomless tax hunger or FIFA’s corruption of the beautiful game.

© 2026 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.

If You Can Make It Here…

 

We’ve all been there—after a particularly hard bar crawl, you wake up with the mother of all hangovers. After some Tylenol, greasy eggs, and a gallon of coffee, you expect to return to a lucid, if not productive, state. And yet, the day goes by and nothing seems to improve. Then it hits you—yes you went out to hard, but you actually are starting to get a cold or the flu, and nothing you eat or drink is going to stop nature taking its course. Yesterday in New York City was the realization that you wished you merely had the mother of all hangovers.

Tuesday’s mayoral election offered voters a candidate who so despised free markets that he advocated the practical freezing of rents on already rent-controlled and rent-stabilized apartments. The same candidate felt that bail laws were so unjust that bail should be eliminated except for the most extreme and serious offenses, and even then it was a crap shoot. There was also another candidate named Zohran Mamdani.

If the left suffers from what the right derisively calls “Trump Derangement Syndrome,” then opponents of Mayor-Elect Mamdani suffered from Cuomo Salvation Syndrome. I had many friends—intelligent, politically knowledgeable, and full of energy—speak of Cuomo not only as the better candidate, but also as someone who would be good for the city. Maybe 12 years of mayors de Blasio and Adams have so brainwashed New Yorkers that the man singularly responsible for the city and state’s destruction could be seen as something good. His greatest hits of paralyzing the city’s apartment rental market (and crushing landlords), giving crooks free reign to steal from stores, and mishandling every aspect of the Covid crisis somehow is lost in the collective memory. And let’s not forget groping more money by increasing taxes and groping innumerable women, including a state trooper on his security detail. Maybe all of that pot smoke in the air means everyone is just too stoned to think clearly.

Speaking of not thinking clearly, nobody can explain how even one Jewish voter in the city could pull the lever for a rabid and open antisemite. Mamdani isn’t just some rabble-rousing university student, he’s a full-blown enemy of the Jewish people and Jewish faith. Outside of the stalwart ultraorthodox Hasidim, there was plenty of Jewish support for Mamdani. Whatever drugs they were taking, pot smoke for those voters was the least mind-altering thing in their bodies.

It seems that there are two key lessons from Mamdani’s victory. First, the words and actions of “power brokers,” be they moneyed Wall Street types or party leaders, are not to be feared as they once were. Even after winning the primary, New York Democratic party leaders played coy with their endorsements, trying to project an image that Mamdani wasn’t really a serious option until they gave their stamp of approval. Of course, they were really hoping was that, somehow, Mamdani would lose and they wouldn’t be shown up by an upstart younger than their own children.

Second, urban political candidates seem to have a winning formula—call it the Instagram AOC method. First, be young. Second, use that youthful energy to hustle, hustle, hustle. Actually these two things go hand-in-hand, as Democratic Socialists probably don’t have anything else to do (think bartender AOC or back-bench Assemblyman Mamdani). Third, make a billion Tic Tok videos. Finally, blame the rich, demand they pay their fair share (whatever that might be) and promise to provide all of society’s goodies for free. The whole process is low cost (and even if you need a few campaign posters, George Soros will pay for them), avoids any press scrutiny by cutting out the press, and lacks any accountability because “the rich will pay for it.” On top of it all, it scares the crap out of the Democratic establishment because they can’t control any of it and gives patriarch Bernie Sanders even more airtime.

I don’t wish for more crime in New York City, primarily because it means more innocent victims. I don’t wish for communist-style housing, because nobody goes to communist countries for the great apartment living. And I certainly don’t wish for higher taxes, as the current government doesn’t spend what it has very well. But over a million New York City residents voted for a candidate who is happy to make this so. It may be a four-year hangover that no amount of coffee can cure.

© 2025 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.

Send Up A Signal

 

The word came down from on high—no more recipient auto fill allowed when sending emails from our Outlook. Yes, one of the world’s largest technology companies (the kind you only know about by walking past their innocuous yet omnipresent ads in most major airports) was banning one of the most common, and time-saving, features in modern communications. Unsaid was why, but everyone knew that somebody had accidentally copied the wrong person on an email.

The unfolding story about the Trump administration’s national security team’s unwitting inclusion of a hostile reporter to their Houthi bombing text chain has caused an international stir. Screaming headlines of “Leaked Classified Information” started every story, with cabinet officials dancing around what the definition of is, is, when it comes to classifying battle plans. Getting past the emoji bro-boasting, there was some interesting substance to the conversation. While bashing Europe is a daily pastime for this administration, it highlights an important problem for the U.S.: why are we swatting $10,000 drones out of the sky with million-dollar missiles? The right of freely navigating international waters is important, but this plan can’t work financially in the long term—other countries have to share in this cost or launch their own million-dollar missiles. Perhaps the mighty Belgian navy can splatter high-quality chocolate against these enemy menaces.

Yet it seems to me that nobody is asking the most critical question: Why was anybody having a conversation in the first place, other than to confirm operational success?

During my time working for the Giuliani administration, I was hardly the guy who was in the room where it happened (even though City Hall was barely a half mile from Alexander Hamilton’s grave). But I did have plenty of meetings with the folks who were in that room. One such time was with a Deputy Mayor and his staff, with my boss and I joining in (our part of the administration reported to a different Deputy Mayor). Over the course of our meeting, the increasingly agitated Deputy Mayor blurted out in anger, “But this agency reports to me!” My boss, a master of managing internal politics, gently but firmly reminded him, “The MAYOR asked our Deputy Mayor to run with this.” Some might refer to this as a “power move,” but it really was a reminder that this meeting was about moving forward and that the decision on who was leading it had already been made by the boss. Implicit was also the message that the offended party could go back to the Mayor, but it wouldn’t end well bringing it up again.

Which brings us back to text chains and bombing Houthis. I have no doubt that Trump’s national security team had prepared policy memos and made presentations to the President, weighed the options, and been given the final go-ahead. I’m also sure that some advisors were annoyed that some of their views weren’t adopted, and I’m also equally sure there are corridors in the West Wing or sulky staff offices where these folks could blow off some steam. The collective leadership failure, then, was not knowing when to stop talking, through a text app or otherwise, and move on to the next issue. Going back to the boss was not an option.

As to the consequences of this app-driven SNAFU, my own feeling is that whoever added the errant journalist’s name to the group chat, and increasingly it seems to be National Security Advisor Mike Waltz, needs to be fired. There was no subterfuge or ill will in his actions, but he utterly screwed up with the most sensitive of information.

And what ever happened to sending emails from my former consulting company employer? A few weeks later another note came through that the auto fill restriction had been lifted. There was an admonition to check your sender’s list very carefully going forward, a concept more than a few people in D.C. should be taking to heart.

© 2025 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.

Taking Out The Garbage

 

Tuesday is trash and recycling day on my block. Normally an invisible process, for the past two weeks the same oversized cardboard box remained stuck in my blue bin. By sheer coincidence yesterday I heard the truck coming down my street, and so in my Florida man flip flops I grabbed the box and ran down the sidewalk to catch the truck. Peering down at me from his cab, the driver pointed, indicating that I should put the box in my neighbor’s blue bin, and within seconds my Amazon packaging was off on its next journey.

After last night, the Democrats could learn a thing or two about taking out the garbage.

Trash is real; you can feel and smell it. You want it out of your home and thought of no more. For the Democrats, once again, they made the case that wide swaths of the electorate, that is, their fellow Americans, where nothing but trash. And for the second time in three presidential elections, voters ran to the polls in all manner of footwear to throw out these elites. Maybe this time the Democrats will learn not to recycle bad candidates.

It would also help the Democrats if they started to look around and run on actual issues.

The Harris campaign whistled inside-the-Beltway terms of “democracy in danger,” “women’s health at risk,” “no guardrails,” and “Project 2025” and expected the electorate to follow like Pavlov’s dog. Of course the electorate they needed to target has no clue what these phrases mean—my Project 2025 is planning my 60^th birthday celebration. What drives voters is their pocketbooks and personal safety. Apparently, eye care still isn’t covered under Obamacare, because anyone looking north of the Rio Grande could see outright lawlessness from an invading army of illegal aliens for whom taxpayers are being asked to shell out for their housing, food, and legal defense. It turned Texas into a route against the Democrats and opened up Arizona and Nevada for Republican gains.

It also didn’t help the Democrats to demonize an entire class of the population—that is, men. The logical extension of their abortion argument, not lost on men, is that if you aren’t with Democrats for full abortion rights, then you hate women. Yet when the Dems lose the critical male vote, they then blame it on…men. It’s a circular firing squad against the voters they need most. And because of the premise that abortion is the first, foremost, and only issue, the idea that many Americans are facing diminishing purchasing power and sky-high mortgage rates gets completely missed. Maybe the Dems can’t see this clearly from all the pot smoke they are trying to legalize.

Beyond aggravating the overall electorate, the Democrats were their own worst enemy with their candidate. They had someone to run, namely the democratically elected nominee and current President, Joe Biden. Instead, like a Sopranos mob war over garbage hauling routes, they whacked the boss. Somehow elite media didn’t seem to think this was a threat to democracy What the Democrats also forgot is that when you stage a coup, you kill the former leader or at least exile him to a third country where he ends his days in isolation enjoying his ill-gotten gains. Instead they kept their petulant former boss in the White House and sent him to Delaware for the weekends. So today’s New York Times headline describing the country as “America Hires a Strongman” drips with so much irony you would need a stack of napkins to wipe it off your face as if it were a melting ice cream cone. An organic, lactose-free, free-range non-binary cow ice cream cone, naturally.

One last point for the Dems Project 2028, especially if they field another woman, is the concession speech on election night (or the early morning after). It’s the most painful thing to address friends and family after losing—I’ve had to do it as a candidate myself. But this year and in 2016 neither Kamala nor Hillary could do it. Heck, Hillary had even called Trump to concede. Man up and face the people when you know you are done. Talking to cameras and some dour-faced staffers the next afternoon  makes for a terrible last image of your campaign. The voters expect it, and men respect it.

On January 20^th, trucks will roll into the two most secure residences in Washington, D.C. Men will get out of the cabs with reflective vests over their cold-weather gear. Look closely, because they are the movers taking away the previous occupants’ possessions; it’s understandable if you mistook them for taking out the garbage, but that would be deplorable.

© 2024 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved

My Editorial Endorsement…

 

While my 1996 New York City Council campaign may not have lit up the political world, I still scored a Willy Wonka-style golden ticket: The New York Times editorial interview. Running as a Republican, even on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, was still running in enemy Democratic territory—doubly so at Times headquarters. Undeterred, my consultant prepped me: don’t worry about discussing lower crime during the Giuliani years, improving business conditions, or decreasing taxes. All they care about is public campaign financing. Also, nobody is going to see this; the Times’ own research shows that only 8% of people read the editorial page.

And there it was—I was just going through a clickbait exercise, even before there was such a thing as clickbait.

The point, as the numbers pointed out, wasn’t for the legions of readers to go to the polls with my name burned in their minds from the editorial page. The point was to talk about the endorsement, as if the election gods had now spread their fairy dust of approval. The morning after editorial endorsements came out, candidates would print up stickers to slap on their signs and send out fundraising mailers heralding the news. Of course this was for a very select audience. Miguel the bodega owner in Spanish Harlem didn’t read the Times, probably didn’t even sell it, and cared more about lowering crime, improving business conditions, and keeping his hard-earned money. Miguel didn’t know public campaign financing even existed.

All of this comes to mind with major newspapers stopping their editorial endorsements. Conservative critics see this as mere window dressing, a small concession to hide the blatant bias behind the overall op-ed section, much less the slant of everyday reporting. Credit the Los Angeles Times and Washington Post for going endorse-less. For various reasons the publishers and/or owners of these and other papers concluded that the business of journalists should be journalism, not political endorsements. Another way of putting it is that democracy doesn’t die in darkness, but newspapers do when they can’t pay their electricity bills. And the business of newspapers is not thriving. Economically, the biggest losers in all of this are the political consultants and PR folks now that “editorial endorsement outreach” is one less fee they can charge their clients. But worry not for this working class; there’s an endless stream of Instagram postings, polling research, and other activities to make up for the lost income.

Worry, however, for the journalists. Not worry for the people, but the profession. Writers for both the LA Times and Washington Post went ballistic. Editorial board members resigned. Cries of how dare the owner commit the act of making a business decision rang out. If it all sounds like petulant children crying because nap time was over, or any college student complaining that their avocado toast wasn’t both organic and certified sustainable, you would be right. But what would you expect? These same elite coddled children who need even more coddling (a.k.a. “support”) in their elite colleges are now the ones posing as journalists. They forgot that Marx’s maxim of the workers owning the means of production stopped at the classroom and capitalism started when Jeff Bezos started writing your Washington Post paycheck.  

As for the Times, they proudly declared that they would no longer make endorsements except for major national races. As only the Times could, they perfectly encapsulated both their hypocrisy and entitlement. New York is not worthy of their time, just the entire nation. They’ll continue their tradition of avoiding reality (remember their second endorsement of David Dinkins for mayor in the 1993 race) to maintain their self-defined moral superiority. A part of me will miss this messy scrum of local politics—for little campaigns it was a small chance to shine. For my own race, the outrage from my friends and family wasn’t over my opponent getting the expected endorsement but that the Times accused me of being a lawyer. Even back then, fact checking at the Times wasn’t a big thing.

On the upside, without spending time on editorial endorsements, maybe journalists will focus on all the news that’s fit to print. Some people might even buy that paper.

© 2024 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.

Crossfire

 

Going up a small fight of steps, the entrance was on my right. To my left, a path of grass maybe 20 feet wide opening up to rows and rows of trees. I knew where I was going, but still asked which door I could use. Could is the key word here. They said I could go in the right-hand door, the implication being they wouldn’t stop me but wouldn’t vouch for what happened inside. I didn’t need to push my luck, so I chose the left-hand set of doors. And by “they” I mean two Secret Service officers, both in tactical fatigues, one with spotter’s binoculars, the other prone on the ground, .50 caliber sniper rifle resting on a bed of sandbags, facing those trees. And behind the right-hand door, the sitting Vice President of the United States, his staff, and Secret Service detail.

It wasn’t as if I shouldn’t have been there. I was working advance for the event, my “S” pin was firmly visible on my lapel, my look completed with an earpiece for my radio comms. I was used to crowds of large men with service pistols around me, but that sniper rifle had only one purpose, and I had no interest in finding out how the business end of its discharge felt. While taking place in Kalamazoo, Michigan, it was a Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore moment.

Much has been already written, and even more will come, about Saturday’s assassination attempt on President Trump. The immediacy was shocking, the intimacy of the photographs unprecedented, and the reaction came at warp speed. If circumstances had been different, I might very well have been walking around that rally could have been caught in the crossfire. What is important to keep in mind is to let the facts of the investigations come through, watch any testimony, and read the reports. Nobody has all the answers now; we still don’t seem to have a whisper of motivation for the shooter’s actions. There’s also an uncomfortable truth: despite the seeming glamor and wall of firepower, the Secret Service is still a government operation.

If you are lucky, the only government you have to face is filing your taxes. Yet as everyone knows, this is a process with rules, regulations, and paperwork. Presidential protection is no different. The highest levels of protection are for the sitting President and Vice President; further down are nominated candidates, declared candidates, and then somewhere in the mix are former Presidents and other dignitaries. As the sitting President, the setup in Butler would have been very different and far more encompassing to eliminate potential site lines of attack. As a candidate, the level of coverage is not as far reaching—hence much of the discussion about responsibility between local police and the Secret Service around various perimeter levels. Exactly who was supposed to do what, and what may have been missed will be the subject of multiple investigations and reports.

Unlike filing taxes, I found my dealings with the Secret Service professional, thoughtful, and filled with hard-working men and women performing a tough job under difficult circumstances. I was witness to (and mercifully not the target of) animated discussions about, yes, outdoor venues and how to maximize security versus visibility to the crowds. Experienced hands, however, always came to an understanding and the events moved forward.

But with a government operation comes political players, and none was more in the spotlight than Secret Service Director Kimberly Cheatle. She met with President Trump, which was an expedient move to reassure a protectee, as well as show leadership. Less reassuring was her surprise walk around the floor of the Republican National Convention, where her presence was met with the warmth given to vegans protesting in a cattlemen’s convention. Maybe she was scoping out how it will feel for the upcoming Congressional hearings.

As I’ve said, I want to sit back and take in as much information before I will place blame. This was right until published reports said that the Secret Service dissuaded President Trump from attending the funeral of Corey Comperatore because they couldn’t “secure the nearby forest.” Toto, I’ve seen the sniper’s nests outside the forest—it has been secured before and can be again.

© 2024 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.

Jetlagged

 

My wife and I like to travel. We’re not the go off to Borneo and hike around the jungle for two weeks types. It’s more like we can carve out 72 hours, so let’s zip over to Rome for a long weekend. After landing and dropping off our bags during day one, we did the Colosseum, Forum, and three museums before sundown. Sure it’s tiring, but with a little planning and some determination, you can pack much more in a day than you think possible. It helps that we get airline upgrades to aid with sleep going over and we cash out points for nice hotels once we are overseas. Getting back stateside, we spent six days in the Maryland hills in a well-guarded retreat recuperating and preparing for our television appearances. You see where this is going.

If the 2016 election was the reality show election come to life, 2024 is reality showing what life is really like. Despite choosing the channel, conditions, and time, Joe Biden managed to show the world how feeble he is, both mentally and physically. Among the many excuses Joe had were jetlag from his D-Day trip two weeks before, suffering from a cold, and, I think, the dog ate his talking points. All I know is that I’d be happy to borrow Air Force One for overseas jaunts if Joe finds it too much work.

Like Capt. Renault in Casablanca, supporters expressed how shocked, shocked! they were at the utter deterioration of the President. Since liberals block Fox News from their cable boxes, they wouldn’t have seen the cornucopia of decline that defines Joe’s existence—endless stairway tripping, wide orthopedic sneakers, blank stares, and meaningless muttering.

Now the words of crisis, panic, and catastrophe are used to describe the Democrats, this time by the Democrats themselves and the mainstream media. There’s an entire rabbit hole to go down about scenarios—Biden drops out, and Republicans start hearings about officials covering up Joe’s fitness for office; Biden wins but then resigns after the inauguration, and Republicans start hearings about officials covering up Joe’s fitness for office; on and on and on. You would think that Democrats might be a touch more worried about stubborn high inflation, high mortgage rates hurting the housing industry, oil prices touching historical highs, and America’s humiliation in international affairs, especially from Muslim countries. History, however, shows the Democrats are oblivious to it all.

Think back to 1980, with Jimmy Carter leading a nation with stubborn high inflation, high mortgage rates hurting the housing industry, oil prices touching historical highs, and America’s humiliation in international affairs with the Iranian hostage crisis. In this bleakness the Democrats overwhelmingly renominated Carter. Maybe it was post-Watergate hubris lurking around the party; even a young, thin, and energetic Ted Kennedy couldn’t make the needed headway as an alternative nominee. The Reagan years were about to begin.

But with barely a bump in the road, primarily because Joe barely traveled, Democrats overwhelmingly delivered the delegates for Joe’s second nomination. Yet here’s the unimaginable thing, the multi-twist pretzel scenario of where we are: without too much effort (not that Joe has much to give), Biden can win. Look at the numbers.

There are, effectively, six or seven swing states that will decide the election. This isn’t news, but it’s well worth remembering. Wisconsin, Michigan, Pennsylvania, Nevada, Arizona, Georgia, and North Carolina are the biggest names. Sure Florida and Ohio are out there, but the trend isn’t so blue. Joe took Michigan and Pennsylvania by multiples of Hillary’s loss margin. Maybe loosened mail-in ballot laws helped, but those are numbers to remember. Wisconsin flipped by the same margin of Trump’s 2016 victory. Republicans have screwed up the party in Nevada and particularly Arizona so much that they may blow the gift of the illegal alien invasion as a central campaign issue. And who knows about Georgia.

Most of this is the number crunching, inside political baseball that keeps something on the air for 24-hour news stations. We are just under four months from election day and anything can, and probably will, happen. Heck, in three weeks the Yankees went from league-leading juggernaut to old men needing help down the steps.

My suggestion is everyone take a deep breath, get some sleep, and be patient with this long ride—Rome wasn’t built in a day, and this election isn’t getting an upgrade anytime soon.

© 2024 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.

Requiem for the Pac-12

 

Of the thousands of baseball games, from t-ball to the bigs, that were played over the past long weekend, one stood out. It wasn’t for some solemn Memorial Day remembrance, but for lowering the flag on a sports icon. In Scottsdale, Arizona, the University of Arizona beat USC on a walk-off single, marking the final conference championship game of the conference of champions. That final hit to left with the runner just beating the catcher’s tag closed out the Pac-12’s existence.

Growing up, New Year’s Day in the Stephens household was nothing special. My parents did not do big New Year’s Eve bashes, preferring to raise a glass on London time, some six hours before midnight. New York City’s inevitable grey, chilly start to the new year hardly inspired long hours running around outside. But come late afternoon, one immovable and sacred ritual held forth: watching the Rose Bowl.

I have no idea why this was so important to my father. His Harvard Crimson had not contended for a bowl berth since before WWII. But we sat in awe of the spectacle on our TV screen: warm sunshine, scrubbed stands, and a mountain backdrop—Hollywood perfect on Hollywood’s doorstep. And there was that sense of continuity; another year of the Pac 10 and Big 10 champions fighting it out as the California sunset closed the first day of the year. And in true movie style, the games seemed to be sequels of either USC or UCLA playing Michigan or Ohio State.

In the era before everyone-gets-a-trophy bowl games, it was also a proud regional display. Long Slavic names barely fit on the Big 10 linemen’s jerseys; tufts off blond hair stuck out from the helmets of the Pac-10’s quarterbacks. Dazed Michigan fans couldn’t understand how the sun lasted so long in the sky at that time of year; Angelenos wondered if the traffic would be bad getting home. Sure I exaggerate and even stereotype for dramatic effect, but look back at the video and you would say I was a lot closer to the truth.

Like so much else, maybe college sports is just morphing into the homogenized world of GAP and Walmart. The irony is that these stores are now more mall geographical points than drivers of taste—the exact opposite regional character. What’s left of the remaining power conferences looks more like the route map of this country’s major airlines—going to all sorts of places in seemingly random ways.

I’m not against some of the bigger changes in college sports, as NIL’s, stipends, and now flat-out revenue-sharing payments are here to stay. And especially for athletes who won’t get to the pros, there will be significant financial support during their student years. More importantly, gone is much of the NCAA’s hypocrisy and flat-out corruption. But are super-sized conferences with “students” swapping teams through the transfer portal really part of college? Are those in the stands really cheering on their team or just a show assembled by money-tossing boosters? It’s a recipe of nihilism swirling in a cauldron cynicism—hardly what today’s youth needs.

Many a columnist has said that college sports have not died but are just changed forever, and I’d like to believe that. But when the teams are just employees playing for money, directed by men and women making even more money, all of whom are subject to the whims of fan fashion and management change, you are left to call it that most American thing: Hollywood. Unlike the movies, the Pac-12 found out there is no happy ending. In fact I’m not even sure how interested I am in watching the Rose Bowl next year, even if it keeps the memory of my father alive.

© 2024 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.

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.