For those who may be thinking life stinks, cheer up: you could be Steve Bartman, the Chicago Cubs fan who got in the way of a Cubs outfielder's attempt to catch a foul ball in the eighth inning of Game 6 in the 2003 National League Championship Series.
At the time, the Cubs had a three-run lead in the eighth inning and were up, three games to two, on the Florida Marlins. Cubs pitcher Mark Prior was throwing a shutout. If "The Bartman Incident," as it is known, hadn't happened and Moises Alou somehow had caught the pop foul by Luis Castillo, it would have meant the second out --- putting the Cubs four outs away from going to the World Series for the first time since 1945.
Ah, if only ifs and buts were candy and nuts. But instead, the Marlins would score eight runs in the inning. They won the next game and went on to beat the Yankees in the World Series.
As for Steve Bartman, the 26-year-old Little League coach didn't go home with a souvenir baseball, but he caught plenty of grief from his fellow fans. Still wearing his Cubs cap, Bartman had to keep his jacket up to his face as he left, escorted from the stadium for his own protection.
It was only the beginning for the unfortunate fellow who suddenly became known as the most hated man in Chicago. Meanwhile, the Cubs have not been closer to a World Series since that night and Steve Bartman remains That Guy to a lot of fans.
Of all the reasons to be hated by people you never met...whew.
I mention this because I just heard a radio interview with director Alex Gibney, whose film on "The Bartman Incident" and the fallout, titled "Catching Hell," is about to make its premiere at the Tribeca Film Festival here in New York.
It sounds like a fascinating documentary. In recent years, there's been more attention paid -- finally -- to bullying and the damage it can cause to victimized kids, if adults turn a blind eye instead of taking action.
But I'm thinking that the turning of Steve Bartman into the ultimate scapegoat, simply because he did what pretty much any fan in the ballpark would -- try to catch a ball coming into the stands -- is sort of a lifetime sentence to being bullied.
Then again, the word "fan" is regarded as short for "fanatic" and it is almost expected that fanatics will find a way to leave reasonableness out of any discussion about cause and effect.
For Steve Bartman, the ugly and angry reactions of fans who blamed him for the Cubs' ignominious exit from baseball's post-season caused the need for police cars outside his home. He became the butt of cruel jokes by TV show hosts. On the Internet, the quality of mercy was strained by vengeful strangers, under the guise of Cub supporters, who could not -- would not -- get over it. Instead, they posted personal information, including Bartman's address and telephone number, for other nuts to read and maybe act on.
To this day, he avoids the spotlight and continues to turn down offers -- reportedly, involving six-figure sums -- to talk about what happened that night at the ballpark. At the very least, Bartman went into hiding as a baseball fan. He declined an invitation to take an active part in Gibney's film.
My own team in the National League is the New York Mets. So, it's not lost on me that the two players principally involved in "The "Bartman Incident" -- Castillo and Alou -- went on to play for the Mets.
By that time, Alou was often hurting and near the end of a fine career, though he would set a club record with a 30-game hitting streak in 2007, when he was 41.
While playing for the Mets, Alou recalled "The Bartman Incident" in an interview with The Associated Press and said that he felt "really bad" for Bartman. Additionally, he acknowledged that he wouldn't have made the catch of Castillo's foul ball, even if a fan had not deflected it.
The admission was quite different from Alou's immediate reaction that night -- he was described as being "livid" on television -- which did not spare Steve Bartman.
"Hopefully, he won't have to regret it for the rest of his life," Alou said, in the wake of the loss.
Luis Castillo, who had set the sequence of events in motion by sending Mark Prior's pitch towards the seats in Wrigley Field's left-field corner -- and Bartman -- became a different story of sorts, in his own way
Castillo earned a championship ring as a member of the Marlins. But his signature moment as a Met occurred during a June 2009 game against the Yankees --- when he dropped an infield pop-up with two outs in the bottom of the ninth, allowing two runs to score and turning an 8-7 victory into a 9-8 loss. The fact that it came against the Yankees made the defeat all the more bitter.
After Castillo's misadventure in the field, most Mets fans wished he'd go into hiding.
"It was a gift from God --- or Castillo," was the view of Yankees slugger Alex Rodriguez, who had hit the pop fly, as quoted by the New York Daily News following the game.
Mets fans never entertained the notion of divine intervention. Radio talk shows became forums for heated campaigns demanding Castillo's banishment, which finally came with his release during spring training this year.
Now that I think of it, the Mets haven't been back to the World Series since Castillo botched that seemingly easy catch at Yankee Stadium --- or, going further back, since he hit the ball that beckoned to Steve Bartman that night at Wrigley Field.
Chicago Cubs fans might want to consider that maybe, just maybe, the wrong guy's name has been attached to the "incident" subsequently blamed for the end of their world in 2003.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Goodbyes Come In All Kinds And Sizes
One of the nicer things I’ll remember about last year is how I managed to reconnect with a former neighbor who lived two doors away when we were growing up in Elmhurst. Besides the two years I had on him, a difference between us was that Randy Balz had stayed in the neighborhood, continuing to reside in the family’s house on 55th Avenue even after he was the only one left.
Meanwhile, the first chance I'd had, I moved to my first bachelor's pad -- a basement apartment in another part of the borough -- in the early 1970s. I came back to Elmhurst a couple years later, staying with my parents until they made an even bigger move than mine by selling the house and retiring to the Poconos in Pennsylvania. Whenever I'd see Randy, it amounted to a brief exchange of hellos.
Thanks to my best friend, Michael Bellotti, whom I’ve known since we were boys in Elmhurst, I got the opportunity to meet Randy again. The three of us went to the Georgia Diner on Queens Boulevard to relive boyhood adventures such as the dirt bomb battles in the schoolyard of P.S. 102 (when it had one big enough to land an airplane) and the hunts for old comics at the Victory Thrift Shop.
Of course, we also recalled going to the wrestling matches at Sunnyside Garden. In particular, we recalled the time we had gone to see the tag team known as The Fabulous Kangaroos, two grapplers who were from Australia. Before their match, the Kangaroos would toss cardboard boomerangs from the ring into the crowd. That day, each of us -- including Randy’s late older brother, Roger -- had succeeded in snagging one of the souvenirs. Rather wistfully, I wondered aloud how I had become separated from mine, considering my penchant for holding onto things that have no great value besides what they mean to me.
During the course of the evening’s conversation, Michael and I enjoyed hearing what had happened over the years to some of our old neighborhood’s people and places. In his quiet and gentle way, Randy filled us in --- not as a snoop or a gossip, but as a kind of grassroots historian whose knowledge of the community was matched only by his affection for it.
Months passed, but we met again. Together, Michael and I drove from Long Island to Queens and upon our arrival at Randy’s house, he made a point of happily presenting some gifts that he wanted us to have. Michael received a small stack of old comic books -- just the sort that we would have been thrilled to find at the Victory Thrift Shop -- while I was handed an envelope that contained a boyhood treasure: a Fabulous Kangaroos boomerang.
At the end of another fine night of reminiscing at the diner, we talked about how we would do it again --- and soon. Meanwhile, I wished that I had something meaningful that I could give to Randy, but I could think of nothing.
Over the weeks that followed, I would encounter many more artifacts to recall my growing up in Elmhurst, as my sister Eileen and I took on the task of cleaning out our mother's apartment while she was hospitalized. Upon her eventual discharge, our mother would be entering a nursing home.
Going through her things proved to be a bittersweet experience, especially when it came to the boxes of old photographs. For my sister, who had always believed that hardly any snapshots were taken of her during childhood, the chore was enlightening. I got a kick just watching her as she found the various items of evidence to refute that belief.
Suddenly, there they were --- black-and-white images of her birthday parties and other special occasions. Of the latter, none was more memorable than the time Eileen had been photographed in her cowgirl outfit atop a pony when some entrepreneurial photographer visited our block on a summer day. She could not have been more pleased.
At one point, I came across a photo that I had forgotten about: a picture of Anna and Rudy Balz -- Randy's parents -- smiling for me as I photographed them as guests at the party Eileen and I had given at the Justice Inn to celebrate our parents' 25th wedding anniversary. It was a color photo, sharp and clear, of a happy, well-dressed couple and in that moment of discovery, I knew: I had my gift for Randy.
But I never got to see how he would have received it, because there would be no next time at the Georgia Diner. Instead, some more time passed, before I got the call from Michael, clearly upset. He advised that after several unsuccessful attempts to reach Randy, the voice he finally heard belonged to a cousin who was in the house to attend to some matter. Randy had died due to illness; the funeral service had taken place two days earlier.
He left us without saying goodbye, though perhaps in his own gentle way, that's exactly what Randy was up to when he gave away certain possessions to Michael and me instead of putting them up for auction on eBay.
But the way it turned out, there had been as much a chance of saying goodbye to him as there had been for any of us to bid farewell to the youth that now belonged to memory and momentos --- old photographs, comic books and cardboard boomerangs.
Meanwhile, the first chance I'd had, I moved to my first bachelor's pad -- a basement apartment in another part of the borough -- in the early 1970s. I came back to Elmhurst a couple years later, staying with my parents until they made an even bigger move than mine by selling the house and retiring to the Poconos in Pennsylvania. Whenever I'd see Randy, it amounted to a brief exchange of hellos.
Thanks to my best friend, Michael Bellotti, whom I’ve known since we were boys in Elmhurst, I got the opportunity to meet Randy again. The three of us went to the Georgia Diner on Queens Boulevard to relive boyhood adventures such as the dirt bomb battles in the schoolyard of P.S. 102 (when it had one big enough to land an airplane) and the hunts for old comics at the Victory Thrift Shop.
Of course, we also recalled going to the wrestling matches at Sunnyside Garden. In particular, we recalled the time we had gone to see the tag team known as The Fabulous Kangaroos, two grapplers who were from Australia. Before their match, the Kangaroos would toss cardboard boomerangs from the ring into the crowd. That day, each of us -- including Randy’s late older brother, Roger -- had succeeded in snagging one of the souvenirs. Rather wistfully, I wondered aloud how I had become separated from mine, considering my penchant for holding onto things that have no great value besides what they mean to me.
During the course of the evening’s conversation, Michael and I enjoyed hearing what had happened over the years to some of our old neighborhood’s people and places. In his quiet and gentle way, Randy filled us in --- not as a snoop or a gossip, but as a kind of grassroots historian whose knowledge of the community was matched only by his affection for it.
Months passed, but we met again. Together, Michael and I drove from Long Island to Queens and upon our arrival at Randy’s house, he made a point of happily presenting some gifts that he wanted us to have. Michael received a small stack of old comic books -- just the sort that we would have been thrilled to find at the Victory Thrift Shop -- while I was handed an envelope that contained a boyhood treasure: a Fabulous Kangaroos boomerang.
At the end of another fine night of reminiscing at the diner, we talked about how we would do it again --- and soon. Meanwhile, I wished that I had something meaningful that I could give to Randy, but I could think of nothing.
Over the weeks that followed, I would encounter many more artifacts to recall my growing up in Elmhurst, as my sister Eileen and I took on the task of cleaning out our mother's apartment while she was hospitalized. Upon her eventual discharge, our mother would be entering a nursing home.
Going through her things proved to be a bittersweet experience, especially when it came to the boxes of old photographs. For my sister, who had always believed that hardly any snapshots were taken of her during childhood, the chore was enlightening. I got a kick just watching her as she found the various items of evidence to refute that belief.
Suddenly, there they were --- black-and-white images of her birthday parties and other special occasions. Of the latter, none was more memorable than the time Eileen had been photographed in her cowgirl outfit atop a pony when some entrepreneurial photographer visited our block on a summer day. She could not have been more pleased.
At one point, I came across a photo that I had forgotten about: a picture of Anna and Rudy Balz -- Randy's parents -- smiling for me as I photographed them as guests at the party Eileen and I had given at the Justice Inn to celebrate our parents' 25th wedding anniversary. It was a color photo, sharp and clear, of a happy, well-dressed couple and in that moment of discovery, I knew: I had my gift for Randy.
But I never got to see how he would have received it, because there would be no next time at the Georgia Diner. Instead, some more time passed, before I got the call from Michael, clearly upset. He advised that after several unsuccessful attempts to reach Randy, the voice he finally heard belonged to a cousin who was in the house to attend to some matter. Randy had died due to illness; the funeral service had taken place two days earlier.
He left us without saying goodbye, though perhaps in his own gentle way, that's exactly what Randy was up to when he gave away certain possessions to Michael and me instead of putting them up for auction on eBay.
But the way it turned out, there had been as much a chance of saying goodbye to him as there had been for any of us to bid farewell to the youth that now belonged to memory and momentos --- old photographs, comic books and cardboard boomerangs.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Checking (But Not Making) The List
If there truly is a season for everything, the closer we get to New Year’s Eve, the more likely we are to realize that it’s time to check one more list --- the one that's really final.
Sure enough, as each year nears its end, newspapers will present a passing parade in print of the names and faces of the famous or once-famous who have left this Earth since last Dec. 31.
So it goes that if you read The List, some will be more meaningful than others, depending on where the deceased ranks in your own recognition of them and how they might have figured in your life. What the rest of the world thinks hardly matters.
I've probably known about Dame Joan Sutherland, opera's coloratura soprano who died in October, since my first music class as a kid in school. But among the folks I've known through music who exited life's stage in 2010 -- a list that also includes another legendary singer, Lena Horne, and Alex Chilton, leader of the rock groups The Box Tops and Big Star -- none ranks higher than Clay Cole.
As anyone who was a teenager in the New York area during the 1960s is likely to recall, Clay Cole was a disk jockey who hosted a television program that rivaled Dick Clark's "American Bandstand." Chubby Checker introduced The Twist on one of the shows at Palisades Amusement Park and I first saw the Rolling Stones on TV because of Clay Cole.
In some cases, reading the names of people who died during the year is simply a reminder, while in others, it’s news to us.
When actress Barbara Billingsley’s Oct. 16 death was reported by various media outlets, I quickly heard about the departure of the woman best known as Mrs. June Cleaver, a television housewife on a par with Mrs. Margaret Anderson and Mrs. Donna Stone, portrayed by Jane Wyatt and Donna Reed, respectively, on shows of their own. On “Leave It to Beaver” in the late ‘50s and early ‘60s, Billingsley's Mrs. Cleaver was the mother of The Beaver and the inspiration for transparent Eddie Haskell’s dumb attempts at flattery.
The role gave Barbara Billingsley an enduring measure of fame. In contrast, Johnny Sheffield, who had played Tarzan’s adopted son Boy in the 1940s movies starring Johnny Weissmuller and later starred in his own series of motion pictures as Bomba the Jungle Boy, died the day before Billingsley, yet I didn’t learn of it until today, in reading a recap of this year’s passings.
But at least he made The List.
As for me, I think I'll stick with my sufficient obscurity to ensure a sort of immortality. By not qualifying for The List, I can live on, content in knowing I'll never be on it.
Sure enough, as each year nears its end, newspapers will present a passing parade in print of the names and faces of the famous or once-famous who have left this Earth since last Dec. 31.
So it goes that if you read The List, some will be more meaningful than others, depending on where the deceased ranks in your own recognition of them and how they might have figured in your life. What the rest of the world thinks hardly matters.
I've probably known about Dame Joan Sutherland, opera's coloratura soprano who died in October, since my first music class as a kid in school. But among the folks I've known through music who exited life's stage in 2010 -- a list that also includes another legendary singer, Lena Horne, and Alex Chilton, leader of the rock groups The Box Tops and Big Star -- none ranks higher than Clay Cole.
As anyone who was a teenager in the New York area during the 1960s is likely to recall, Clay Cole was a disk jockey who hosted a television program that rivaled Dick Clark's "American Bandstand." Chubby Checker introduced The Twist on one of the shows at Palisades Amusement Park and I first saw the Rolling Stones on TV because of Clay Cole.
In some cases, reading the names of people who died during the year is simply a reminder, while in others, it’s news to us.
When actress Barbara Billingsley’s Oct. 16 death was reported by various media outlets, I quickly heard about the departure of the woman best known as Mrs. June Cleaver, a television housewife on a par with Mrs. Margaret Anderson and Mrs. Donna Stone, portrayed by Jane Wyatt and Donna Reed, respectively, on shows of their own. On “Leave It to Beaver” in the late ‘50s and early ‘60s, Billingsley's Mrs. Cleaver was the mother of The Beaver and the inspiration for transparent Eddie Haskell’s dumb attempts at flattery.
The role gave Barbara Billingsley an enduring measure of fame. In contrast, Johnny Sheffield, who had played Tarzan’s adopted son Boy in the 1940s movies starring Johnny Weissmuller and later starred in his own series of motion pictures as Bomba the Jungle Boy, died the day before Billingsley, yet I didn’t learn of it until today, in reading a recap of this year’s passings.
But at least he made The List.
As for me, I think I'll stick with my sufficient obscurity to ensure a sort of immortality. By not qualifying for The List, I can live on, content in knowing I'll never be on it.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
This Day, Back In The Day
I spent more than 20 years in the newspaper business. But there was a time before that when I imagined that my life's journey would be spent along a very different road.
Thirty years ago tonight, I was watching Monday Night Football on TV when the world stopped, though the game (Patriots-Dolphins) went on, as Howard Cosell told me that John Lennon had been shot and killed.
I know that there are a lot of folks who have little or no use for The Beatles. But I come from a different time and place. The Beatles changed my world and, in at least several respects, my life --- including the fueling of a desire to play music, too.
Today, I remember that 30 years ago, I was attending St. John's University as an evening student. I was home on that Monday night, but when I went to my next class, one on media history, I found that the professor viewed John Lennon's death as some kind of opportunity for a discussion on news coverage.
Well, there were only eight of us or something like that in the class and I was the oldest student. When The Beatles had made their first appearance on Ed Sullivan's TV show, I was a high school freshman. Following the shock of Lennon's death, I moved around, feeling as though I had blown a tire.
In my first class after that night, I found it necessary to ask the professor, as politely as possible, if she intended to continue the discussion as a classroom exercise, because I'd like to excuse myself
"Why, do you feel that strongly?" the professor asked.
And I remember my response: "I think this is as close as it gets to a death in my family without actually being one."
All these years later, that hasn't changed.
Peace, John.
Thirty years ago tonight, I was watching Monday Night Football on TV when the world stopped, though the game (Patriots-Dolphins) went on, as Howard Cosell told me that John Lennon had been shot and killed.
I know that there are a lot of folks who have little or no use for The Beatles. But I come from a different time and place. The Beatles changed my world and, in at least several respects, my life --- including the fueling of a desire to play music, too.
Today, I remember that 30 years ago, I was attending St. John's University as an evening student. I was home on that Monday night, but when I went to my next class, one on media history, I found that the professor viewed John Lennon's death as some kind of opportunity for a discussion on news coverage.
Well, there were only eight of us or something like that in the class and I was the oldest student. When The Beatles had made their first appearance on Ed Sullivan's TV show, I was a high school freshman. Following the shock of Lennon's death, I moved around, feeling as though I had blown a tire.
In my first class after that night, I found it necessary to ask the professor, as politely as possible, if she intended to continue the discussion as a classroom exercise, because I'd like to excuse myself
"Why, do you feel that strongly?" the professor asked.
And I remember my response: "I think this is as close as it gets to a death in my family without actually being one."
All these years later, that hasn't changed.
Peace, John.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
A Scary Side Of Plagiarism
The recent news that Tony Blair, Britain’s former prime minister, may have lifted a line from a movie for use in A Journey, his published memoir, has cast a new spotlight on an old sin.
But if it’s true, then this might be the strangest example of plagiarism since English dramatist Ben Jonson (1572-1637), a true Renaissance man, came up with a word (“plagiary”) for the theft of another’s intellectual work.
It remains to be seen whether Blair did, in fact, plagiarize a quote that was the work of Peter Morgan in his script for “The Queen,” the highly acclaimed 2006 film -- and a personal favorite -- starring Helen Mirren, who won an Academy Award for her portrayal of Queen Elizabeth II.
As I see it, the strangeness is not owed to the possibility that a world-class politician could be accused of plagiarism. After all, here in the U.S., Vice President Joe Biden was a senator campaigning to become President in 1987 when he admitted to borrowing without the bother of attribution. Biden acknowledged that in writing a paper for law school, he had plagiarized a law review article.
For some odd reason, it seems that people tend to be more forgiving when the alleged plagiarist is a politician --- a dabbler at writing, instead of someone who had made his name by it. Possibly, it has something to do with low expectations.
Had he been a wordsmith by trade, Joe Biden might have experienced career ruination or at least a serious stain on it. Although he dropped his bid for the Democratic nomination in 1988, he managed not only to endure, but to ascend eventually to the second-highest office in the land.
Of course, Tony Blair has already been to the political mountaintop, so worries about the impact on his career are hardly a factor. But this is a matter of honor and few things can prove as hurtful to honor as even the hint of plagiarism
In Blair’s case, the accusation means that in his book, the former prime minister allegedly took a line from a movie script --- one that had been imagined by Morgan as the words Blair heard during a private meeting with Queen Elizabeth.
In the film, which is really about the sequence of events and attitudes following the 1997 death of Diana, Princess of Wales, the conversation takes place early on, as the two meet at Buckingham Palace following Blair’s election.
Morgan admits that he has no knowledge of what the Queen actually said.to Blair, but these are the words he put in her royal mouth, as spoken by Helen Mirren: “Well, you are my tenth prime minister, Mr. Blair. My first, of course, was Winston Churchill.”
In recalling the conversation in A Journey, Blair recounts it in a way that seems to follow the screenplay for “The Queen” a bit too closely, in the eyes of the script’s writer.
Now some well-known authors have found themselves in some pretty hot soup in recent years over charges of plagiarism. Historians Doris Kearns Goodwin and the late Stephen Ambrose are two whose reputations were damaged.
But whenever I come across the word for theft of intellectual property, the most shocking example that comes to my mind is one that didn’t involve any heads of state, members of a royal family or renowned writers. On the contrary, I am reminded of an episode that involved a contest, held by a community newspaper based in New York City’s Queens County, for youngsters at local schools.
This particular tale of plagiarism was a quiet one, which I recall because I was working at the newspaper when it happened. The annual competition was held prior to Halloween and students would submit their scary stories for the chance to be judged a winner. Selected honorees had their stories, along with their photo, published in the newspaper and received a cash prize.
Unfortunately, one year yielded a crop of winners in which one of the young honorees proved less than honorable, after a reader notified the newspaper that a student’s story was, in truth, the work of a certain published author.
After the charge of plagiarism was determined to be true, the school was notified and its principal was stung to learn of it. Dropping from pride’s peak to plain embarrassment, he promised to contact the child’s parents and inform them that the prize money would have to be returned. When he called back, however, the school administrator was even more troubled: not only was the student’s mother unapologetic, but she made it clear that the money would not be returned.
According to the principal, the mother believed that it had been the newspaper’s responsibility to detect the plagiarism before selecting her child’s scary story as a winning entry. As word of this circulated internally, everyone who made their living by the written word or had anything to do with the contest went from anger to disappointment in their reaction. In the end, we mostly felt sad for a child in need of good guidance whose deprivation was unlikely to end with a contest.
Since that happened, I’ve found that plagiarism cases no longer shock me. As for the controversy involving Tony Blair, I’ve thought it over, only to find that I cannot remember anything like this: somebody who had been part of a two-person conversation behind closed doors allegedly swiping the words that somebody else – a third party who wasn’t in the room -- concocted for the purpose of a film script.
Reportedly, Blair claims that he had not seen “The Queen.” This likely seems odd to most people familiar with the movie, since Blair is such a main character in it.
There have been plenty of times when I’ve thought of going to the movies, but didn’t, for one reason or another. In some cases, by the time I was ready to see a particular film, it was no longer playing on a local screen. But I can say with certainty that if I were being portrayed by an actor in a major motion picture -- or even a low-budget one -- I wouldn’t be waiting for its DVD release. As it is, “The Queen” has been accessible in that manner for some time.
At this point, it’s unknown how the matter of Tony Blair’s published remembrances will play out. But the lesson remains the same: when it comes to the marriage of storytelling and good writing, honesty is the simple noun that is worth more than a hatful of inspired adjectives. There’s no need to make the process any scarier than it is already.
But if it’s true, then this might be the strangest example of plagiarism since English dramatist Ben Jonson (1572-1637), a true Renaissance man, came up with a word (“plagiary”) for the theft of another’s intellectual work.
It remains to be seen whether Blair did, in fact, plagiarize a quote that was the work of Peter Morgan in his script for “The Queen,” the highly acclaimed 2006 film -- and a personal favorite -- starring Helen Mirren, who won an Academy Award for her portrayal of Queen Elizabeth II.
As I see it, the strangeness is not owed to the possibility that a world-class politician could be accused of plagiarism. After all, here in the U.S., Vice President Joe Biden was a senator campaigning to become President in 1987 when he admitted to borrowing without the bother of attribution. Biden acknowledged that in writing a paper for law school, he had plagiarized a law review article.
For some odd reason, it seems that people tend to be more forgiving when the alleged plagiarist is a politician --- a dabbler at writing, instead of someone who had made his name by it. Possibly, it has something to do with low expectations.
Had he been a wordsmith by trade, Joe Biden might have experienced career ruination or at least a serious stain on it. Although he dropped his bid for the Democratic nomination in 1988, he managed not only to endure, but to ascend eventually to the second-highest office in the land.
Of course, Tony Blair has already been to the political mountaintop, so worries about the impact on his career are hardly a factor. But this is a matter of honor and few things can prove as hurtful to honor as even the hint of plagiarism
In Blair’s case, the accusation means that in his book, the former prime minister allegedly took a line from a movie script --- one that had been imagined by Morgan as the words Blair heard during a private meeting with Queen Elizabeth.
In the film, which is really about the sequence of events and attitudes following the 1997 death of Diana, Princess of Wales, the conversation takes place early on, as the two meet at Buckingham Palace following Blair’s election.
Morgan admits that he has no knowledge of what the Queen actually said.to Blair, but these are the words he put in her royal mouth, as spoken by Helen Mirren: “Well, you are my tenth prime minister, Mr. Blair. My first, of course, was Winston Churchill.”
In recalling the conversation in A Journey, Blair recounts it in a way that seems to follow the screenplay for “The Queen” a bit too closely, in the eyes of the script’s writer.
Now some well-known authors have found themselves in some pretty hot soup in recent years over charges of plagiarism. Historians Doris Kearns Goodwin and the late Stephen Ambrose are two whose reputations were damaged.
But whenever I come across the word for theft of intellectual property, the most shocking example that comes to my mind is one that didn’t involve any heads of state, members of a royal family or renowned writers. On the contrary, I am reminded of an episode that involved a contest, held by a community newspaper based in New York City’s Queens County, for youngsters at local schools.
This particular tale of plagiarism was a quiet one, which I recall because I was working at the newspaper when it happened. The annual competition was held prior to Halloween and students would submit their scary stories for the chance to be judged a winner. Selected honorees had their stories, along with their photo, published in the newspaper and received a cash prize.
Unfortunately, one year yielded a crop of winners in which one of the young honorees proved less than honorable, after a reader notified the newspaper that a student’s story was, in truth, the work of a certain published author.
After the charge of plagiarism was determined to be true, the school was notified and its principal was stung to learn of it. Dropping from pride’s peak to plain embarrassment, he promised to contact the child’s parents and inform them that the prize money would have to be returned. When he called back, however, the school administrator was even more troubled: not only was the student’s mother unapologetic, but she made it clear that the money would not be returned.
According to the principal, the mother believed that it had been the newspaper’s responsibility to detect the plagiarism before selecting her child’s scary story as a winning entry. As word of this circulated internally, everyone who made their living by the written word or had anything to do with the contest went from anger to disappointment in their reaction. In the end, we mostly felt sad for a child in need of good guidance whose deprivation was unlikely to end with a contest.
Since that happened, I’ve found that plagiarism cases no longer shock me. As for the controversy involving Tony Blair, I’ve thought it over, only to find that I cannot remember anything like this: somebody who had been part of a two-person conversation behind closed doors allegedly swiping the words that somebody else – a third party who wasn’t in the room -- concocted for the purpose of a film script.
Reportedly, Blair claims that he had not seen “The Queen.” This likely seems odd to most people familiar with the movie, since Blair is such a main character in it.
There have been plenty of times when I’ve thought of going to the movies, but didn’t, for one reason or another. In some cases, by the time I was ready to see a particular film, it was no longer playing on a local screen. But I can say with certainty that if I were being portrayed by an actor in a major motion picture -- or even a low-budget one -- I wouldn’t be waiting for its DVD release. As it is, “The Queen” has been accessible in that manner for some time.
At this point, it’s unknown how the matter of Tony Blair’s published remembrances will play out. But the lesson remains the same: when it comes to the marriage of storytelling and good writing, honesty is the simple noun that is worth more than a hatful of inspired adjectives. There’s no need to make the process any scarier than it is already.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Phone Schmoes On Wheels, Or Maybe Not
Ask any driver for the thing that is most likely to induce a mood swing while motoring and the answer might take a minute --- but not because it’s hard to come up with something.
For a long time, my own pet peeve as a driver involved a split decision: finding myself in front of a tailgater or behind some lunkhead who waited until the last nanosecond to signal a turn, if he or she signaled at all. The perfect storm would have me sandwiched between them.
But because technology seemingly rules our lives and even our gripes, at some point, I grew increasingly bothered by phone schmoes on wheels --- drivers who feel the need to stay in touch by yakking on a cellular telephone.
Admittedly, it wasn’t just the troubling idea that driving near somebody who may be distracted puts you in harm’s way as effectively as sharing the road with a person who is drunk or drugged.
After all, when it comes to pure distraction, you can lose your focus while holding a phone conversation that involves one hand or none. There are other causes, too, as any “Seinfeld” fan well knows. In an episode of that classic TV series, Kramer and Jerry are taking George Costanza’s auto to the car wash but end up in a crash after catching sight of Sue Ellen Mischke’s sidewalk stroll in a bra.
So, stuff happens.
Part of what would bother me whenever I looked in the rear view mirror and saw a driver gabbing on a hand-held phone was the fact that the operator of the vehicle directly behind me was not only a fool but a law-breaking fool, at that.
According to the Governors Highway Safety Association website, New York is one of eight states in the U.S. that prohibit all drivers from using hand-held cellphones while driving. Besides the other seven (California, Connecticut, Delaware, Maryland, New Jersey, Oregon and Washington), places where you can land in hot water for using a hand-held phone while driving also include the District of Columbia and the Virgin Islands.
An initial reading of the list left me a bit baffled, as I wondered why only eight states have such a law. I asked myself: when the well-paid legislators in the other 42 aren’t on recess or giving themselves a raise, what kind of laws are they making, if not this one?
I've since learned that Utah qualifies as a ninth of sorts. You can be charged with careless driving for talking on a cellphone, if you also commit a moving violation other than speeding.
Finding Massachusetts missing from the GHSA's list surprised me, if only because I've always thought of it as a place where many intelligent people reside. Further digging showed that law-wise, a youth movement of sorts is under way there --- with a focus on texting messages, not making calls.
Come October, it will be unlawful for anyone under 18 to use a cellphone -- banning text and talk -- while driving in the Bay State, as though age makes a difference in distracted driving. Older motorists will still be able to engage in hand-held phone talk, but they'll run the risk of a fine if they're caught sending a text message.
Frankly, I'd thought better of Massachusetts.
Since New York is one of the enlightened eight states that prohibit hand-held phones altogether while driving, it’s another reason to be glad I live here, since I happen to believe that it’s better to have a law that discourages dangerous behavior than not to have it.
Of course, the best strategy would be to ban all phone use behind the steering wheel. As noted in a Boston Globe report about the new law in Massachusetts, the National Safety Council blames 28 percent of motor vehicle accidents on distractions due to cellphone use while driving.
Lately, though, I’ve been thinking about the need for another law that would boost public safety and help reduce traffic accidents -- as well as cut the chances of a stroke among drivers with high blood pressure -- while creating fairness in New York's existing law about cellphone use.
In short, I’m hoping for a law that would put pedestrians on the hook, too.
The thought hit me recently, as I was waiting at a traffic light to turn onto Sunrise Highway. When the red turned green for me, a fellow suddenly appeared from the right and kept on walking, moving from one corner to the other in front of my car without regard for right of way or life and limb. If anything, he reduced his pace after stepping into the street.
The jaywalker was wearing a business suit, but the thing he was wrapped up in was conversation --- with whoever was on the other end of his cellphone. Before I proceeded to drive on, I suggested that he stay off the phone when crossing the street and the shouted response was a vulgar blend of outrage and profanity. But the message was clear: who was I to tell him anything, much less how to use his phone?
I don’t doubt that the exchange was out of the man’s head by the time he returned to his office. But for me, it was a true epiphany. Mark Twain wrote about the riverboat pilot who, once he learns the river, can never see it again the same way. Well, I’ve had a revelation of my own regarding pedestrians. Where once I was blind, now I can see --- all the phone schmoes on foot who saunter across the street without a hint of awareness as they talk or text en route to their destination, which, hopefully, will not become the nearest hospital.
I fail to see how a cordless phone in hand makes somebody a walking “Stop” sign while crossing the street. At this sorry time in civilization, when holding a door for the next person is a chore, it's hardly a safe bet that an oncoming motorist who is already exceeding the speed limit will be inclined to show more care -- and smarts -- than the distracted pedestrian.
Under New York State law, drivers at an intersection without a traffic signal must yield to pedestrians. But a law to keep the schmoes off the phone when they step onto the road seems only fair --- and more so than the legal one-way street on which we currently travel.
For a long time, my own pet peeve as a driver involved a split decision: finding myself in front of a tailgater or behind some lunkhead who waited until the last nanosecond to signal a turn, if he or she signaled at all. The perfect storm would have me sandwiched between them.
But because technology seemingly rules our lives and even our gripes, at some point, I grew increasingly bothered by phone schmoes on wheels --- drivers who feel the need to stay in touch by yakking on a cellular telephone.
Admittedly, it wasn’t just the troubling idea that driving near somebody who may be distracted puts you in harm’s way as effectively as sharing the road with a person who is drunk or drugged.
After all, when it comes to pure distraction, you can lose your focus while holding a phone conversation that involves one hand or none. There are other causes, too, as any “Seinfeld” fan well knows. In an episode of that classic TV series, Kramer and Jerry are taking George Costanza’s auto to the car wash but end up in a crash after catching sight of Sue Ellen Mischke’s sidewalk stroll in a bra.
So, stuff happens.
Part of what would bother me whenever I looked in the rear view mirror and saw a driver gabbing on a hand-held phone was the fact that the operator of the vehicle directly behind me was not only a fool but a law-breaking fool, at that.
According to the Governors Highway Safety Association website, New York is one of eight states in the U.S. that prohibit all drivers from using hand-held cellphones while driving. Besides the other seven (California, Connecticut, Delaware, Maryland, New Jersey, Oregon and Washington), places where you can land in hot water for using a hand-held phone while driving also include the District of Columbia and the Virgin Islands.
An initial reading of the list left me a bit baffled, as I wondered why only eight states have such a law. I asked myself: when the well-paid legislators in the other 42 aren’t on recess or giving themselves a raise, what kind of laws are they making, if not this one?
I've since learned that Utah qualifies as a ninth of sorts. You can be charged with careless driving for talking on a cellphone, if you also commit a moving violation other than speeding.
Finding Massachusetts missing from the GHSA's list surprised me, if only because I've always thought of it as a place where many intelligent people reside. Further digging showed that law-wise, a youth movement of sorts is under way there --- with a focus on texting messages, not making calls.
Come October, it will be unlawful for anyone under 18 to use a cellphone -- banning text and talk -- while driving in the Bay State, as though age makes a difference in distracted driving. Older motorists will still be able to engage in hand-held phone talk, but they'll run the risk of a fine if they're caught sending a text message.
Frankly, I'd thought better of Massachusetts.
Since New York is one of the enlightened eight states that prohibit hand-held phones altogether while driving, it’s another reason to be glad I live here, since I happen to believe that it’s better to have a law that discourages dangerous behavior than not to have it.
Of course, the best strategy would be to ban all phone use behind the steering wheel. As noted in a Boston Globe report about the new law in Massachusetts, the National Safety Council blames 28 percent of motor vehicle accidents on distractions due to cellphone use while driving.
Lately, though, I’ve been thinking about the need for another law that would boost public safety and help reduce traffic accidents -- as well as cut the chances of a stroke among drivers with high blood pressure -- while creating fairness in New York's existing law about cellphone use.
In short, I’m hoping for a law that would put pedestrians on the hook, too.
The thought hit me recently, as I was waiting at a traffic light to turn onto Sunrise Highway. When the red turned green for me, a fellow suddenly appeared from the right and kept on walking, moving from one corner to the other in front of my car without regard for right of way or life and limb. If anything, he reduced his pace after stepping into the street.
The jaywalker was wearing a business suit, but the thing he was wrapped up in was conversation --- with whoever was on the other end of his cellphone. Before I proceeded to drive on, I suggested that he stay off the phone when crossing the street and the shouted response was a vulgar blend of outrage and profanity. But the message was clear: who was I to tell him anything, much less how to use his phone?
I don’t doubt that the exchange was out of the man’s head by the time he returned to his office. But for me, it was a true epiphany. Mark Twain wrote about the riverboat pilot who, once he learns the river, can never see it again the same way. Well, I’ve had a revelation of my own regarding pedestrians. Where once I was blind, now I can see --- all the phone schmoes on foot who saunter across the street without a hint of awareness as they talk or text en route to their destination, which, hopefully, will not become the nearest hospital.
I fail to see how a cordless phone in hand makes somebody a walking “Stop” sign while crossing the street. At this sorry time in civilization, when holding a door for the next person is a chore, it's hardly a safe bet that an oncoming motorist who is already exceeding the speed limit will be inclined to show more care -- and smarts -- than the distracted pedestrian.
Under New York State law, drivers at an intersection without a traffic signal must yield to pedestrians. But a law to keep the schmoes off the phone when they step onto the road seems only fair --- and more so than the legal one-way street on which we currently travel.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Old Game's Name For Digital Age Dopes
When I was a kid, the major toy companies were Marx, Remco, Mattel and Ideal.
Unlike Ralphie in “A Christmas Story,” the 1983 movie based on the works of radio storyteller Jean Shepherd, I never went to bed with dreams of finding a Daisy BB air rifle under the Christmas tree.
No, my dreams were made of the stuff provided by the TV commercials on behalf of those four toy companies back in the late 1950s and early 1960s.
I remember Ideal for the talking Robert the Robot, which, as I found out later, was the cause of my father and grandfather having to go on a hunt that ultimately proved successful without much time to spare one Christmas Eve night.
In those days long before action figures, I thought that Marx had the best toy soldiers, along with the similarly-sized plastic likenesses of characters such as Tom Corbett and Roy Rogers, space cadet and king of the cowboys, respectively. Others, like my friend and neighbor, Mike Festa, recall Marx for The Great Garloo, a 24-inch green-skinned monster of a toy robot that paved the way for the Incredible Hulk.
Mattel gave girls Barbie dolls, but it also armed boys of a certain age with some great cap pistols -- in particular, the Shootin’ Shell and Fanner lines -- and a hard plastic weapon known as the Thunder Burp Gun, a sort of tommy gun that made a lengthy firing sound, yet didn’t involve caps or need batteries. Among the kids in my neighborhood of Elmhurst, NY, that was the gun you wanted for Christmas, if you didn’t already have one.
Remco produced some wonderful toys and the one that scored highest with me was something called the Radar Rocket Cannon, a yellow-and-black plastic console equipped with “radar,” a communications component, such as it was, and the capability to launch a toy airplane --- just the thing, I thought, to obliterate an enemy army of Marx foot soldiers.
But I also remember that Remco made something called Shmo --- a board game in which the object was not to become a Shmo. If anyone needed to know why not, the game was contained in a box with an illustration of a rather dopey-looking fellow about to step into an open manhole. A word balloon said it all: “I’m a shmo and that ain’t good.”
So, to me, "shmo" was another four-letter word for "jerk" and not to be confused with "shmoo," which was the name for some silly but lovable creatures in the "Li'l Abner" comic strip. There's a difference, since I can't say that I find jerks lovable.
As the years passed, I forgot about some of the games I had played as a kid and Shmo was one of them. But then something made its name pop up again in my head and that memory trigger was the cellphone.
I don’t remember when or where exactly, but I know that I must have been waiting on a line somewhere --- most likely, in a supermarket or at the post office when the word “shmo” came back to me. Then again, maybe I was in a store, trying to pick out a greeting card that had just the right message. All I know is that suddenly, I was being subjected to somebody else’s conversation, as they carried on with a cellphone. It was as though I had been pulled into a telephone booth against my will.
Once there, I knew not the name of my abductor, but with a slightly different spelling and the addition of a noun-turned-adjective, I could brand the species: phone schmoe.
If only the one-sided conversation was worth sharing, I might not have minded so much having the peace of my personal space hijacked by a phone schmoe.
Unfortunately, I’ve since determined that there’s really no redeeming value in being forced to listen to other people who either believe they’re doing us a favor or simply don’t care as they blab away.
One of the early examples took place some years ago in a Rockville Centre restaurant, where My Wonderful Wife Peg and I were enjoying dinner until some fool seated alone at a nearby table decided that he had been waiting too long for his meal, so he pulled out his cellphone and called a friend -- or therapist -- to vent his frustration, loudly and at great length.
Whether a coincidence or not, his food was served shortly thereafter. Thankfully, he didn't make a second call to file a review.
Up until now, I have referred to the mobile communications device wielded by the self-absorbed as a "cellphone." But, in truth, more often -- and quite ironically -- the thing in use proves to be a "smartphone," the generic term for a BlackBerry, which combines the features of a computer with those of a cellphone.
While the technology may be smart, that doesn't necessarily trickle down to the impolite user, however.
On the contrary, phone schmoes like the impatient diner call to mind Adam Sandler's 1995 film comedy, "Billy Madison." Whenever I have to listen to one, I start thinking about the movie’s principal, when he tells Sandler's character: "...what you've just said is one of the most insanely idiotic things I have ever heard...Everyone in this room is now dumber for having listened to it."
Wouldn't you just love to use that one sometime?
I can't think of a better response, short of having The Great Garloo suddenly appear to test the phone for endurance in his own special way.
Unlike Ralphie in “A Christmas Story,” the 1983 movie based on the works of radio storyteller Jean Shepherd, I never went to bed with dreams of finding a Daisy BB air rifle under the Christmas tree.
No, my dreams were made of the stuff provided by the TV commercials on behalf of those four toy companies back in the late 1950s and early 1960s.
I remember Ideal for the talking Robert the Robot, which, as I found out later, was the cause of my father and grandfather having to go on a hunt that ultimately proved successful without much time to spare one Christmas Eve night.
In those days long before action figures, I thought that Marx had the best toy soldiers, along with the similarly-sized plastic likenesses of characters such as Tom Corbett and Roy Rogers, space cadet and king of the cowboys, respectively. Others, like my friend and neighbor, Mike Festa, recall Marx for The Great Garloo, a 24-inch green-skinned monster of a toy robot that paved the way for the Incredible Hulk.
Mattel gave girls Barbie dolls, but it also armed boys of a certain age with some great cap pistols -- in particular, the Shootin’ Shell and Fanner lines -- and a hard plastic weapon known as the Thunder Burp Gun, a sort of tommy gun that made a lengthy firing sound, yet didn’t involve caps or need batteries. Among the kids in my neighborhood of Elmhurst, NY, that was the gun you wanted for Christmas, if you didn’t already have one.
Remco produced some wonderful toys and the one that scored highest with me was something called the Radar Rocket Cannon, a yellow-and-black plastic console equipped with “radar,” a communications component, such as it was, and the capability to launch a toy airplane --- just the thing, I thought, to obliterate an enemy army of Marx foot soldiers.
But I also remember that Remco made something called Shmo --- a board game in which the object was not to become a Shmo. If anyone needed to know why not, the game was contained in a box with an illustration of a rather dopey-looking fellow about to step into an open manhole. A word balloon said it all: “I’m a shmo and that ain’t good.”
So, to me, "shmo" was another four-letter word for "jerk" and not to be confused with "shmoo," which was the name for some silly but lovable creatures in the "Li'l Abner" comic strip. There's a difference, since I can't say that I find jerks lovable.
As the years passed, I forgot about some of the games I had played as a kid and Shmo was one of them. But then something made its name pop up again in my head and that memory trigger was the cellphone.
I don’t remember when or where exactly, but I know that I must have been waiting on a line somewhere --- most likely, in a supermarket or at the post office when the word “shmo” came back to me. Then again, maybe I was in a store, trying to pick out a greeting card that had just the right message. All I know is that suddenly, I was being subjected to somebody else’s conversation, as they carried on with a cellphone. It was as though I had been pulled into a telephone booth against my will.
Once there, I knew not the name of my abductor, but with a slightly different spelling and the addition of a noun-turned-adjective, I could brand the species: phone schmoe.
If only the one-sided conversation was worth sharing, I might not have minded so much having the peace of my personal space hijacked by a phone schmoe.
Unfortunately, I’ve since determined that there’s really no redeeming value in being forced to listen to other people who either believe they’re doing us a favor or simply don’t care as they blab away.
One of the early examples took place some years ago in a Rockville Centre restaurant, where My Wonderful Wife Peg and I were enjoying dinner until some fool seated alone at a nearby table decided that he had been waiting too long for his meal, so he pulled out his cellphone and called a friend -- or therapist -- to vent his frustration, loudly and at great length.
Whether a coincidence or not, his food was served shortly thereafter. Thankfully, he didn't make a second call to file a review.
Up until now, I have referred to the mobile communications device wielded by the self-absorbed as a "cellphone." But, in truth, more often -- and quite ironically -- the thing in use proves to be a "smartphone," the generic term for a BlackBerry, which combines the features of a computer with those of a cellphone.
While the technology may be smart, that doesn't necessarily trickle down to the impolite user, however.
On the contrary, phone schmoes like the impatient diner call to mind Adam Sandler's 1995 film comedy, "Billy Madison." Whenever I have to listen to one, I start thinking about the movie’s principal, when he tells Sandler's character: "...what you've just said is one of the most insanely idiotic things I have ever heard...Everyone in this room is now dumber for having listened to it."
Wouldn't you just love to use that one sometime?
I can't think of a better response, short of having The Great Garloo suddenly appear to test the phone for endurance in his own special way.
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