The Boy on the Shuttle

As I entered, I didn’t see him. It wasn’t until the train began moving that I heard him. He was singing, faintly, a song I couldn’t identify and picking a stringed instrument I couldn’t recognize. It didn’t sound like anything I’d ever heard before. I can’t ever swear it was a musical instrument but in hindsight (hindhearing?) it sounded like a cheap guitar was being plucked.

Evening rush hour and he was that day’s entertainment on one of the cars of the Shuttle from Times Square to Grand Central. Every car seems to have some kind of entertainment. Sometimes it’s the lone musician with his instrument, other times it’s a duo or group with some smooth jive. And every once in a while, one of them leaves you smiling. 

Not this one.

His voice wasn’t so much soft as it was weak; whether that was his natural voice or he was just too insecure to sing out, I don’t know. And he wasn’t a musician. Whatever he was playing, he was far from being a virtuoso. Well, so what. New York’s subway system is a testing ground for some of the world’s most prodigious talent. Walking from one train to the next, especially at Times Square, you can hear a cacophony of bands and singers and more than once I’ve found myself singing along. Dropping a buck in someone’s guitar case is not unusual.

But not this guy.

The trip from beginning to end can’t be more than two minutes and he finished his act shortly before the train pulled into Grand Central and began what I realized was his spiel. I can’t hear very well anyway so I couldn’t tell you what he said, but I could hear a plea for money. Its a couple days before Christmas so I guess I should have been feeling charitable, but when the door opened, I bolted along with everyone else in a hurry to get home or finish their holiday shopping. I didn’t look back as I left the car.

Blame it on politics, but that’s a cop out. Nevertheless, as I walked down the platform, climbed the stairs and followed the crowd rushing into Grand Central, I couldn’t help think about that voice. In thinning-of-the-herd lingo, this one would be the first to go. I had the feeling that he wouldn’t last much longer, especially not in this city. And then, as I passed a couple soldiers in flak vests with ‘45’s strapped to their hips I had a much more chilling thought.

I imagined someone coming up to him, befriending him and buying him dinner and telling him about God (he calls him Allah) and how long ago they were attacked by infidels and the war continues, and how now it’s the Americans who are responsible for his misery. It is the Americans who have defiled the Koran and now they must be punished. Happy news for the poor guy who buys the shtick on the hope he’s finally gonna get laid, by lots of virgins no less. So what if it’s in heaven. Anything’s better than this.

Can you find him, Mr. Trump? Will you throw all the entertainers out of Times Square because you’re afraid of him? No? Don’t fear the boy on the train. Help him. What this country needs, what this world needs, is something no politician can solve the problem. The problem is buried deep in the soul of men everywhere. It is part of our human-ness; our primal fears, our inability to overcome our primitive communications. And some of it is just pure meanness. It is this meanness that we can change. Sometimes a little at a time, sometimes in a Bernie Saunder’s-like quantum leap. It happens. Maybe it’s about to happen now. Anything’s better than this.

I don’t live in the city anymore, and I won’t be going back in for awhile, so I’m sure I’ll never see that guy again, but I’ll give him this, my memory in writing. And maybe if you’re on the shuttle and you hear a weak voice begging for loose change, please throw him a quarter or a buck for me.

Can Bernie Win?

I’m not a political pundit. I’m not a Beltway insider. I watch television occasionally, otherwise I’m dependent on public radio, the internet and a few headlines here or there to inform me what’s going on in the news. So this isn’t going to be a learned article on a current political phenomenon. I’m simply observing and reporting. And I’m thinking tonight of another phenom of a few years ago, coming from the right this time, who’s name was H. Ross Perot.

For a few months, Ross Perot was the Bernie Saunders of his day. Here’s a crazy Texas millionaire coming out of left field, not a snowball’s chance in Hell, but who, by force of his own will, took this country by the lapels with his rousing oratory and his spot on criticisms of the Washington status quo. He looked good, if a little strange, on television and his message resonated.

1992 presidential campaign was Bush vs. Clinton. In the fall of ’91, with a year to go before the election, presidential polls showed Perot with 21% support from the electorate, 14 points behind likely Clinton and 16 points behind President Bush. By the following May, Perot was leading presidential polls in both Texas and California. The Bush and Clinton campaigns had become concerned to the point that they began attempting to downgrade Perot. Vice President Dan Quayle (remember that nitwit?) became the most senior member of the Bush administration to criticize Perot, calling him a "temperamental tycoon".

Perot had named retired Vice Admiral James B. Stockdale, once awarded the Medal of Honor for his actions during years of captivity as a POW during the Vietnam War, as his "interim" running mate in late March. No one knew much about him. I remember the first time I saw Stockdale on TV during a debate. It was like watching the moment the Challenger mission exploding in space. You can see it with your eyes but your brain is still saying “what the hell is this?”

It soon became obvious that he really was loony, but his choice of Vice President running mate had made the unfortunate Stockdale an object of ridicule; he became instant fodder for SNL and all the late night talk show hosts looking for an easy, or uneasy, laugh. 

Saunders doesn’t have a running mate yet, and there's still a year to go before we cast our votes. It’s possible he could peak just before the convention and be burned out, a footnote in history, but election time. But to count him out just because all the pundits and news channels have already crowned the next Queen Clinton is to do him an injustice. He’s not a flake. He’s not a brain-fried businessman with too much money and time on his hands. He’s a well-respected Senator and has been for some time. He talks sense to almost anyone who listens to him. His failing, which I believe is his biggest strength, is that he’s a dreamer. He sees things that are and asks how he can make them better. 

It’s half a year to go before we even start thinking about the summer conventions, I think Bernie is the man to watch. And I think (my opinion only) that if you think there’s even a ghost of a chance to have the kind of world he’s talking about, you will take a moment to support his campaign.

Going Home

It's been a very long time, not only in years but also, and especially, in terms of my life. When I left, I was a angry young man, covering his pain with false bravado and bon homme. That was fifty years ago this September. I was very happy to be done with my home, my childhood, and be starting an adventure. I'd just turned eighteen when I came to the Big Apple to study acting. I was in way over my head. The only thing I was any good at was the cast parties. Other than that I had no business being in show business. Maybe I could write a song...



The last time I saw my mother was in the Spring of 2005. My life was in turmoil I had a few days vacation, a car and a dog that seemed like he might be fun to bring along. I was probably there three days and most of it was driving her from the assisted-living center to lunch, some low level shopping - how much does a ninety something need anyway? Looking back, even though I didn't particularly wish to be there, it was not only the last time I would see her alive, but a break from a life that was in the process of turning upside down.

Ten years and a few months later I'm about to go back. I'm going back because I left a lot of pain behind me a long time ago. In these last fifty years my life has been full of adventure, sometimes more than I would have wished. But it's only been recently, while researching a book about my father, that I discovered how adventure had been part of my blood from the day I was born.

So I'm off to visit my past, make friends with the present, and prepare myself for what, I'm sure, will be an adventurous future.

Tarrytown, NY - 7/20/15

Back From the Dead

Well, hello again.

It's been two years, give or take a few weeks, since I last blogged here. Since then I've self-published a book, the cover of which appears above. I've started, and then dropped, another blog because I couldn't think of anything to say that would sound like I was punching something. Now that name has been co-opted by another blogger who seems to be making much better use of it.

So I'm back to this, my first excursion into the world of blogs, and I hope to continue, maybe once a month, just to bring my public self up to date for folks who don't follow me on Facebook. If anyone has a subject they'd like to explore, let me know. I could use a few guest bloggers.