P.S. A Column On Things

Steve and Little League

I had a dream recently in which my father and my brother Steve appeared post-mortem. My dad’s role was anodyne; all I remember is that Steve did something irritating that made me angry (a not uncommon event when he was alive).

Which got me to thinking of Little League Baseball at Blaesing Field (now a cemetery). In our family construct, Steve was the gifted athlete, I was the gifted scholar. So he was a great pitcher, I was a hapless right fielder—the home of the hapless in a league with very few left-handers. Still, I recall my mother’s favorite (and true) anecdote, “Pop fly to right field. Pauli gets under it, nonchalantly flips his sunglasses down, walks forward, then looks over his head as it drops  behind him.”

We were never allowed on the same team, but we did play one game against each other. Steve was a hot-shot pitcher, I was the ninth batter. Both coaches were afraid Steve would walk me—although with my speed (or lack thereof) I wasn’t much of a threat on the basepath.

I managed one of my extremely rare hits, an infield popup. The third baseman dropped it, then threw to first, where it whizzed past the first baseman. The shocked first-base coach waved me to second, where the ball was missed again. On to third I went. Steve was turned around, trying to manage to zoo of missed catches behind him.

Long story not too much longer, I tried to stretch it into an infield home run. I bowled over the catcher (a much smaller boy) who, in the only miracle for Steve’s team that inning, held onto the ball. I’ve never seen the replay, but I don’t think it was close.

 

My Friend The CIA Agent

A half century ago, just before I found Vicki, I had a few dates with a woman named Lucy Kirk. “What do you do?” “I work for the government.”

It was the equivalent of “Where did you go to school?” “Cambridge.” The latter usually means Harvard, the former almost always meant the CIA (or the NSA), as it did in this case. Those rules have clearly loosened since 1977.

We got back in touch, and I reviewed her novel:
Poison Factory: Neither Pale, Stale nor Male. Just Terrific

Now her memoir (reviewed in more detail on my site, also on Amazon here):

We Already Have a Woman We Like: My Life in the CIA

A vivid and well-told story about the ways in which the CIA made life difficult for its first female agents. #Metoo problems existed a long time before #Metoo.

Not A Dodger, Just Lucky

I recently read the confession of a man my age who was called for induction during the Vietnam War, but simply didn’t show up and was never caught or punished.

I wasn’t an anti-Vietnam radical. I thought “Ho, Ho, Ho Chi Minh, NLF is going to win” was a load of bovine effluvium. I was against the war because I thought it was a stupid waste of people’s lives and a democracy’s money. My grandmother favored the war (my uncle was in the service) because “If we don’t stop the Commies there, we’ll be stopping them in Washington, Oregon and California.”

I carefully considered asking her how and why the Vietnamese Communists would cross the Pacific, but thought better of it.

There was much conversation about draft-dodging at MIT when I arrived in 1970. There was a popular rumor that sympathetic doctors had an injectible drug that would raise your blood pressure high enough to avoid induction.

Some cartilage was removed from my left knee after a high-school wrestling injury. I considered asking the orthopedist for a note excusing me (like that used by Col. Bone Spurs), but then another option appeared.

In an effort to improve equality, the Selective Service System started lotteries which would determine the order in which young men were called up. My lottery was August 5, 1971, and my number was 178. So, I gave up my student deferment and entered the draft pool. The highest national number called that year was 125, but some local draft boards went higher.

There was no Internet, and long distance phone calls were painfully expensive, so it was hard to keep track of what number the Portland, Ore. draft board was calling. They were higher than many boards, but never made it to 178. I passed the year 1972 without being drafted, and that was it.

I am neither proud nor ashamed of not serving in Vietnam. My heart goes out to those, draftees and volunteers, who were thrown into that meat grinder.

I am ashamed of the American political system which, under Democrats and Republicans alike, allowed mindless fear of Communism to guide foreign and military policy. I think our democracy and economic system would have driven the Commies into the ground even without Korea and Vietnam, but what do I know?

Twenty-Six Years Later: PSACOT

(A reprint of my annual anniversary item, with small adjustments).

As of Oct. 16, it's been 26 years since my online revival of this 53-year-old column. (As published, as a Typepad Entry) Online for 26 years! (with a small six-year gap in the middle). I’ve written almost 1,000 columns, successors to an idea born in MIT’s objectivist student newspaper, ERGO, on September 23, 1970, six days after my 18^th birthday. (see entire first column here)

When I started this column online, "W" was still the second-rate governor of Texas, Sara Palin was busy running Wasila, and John McCain was angry. W is still second rate, Palin isn't running anything, and John McCain is gone.

I was still working for CMP (computer journalism company), and had invented the weekly podcast, back before Ipods (the lack of which definitely cut into our audience). My heart beat by itself and I weighed 270 pounds. In short, things were different.

In 1998, during the Clinton impeachment, I either had to start a column or check into a mental institution. PSACOT gave me a forum in which to express, to an audience (no matter how small) my feelings about that political circus. [As a one-time U.S. history teacher, I am forced to note that Andrew Johnson's impeachment was a rabid partisan witch hunt, as was Clinton's. Only Nixon's near-impeachment was bipartisan--and only Nixon resigned. And only Trump was charged twice for crimes he actually committed.]

The column/blog has since evolved into a combination of diary for my family and me and bulletin board for my clever friends--in short, a personal column. Like, but not as good as, former San Francisco Chronicle columnists Adair Lara or Jon Carroll. Or Doug Baker of the Oregon Journal.  Or, to take a national example, former New York Times columnist Anna Quindlen, considered the mother of the personal column concept (even though Stanton Delaplane and Charles McCabe of the San Francisco Chronicle actually beat her to it--but of course, if it hasn't happened in New York, it hasn't happened).

PSACOT is also a revival of sorts. My MIT readers would remember the original P.S. A Column On Things, which ran in ERGO, MIT's objectivist newspaper from September 1970 to March 1971, and The Tech, MIT's semi-official student newspaper, six times from March 1971 to May 1971. Those were among my happiest days as a journalist. If I had truly understood the fulfillment a personal column gave me, perhaps I would have fought harder to keep it when Bob Fourer killed it, or I would have revived it when I became editor-in-chief two years later, or tried to practice the craft as an adult (and become the father of the personal column).

In any case, I expect to still be doing this next October; I'll meet you here.

Regrets? A few Episode 2

There is a regret I am extra-happy about not having: treating people badly. To the best of my recollection, I have only treated one person badly in my entire life, and she recently told me she hadn’t noticed.

And while we’re at it, one small regret I do have is not taking typing in high school. I was “protecting my 4-point,” and the typing teacher was notorious for C and D grades. Since I have typed every day of my adult life, it would be nice if I knew how.

In retrospect, I’m not sure the difference between a 3.97 GPA and a 3.95 would make that much difference. Plus, as an excellent student, I might have been one of those few who got a good grade.

Yes, if that’s my only regret, I am a lucky man.

Finishing Up My Birthday

Yesterday was the fifth and final night of the Paul’s Birthday Celebration. It lasts five days to commemorate the time my 16-year-old mom spent in the un-air-conditioned Providence  Hospital between the breaking of her water and my arrival.

The last night was celebrated with the dish Duck/Chicken with Cherries, which combines my two favorite foods. My five-year-old grandson helped make it, and is being introduced to the traditions, including blowing out the candles (again) and reading my life lessons.

A Few Regrets 1

As Frank Sinatra once sang, “Regrets I’ve had a few/Too few to mention.” I have almost none. There were some regrets at the time, but in retrospect, I am batting .999.

I almost regret skipping nearly all my classes at MIT, but I ended up with a degree, and a happy life as a writer/journalist/D-list TV personality. I don’t regret it because, had I gone to class, I might be a miserable scientist or engineer.

Actually, I do have one regret. I was reading a list of 23 regrets at age 60. One resonated: “Not forgiving sooner.”

I come from grudge holders on both sides of my family. Estrangements that lasted for decades, usually until death, and so it was that I held intense grudges… bordering on hatred… for people I thought had done me wrong. The bitterness lasted for decades. Fortunately, I had a spiritual awakening that allowed me to let go of all that dark matter in my heart.

Clearly, some grudges are justified because they involve unforgivable acts. The problem I have with that now is that there are almost no unforgivable acts. And of course, hatred is like drinking poison and hoping the other person dies. A grudge or an estrangement, held long enough, can curdle into hatred.
continued next week…

72 Life Lessons For My 72nd Birthday

Why yes, someone else did this first. It’s a great idea, which is why I did it. It took a few days, but I finally hit 72 Life Lessons, in no particular order. Most of them are from my mother and father, as should be. Experience and reading are the next two sources, and my college mentor Edwin Diamond appears twice, while my high school machine shop teacher, Mr. Casper, appears once.

Then, I came up with more lessons:

• In the long run, we're all dead, so everything matters now
• Don't let fear rule your life
• Life is short, and then you die. Have a nice day anyway
     Or Life is a witch and then you fly
• Life is unfair, get over it
• Live is like a shit sandwich; every day you take another bite
• Life is like a sewer: you get out of it what you put into it

Things That Float Into My Mind

I am nothing if not a creature of habit. I found myself reminiscing about the start of my announcing career at Benson Polytechnic. To listen to me, you’d think our founder had three first names: Millionaire Lumberman Philanthropist. He was Simon to his friends.

And then there was the award-winning Benson band. Conductor Harold Rowe glowered at the fact that I used that adjective a dozen times after the band won an award, but it had the added charm of being true.

Not Really Labor

This is my repeating Labor Day item. One-third of the public (according to surveys) doesn’t know what day it is.

I am a life-long supporter of, believer in, student of and beneficiary of the American Labor Movement. I know writing is not really labor.

I am a beneficiary because my father, who became a Teamster after selling the family dairy and remained one for the rest of his life, was able, with just a high school degree, to provide an upper-middle class life to our family of four which included regular vacations, a terrific pension and great medical and dental coverage. Take that, gig economy. For that matter, take that, non-union American journalism.

Alas, with the exception of three years in the Wire Service Guild at AP and UPI, and 11 years in the American Federation of Teachers as a teacher, I spent most of my working life without the protection and support of a union. The Oregon Journal, a Newhouse newspaper, was the stepchild of a bitter strike, so I worked with a staff full of scabs. Wonderful people, great journalists, but most with start dates during the strike that destroyed the paper’s independent existence.

CMP, where I spent 21 years, used to say it didn’t need a union because the company treated its employees fairly, and for the most part that was true as long as the founders were in charge—less so later.

I have been attributing this “never done any” quote to AFL-CIO leader George Meany for decades. I still contend he said it, even though the Internet disagrees. Turns out it is from G.B. Shaw’s Man and Superman.

Poet Octavius Robinson: “I believe in the dignity of labor.”

Chauffeur Enery Straker: “That's because you've never done any, Mr. Robinson.”

Some of my thoughts on labor and class.

On Sept. 16 (the day before my birthday) I will offer 72 Life Lessons for my 72^nd Birthday. Here are two sneak previews:

• If offered a choice, always patronize union facilities over non-union facilities.
• Never cross a picket line