Memories 1

Long time, no blog. I would have made that the title of this entry, the first for about wow! nearly four months. Lots went on in between, but my current preoccupation is the one I'm focusing on, for now at least, peripatetic soul I seem to be. So, you might ask, what's that?

Well, I've done a little of it before, but now I think I am going to be determined. I have lots of photos from before there was the cell phone and the cloud. And so, seems to me that in the interests of my latest project, paring down, as well as a small bit of familial and friend immortality in so far as such is available on earth, I should make a serious effort to put my photos on line. Will they be there in the year 2100? I am not sure human beings will be here then, or even in the next 20 years, so really, that isn't a big concern. I am just taking the shot. So, for today, a few that I have already downloaded. Do I think people will be interested in the faces of people, some of whom are already long gone, and the rest of us who aren't too far behind statistically speaking? I can only tell you that I find looking at photos of people and places fascinating, places I've never been and people I've never known. I am not unique so I'm guessing there will be people interested in the life of another in photos and memorabilia. So, here is the blog of today, Memories No. 1. I will try to tell you the background or context of each, thus providing a story along with the photos.

Four different shots of several different years. The one at the upper left is my father just after he returned home from World War II. It's one of my favorite pictures of him. I think he was in my mother's apartment she shared with her mother and sisters. He was always handsome but in this stage of his life he had a certain swashbuckling, movie star look, no? Cigarette in hand. You can see from the photo on the upper right that he lost little of his good looks. By this time, he was about 60 years old at an apartment near Fort Independence in the Bronx. My mother had already died, and it was just the two of us. He was wearing a smoking jacket, even then a bit of an anachronism. Besides him is his beloved mandolin. I still have that, at least for now. The photo in the lower left is circa 1979, at the reception for the first wedding of a childhood friend. My father was set up on a blind date around 1978 with this lovely lady, who though much younger than him, shared Greek heritage. She was, she remains, a joy. Their relationship did not work out, as I really wanted it to do, but they remained good friends until he died. She and I are still friends, years after my father's death. She ultimately left New York to be closer to her son. The picture on the lower right is my late mother, circa the late 1940s, in front of the Bronx Lebanon Hospital. She would die there several decades later.

I have few photographs where my father smiles. This is one, probably in the 1980s, or early 1990s. With me. I'm smiling too. 

This photo is just about faded. I was able to retrieve the facial features with the help of my phone's editing tools. These are my father's parents, George and Mary, probably in the late 1940s. My grandfather died before I was born.

My mother so much wanted to be a model. It didn't happen, alas. And she died too young. Here she is about 18.

In about 1992, I decided I wanted some decent pictures of myself to give to friends and family. A prideful enterprise I realize some 30 year later, but I really enjoyed the experience. There was a professional studio at the corner of Holloway and La Cienega at the time. Mostly they did aspiring actors. I might have been the first and only lawyer they ever had ask to do a photo shoot. I don't remember the man's last name but the photographer was the wonderful "Attila". I brought several outfits and I really did do the Vogue thing, making spontaneous poses as he shot a huge roll. I still have the proofs somewhere. When I find them no doubt I'll put them on here. Funny isn't it? I didn't think I looked good in those days. I never thought I did. So much the pity as life goes very fast and then you really don't look good. 

Anyway, I hope you who do stop by enjoy the photo play!

Discordant Sights and Sounds of a Declining Culture by Constantine Gochis

Time for a Dad piece! It's been a while. I get distracted. I get lazy. Today, waiting for a plumbing problem to be resolved (yet again) after just about a month, I had to wait around so an opportunity to read and write and post arose. I have still so much of Dad's writing that has not yet been posted. He alternated in his writing between little stories about his life, about philosophy, personal and otherwise, and political commentary that reflected his increasing distress and anger about the incapacity of our leaders, the domination of the Left over our culture, and the insanity of the destruction of Western Civilization to be replaced by an association of identities obsessed by all permutations of sexuality we are all expected not merely to tolerate (and that is hard enough) but to embrace and celebrate. 

This commentary/observational piece was written in about 2007, based on the references in it. That is 16 years ago. He thought it was bad, then. Even he, a keen observer of the cultural wars, could have no idea how bad it would get. I have softened some of his language. It is one of the paradoxes in the behavior of our censors that unvarnished expression is allowed for approved groups and individuals, but not for the unapproved or their opinions. Nothing my father wrote in an unvarnished way would be forbidden in say an Oscar show or movie script or streamed television show, or a Sam Smith performance, or on a whole bunch of other blogs, but since it critiques the direction of the society, it is suspect, and impermissible. WE shall see. 

                         DISCORDANT SIGHTS AND SOUNDS OF A DECLINING CULTURE

Pee Wee Herman is back. I noticed his name on a list of programs scheduled for last night. I was pleased. He has come out from under the clouds of social opprobrium heaped on him for daring to engage in a particular activity in a theatre of bawdy exposure.  The children who loved his "family" comedic gyrations are now sufficiently indoctrinated to be compassionate about inconsequential matters of prurience. The National Education Association, and the socially correct elementary school teachers, have imbued them with the correctness of sexual mores, of gender preferences, of absentee fatherhood, multiple parents and test tube fertilization.  It is the millennium.

Youth can now aspire to greatness without fear of some pernicious accusation of wrongdoing, even unto that ultimate seat within the sacrosanct corridors of the Washington Dome, even within the Oval Office. There is nothing "wrong" in our thesaurus of heroic behavior to preclude this dream of youth.  And advanced concept of "playing doctor" is nothing more that youthful exuberance in the new rites of passage.

"Let the word go forth," to borrow a maxim from the sainted Arthurian heir to Camelot.

 "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone," posited an ancient kill-joy. 

The United Nations invites an ambassador of the "new truth". It is an actress who has achieved film immortality merely by crossing and uncrossing her legs under the careful scrutiny of an affectionate camera. To be fair, she is reputed to have other qualifications. They say she is a member of MENSA. She was chosen for the international dissemination of the secular "Word" of the today generation. I admit, I doubt the high I.Q. was the precipitating reason for the invitation. 

The caring parent of maturating children should keep a supply of condoms, she says, not just a few secreted for private parental use, but several hundred for application to family purposes.

This cautionary measure is the apogee of an expression of parental love.

"Let's just say it," is the ubiquitous cry. If the kids are going to have a casual encounter, leave a supply near the exit.

If I am allowed a suggestions, why not include some in lunch boxes or back-packs.

It is good that the multi-colored condom is recommended as a decorative and practical addition to gifts from Santa. 

All this is not in vain.  Our educators, our public moralists are dedicated to the ancient Platonic good. 

An elementary school child asked to write an essay on forgiveness wrote the story of one brother who forgave the other for wrongs done to him. The teacher refused to allow him to read the story to the class. HE made the egregious error of calling the brothers, Esau and Jacob. His parents might have warned him that these names appear in the Bible, a grievous association, and given him a daily supply of condoms for protection from a less perilous chasm.

A very young child separated for the first time from her mother on her first day of school cried. She returned home tearfully that night to the comforting embrace of her mother who asked, "Why are you so sad?"

"I asked the teacher for a hug," she sobbed, "and she said, 'I can't do that'. I was bad. I must have been bad. I did something wrong. All the kids laughed."

Be of Good Heart No Matter How Bad the Service

I went to a major bank, the other day. It is rare that I go in person, for as most people, I have been trained to do most of my business online. But, occasionally, we are compelled to seek in person service, as I was on this occasion. 

It was the lunch hour, when the working stiff has a brief freedom to conduct personal affairs. I am a retired stiff, but I happened to join the working ones on what alas was a longish line. 

A concomitant reality to modern man being forced online for personal business is that brick and mortar locales have few service people to minister to flesh and blood customers. This includes large banks. 

I did have another appointment, but I was not in extremis when it came to my schedule. That was not the case with some of the others ahead of me. There were, however, only two tellers at six or so windows.

And there was one grandmotherly type employee whose entire job seemed to be to quell the anger of the understandably impatient consumers who had hoped to use part of their lunch hour for. . . .lunch. 

As a grumble erupted, this lady would engage and comfort and rationalize. 

Customer:                              "Don't you have more tellers?"

Grandmother employee:        "We have only three. One of them is at lunch. She has to eat lunch."

I am a barbarian, I know. I have many times been expected, and did, work through the official lunch hour, in order to take care of some emergency at my various jobs. The customer of whatever stripe came first. I realize that now there are rules, laws even, that prevent the exploitation of the employee in favor of the exploitation of the consumer. Yes, she has to eat lunch. She has to eat lunch during the lunch hour when bank customers come during their lunches. Makes absolute sense. 

Some on the line were not assuaged. But one man, visiting from Australia, and at the very front of the line, was completely on board with the need for delay and the limits of having tellers at the teller windows. 

He became the example of goodness which shamed the disgruntled. Alas, I remained on the side of the disgruntled.

Grandmother Employee: (to Australian gentleman) "You have a good heart. It is important to have a good heart."

I agreed. It is important to have a good heart. But, I was experiencing cognitive dissonance. Was it a failure of a good heart to expect that a major bank, for that matter, any business in which the consumer pays for a service, and where, as in the case of a bank, the business is in it for profit, to provide decent, timely service?  

A woman came in behind me. She went directly to Grandmother Employee as soon as she saw the line and asked if she could just leave the deposit she had. She had another appointment elsewhere. It sounded urgent.

Grandmother Employee:  "Yes, but then you won't get a receipt."

The woman thought better of her shortcut, and joined me on the line. 

As more people entered and saw the line, and Grandmother Employee praised them on their anticipated good hearts, I decided to ask her to consider the incongruity of her expectation. If I had been in a particular rush, I would probably not have been calm or considered in my interaction, but I wasn't in a rush and could be thoughtful and, well, more or less of good heart.

I said that I appreciated her effort with all of us, and she clearly wasn't responsible for the staffing issues at the bank, but perhaps she could pass on to the management (hope springs eternal indeed) that having only two tellers and one at lunch at a time when it is most likely other working people will need the bank was illogical, and not the good service that we are always expected to agree occurred in those ubiquitous surveys. For example, I said, while indeed all employees needed lunch, perhaps they could stagger AFTER high noon, say at 1 p.m. when likely there would be fewer customers.

Grandmother Employee thanked me for my comment. She did not say that she would pass it on. I really didn't expect that she would. 

The lady behind me, apparently no longer concerned about her appointment which had caused her to ask that her deposit be taken by Grandmother Employee, regaled me with her empathy for the system, and how, for example, when she had to wait places she would bring a book along. I didn't ask her if she really had an appointment she needed to go to when she asked Grandmother Employee to take her deposit, thus, attempting to bypass all of us waiting on line. My guess is that the appointment did not exist, because she was apparently content now to wait with us. 

I felt anger rising in me that the now patient customer saw no problem with outright bad service and her solution was that in its presence a good book was a solution. 

Fortunately, few people ahead of me had complicated issues (not always the case as you know at a bank) and I made it to the front. "Nice talking to you," I said to the lady behind me. That wasn't exactly true, but I was trying to be of good heart.

John Steed in the Fairfax District?

 

I guess it is that the news of the nation and the world is so bad that I have taken refuge in simpler times. Well, they didn't seen simple AT the time, but then isn't that the way of the world? It can always get worse. I have been streaming "The Avengers", with the late Patrick Macnee, especially the ones with the late Diana Rigg as "Emma Peel".  And I have found myself not merely calmed but delighted. The charm. The dialog. The nuance. The deft comedy.  The apolitical banter. And, of course, the beauty of two well dressed human beings at the height of their health and fame. 

I got to see Mr. Macnee on Broadway some years after the original series came to an end, in the above titled show, "Sleuth". That was about 1976. But. I got to see him again, informally. I think. I am pretty sure it was him. Actually I am nearly positive. But it was far from 3 Stable Mews in the City of London. where Steed resided. 

It was on, I think, the 300 block of either Genesee Avenue or Ogden Avenue, or was it N. Orange Grove, in the Fairfax District, Los Angeles, California?

I used to live in that neighborhood and one day, spring or summer it was circa the mid-1980s, as it was a warmish day, I spied a man of about six foot two, with a still thick head of well crafted hair, wearing a summer like open safari jacket. And carrying what looked like the Los Angeles Times. Clearly he did not live in the neighborhood, a nice but not affluent one, so did my eyes deceive me? This was a casual Steed. No bespoke suit. No umbrella. No bowler hat. No. No. No. I knew the man's walk. After all, how many episodes had I, even by then, seen of him in the eponymous series, and several times? He had a very particular broad confident stride. But I needed to get closer to see him, to be sure. At least a half a block closer. 

I guess it would not have been as surprising to see him on a Los Angeles Street, or even in the United States, if I had then known what I know now, that Patrick Macnee had already long been a resident of the States, more particularly, Palm Springs.  In fact, he became a citizen in 1959, before, I think, the arrival of the first iteration of the original series, with Ian Hendry. But then, in 1986, he was to me the quintessential Englishman appearing as if by magic in my diverse, sometimes scruffy-ish neighborhood. 

It was definitely him, the incongruity of his location notwithstanding. Emma Peel's John Steed, my John Steed, as though he was middle aged even when he filmed the show, and I was but a pre-pubescent, then pubescent teenager, I found him a romantic idol. A man's man with style. Of course, and who didn't, I wanted to be Emma Peel. She was beautiful, educated, strong. And looked great in a cat suit, which I never would even try. 

I had to restrain every fiber of my being, not to cut into a run to get closer, and maybe, maybe, say something. Like "Hello, Mr. Macnee, whatever are you doing on this little Los Angeles street?" That would be idiotic. "I'm a fan", also seemed uncreative. I didn't want to be one of those unseemly sorts and so, I contented myself with trying to watch what might be his destination.

It's been so long, and I can't rely on my memory any longer, but I thought I had read that his daughter, who is maybe a year or two older than I am, was at the time, living in my neighborhood. Jenny, I think. 

At one point, I seem to recall having found the actual building, a typical four unit one. I hoped that perhaps Mr. Macnee might be about once again to see her. But it was not to be.

Thinking of that passing moment made me smile this week. I thought I'd share it with you.

A Cool Idea to Consider: "I Object!" Today's saga.

Kudos and gratitude where they ought to go, and that is to my long time friend Andrew. During a celebratory birthday dinner for another long time friend the other evening, he suggested that, if I had time, he thought of another podcast I could do. The one I do now is about being an Ordinary Catholic in these, quite possibly it feels like, last days. But this one would be purely secular and fun by commentary and humor filled (hopefully) observation on the things that drive me crazy, likely some of the things that drive you crazy too. Things to which in the course of any day, if I were feeling bold and if I thought anybody would listen to me in the first instance, I would shout "I Object!" He even gave me a possible title for the podcast and boy would it be easy to get guests, the first two being the aforementioned two friends. 

In that today I experienced an interaction that would make a perfect several episodes related to the medical care system. 

As I am sure I wrote around 2019, when it happened, I had a stent placed in one of the arteries of my heart, which was, I was later told, though I sure did not realize it, 99 percent blocked. I am effusive and shall always be effusive about the diagnostic skill of my internist, whose speciality is cardiology.

I like him, but I hardly see him, and each year it gets less and less, and with longer and longer lead times. It used to be that I would see him for an appointment, albeit briefly, before the tests, after a nurse did the obligatory blood pressure, inquired about your medications and vitamins, duly, but never entirely entered correctly into the computer, and about any concerns. He would then come in, energetic as always, so friendly and charming that I could never burden him with my dislike of how medical offices are run, and do another obligatory blood pressure, inquire about my medications and vitamins, still never entirely entered correctly into the computer, and about any concerns. Then he'd be gone and say he'd see me after all the tests for a summary of findings, which usually I have already seen on the site for patients where all your history and results reside. He'd ask me if I had up to date prescriptions, interpret what was on the personal medical bulletin board, which I have gotten pretty good at doing myself, and tell me to make an appointment for the next year for the same tests. 

Now, I don't know what happened in 2021, maybe the scheduler wasn't at her desk, so the appointments were not made. We were still in Covid mode. I admit, I would have been happy to let 2022's visitation lapse, as medical offices continue to require masks and I have heard that this is a forever thing, which for me, is a reason not to go. It increases my anxiety along with making it, as I said what, three years ago, nearly, impossible to breathe. There is nothing like having potentially life altering tests, often in small spaces, and having to wear a mask besides. Plus, as you know I have never believed that the masking prevented or prevents the virus or any virus from doing its dirty work, while masking creates all sorts of other medical issues that, I am certain, we will her about, from the late night ads on your streaming service, in a few years. That's not including the psychological issues. I know, my opinion, though perhaps not in the minority, is verboten or mocked, among the current intelligentsias in power. 

I was hoping October, and November would pass without the summons, or as was most likely, a refusal to renew my medications unless I got on the medical people mover once again. Yes, I know, doctors are required to check on the patients to whom they give prescriptions. And this time, I wouldn't have previously set appointments. Now, in the past, I was able to get two or three of the tests of the four on the same day. But that ship has sailed. Today I was told that the insurance companies don't like it when that is requested. But I seem to recall and I could be wrong, in which case I will happily delete this observation, that if a patient pays this $500.00 concierge like fee every year, things like appointments and paperwork somehow can be done more . . . .efficiently and conveniently for the patient. But this year, when I called I was told that the doctor was fully booked (now this is like October or November) until February, this month, this year. So, the doctor is booked and I am required to come in. Ok.

Ah, the solution. I would see the physician assistant. That person could renew my prescriptions. Now while I respect those who become professionals like paralegals and physician assistants, and I also admire the techs who do all the tests but can't share anything when they perform them on you, I do not like an assembly line system for this particular process. It creates, well, deep suspicion about whether the good of the patient is truly the goal or just milking the insurance. It's everywhere. When you get to a certain age and you have Facebook, suddenly all these click bait ads come up telling you you should get tested for, Psoriatic Arthritis, Colon cancer, melanoma, breast cancer, dementia, ovarian cancer, tardive dyskinesia, sleep apnea, osteoporosis, and the list goes on and on. If I were to check on all of these things in simple sequence, my days would be filled with doctor, um, physician assistant, technician appointments, which is what was only beginning when my father was being treated for his bladder cancer over 15 years ago. Up to here he had survived heart issues including a quadruple bypass.  He had survived well under the less technological conditions circa 1989. Then, suddenly in the shiny modern millenium tests showed he had kidney issues, and he was on another conveyor belt, stents for issues he didn't think and I didn't think he had, and then finally death by sepsis. Despite what his death certificate said, the primary cause of death was not any of the things for which he was constantly going to the doctor. It was a preventable sepsis. I have a whole entry on that back in one of the earlier iterations of this blog back in 2008. 

I want to be reasonable about my health but I do not want to be tested for every possible thing a person of my age could have. That's not life. That's insanity. And maybe that's why this last interlude is bothering me, because I see the writing on the wall. And the part of me that doubts worries "what if I don't get on the people mover and something happens and I get sick". They would say and I would probably agree with "them" whoever they are, that I only had myself to blame. But then, will all of this stop me from dying? It's as if the preventative seeks to find something (early, they say), but the end result? The statistical life expectancy is going down. Shouldn't all this prevention make it go up, like, a lot?

So, in November, I think, I saw the physician assistant. Very nice. Took that blood pressure, asked me the questions, had me provide the proverbial urine sample, took my blood for cholesterol and other potential dangers. I did get one of those emails on the link and it was from my doctor himself, that my cholesterol was great, and that included a terrifically low bad cholesterol. And up to today, I have had three of the four other tests. I had one this very day. I have to go back on Wednesday for the final one, which could easily have been done today--but for that nasty insurance issue, where they decide what I need and when I need it. I guess a test is only considered necessary and to be paid by the gods of insurance if it is done on separate days, not on the same or consecutive days. 

My appointment with the doctor was made back before Christmas for next week. But in the meantime, thing have happened that made it so that I could not go that day. Two things intervened. I held my breath after I had my third test today (and I assume the prior two tests did not show any problem as I never got a note on my e mail bulletin board), and went back up to the front desk. There are hierarchies in these offices. Only X can do one specific thing and you must go to Y for this other.  I was sent to Y. Y was a lovely lady, but I could tell, it was a bad bad thing that I had to cancel one of the five appointments made in October or November 2022. This appointment is with the actual doctor, the one where he takes my blood pressure and asks me all the questions I have already been asked and tells me to come back next year. It's considered I was told "my annual" exam, although no examination to my observation is actually ever done. The tests, the blood work, the urine samples, those were done. Or will be as of this week. I have had a several month annual examination. I sort of noted that without the detail. Suspicions about the system, because it is the same mostly everywhere, rose again. She looks and looks and says that there is nothing with the doctor until. . . . November 2023. That would be a year after I began my "annual" exam. I did not get angry, which is lately a default condition in dealing with pretty much anything in the world. I did not yell, "I Object" because it would only make me look like a crazy old lady. He told me last time we actually saw one another that he hasn't been taking on new patients. So why so long? I didn't ask.  Could we do a video thing? After all, it was just to review the findings (and I could do without the blood pressure being taken yet again no?) He doesn't do those. So I decided to go super submissive, and say well, I understand, just a scheduling thing--though I clearly was considered the culprit, the cause of trouble, the intractable patient who just couldn't stay on the permissible track. And I really don't care if I actually see him at this juncture, except to say hi and how are you doing? As I said, he's a nice guy. A talented guy. That's when I did suggest that all these appointments be in the same general time period, and was told that it was that insurance thing. Then the name of Z came up. I am not crazy about Z, and I suspect Z is not crazy about me because I have been ruffled in some of our interactions on ye e-mail bulletin board link thing I have to log into any time I want to "talk" to any of the guards at the gate. I have expressed some. . . .objections. . .to her, which she has roundly ignored. She reminds me of when I was working as an attorney and if you wanted any kind of break, you had to be friendly, downright submissive indeed, to the non-lawyer clerk of the court. Whether they let you file something during lunch, or whatever was the crisis you were having for your client, it was that clerk who decided. It was much like Hollywood had to do when dealing with Hedda Hopper or Louella Parsons. Grovel.  Y said "I'll have to talk to Z". Great. And since I wasn't looking to actually see my doctor any longer I didn't actually have to grovel at that moment. Not merely great. But wonderful. Still, I left wondering how it is I am, or am I, going to stay off the people mover that will send me over the medical cliff? The odds are not looking good. I have accompanied quite a few people ahead of me on the belt and it always looks the same. Yeah, yeah, I really do OBJECT! As a Catholic (if you listen to my podcast) I surely can wax philosophical and vaguely theological on the reality of suffering, and challenges, and indifference as we go through life, and the purpose in the road to salvation, and I mean it when I seek to endure, persist, always, well learning to be always, in prayer, but I think it's ok to object because none of this was the original plan. I can object and endure and believe and hope all at once. Or in sequence, object one day, endure another and believe another. And maybe a little humor at the absurdity of it all can help in that endurance. 

I had just gotten down the block, across the street, and into the Beverly Hills Garage I like, that isn't too expensive (usually a trip to a doctor means a 20 dollar parking cost), and was just about to get into my car, when Z called. She said, "The best I can do is April 4 at 10:30?" I did not say, "But I thought there was absolutely nothing available until November 2023?" 

So, let me figure. If I see him in April 2023, for my imprimaturial visit, sealing all those tests, and assuming all is well, can I push out the next series of examinations until next April?

Yeah. Doing a podcast about the things I object to--bet you object to a bunch of the same things too--sounds like a cool idea to consider. And think of the kvetching me and my friends can do, an endless pool of things that make no sense to discuss. 

The World of Standardless Standards

A month or so ago, a friend who blogs (who doesn't 😄) said that he had been been given one of those anonymous chides from the internet monitors of his platform that there were episodes of his blog (and not new entries) that went against their "community standards", or had "sensitive content".

And then about a week ago, it happened to me. Well, actually, it happened to my late father, because it was one of his semi-autobiographical stories that I put on this site in 2017! that was flagged as follows and of which I was notified in January 2023:

Sensitive Content Warning

This post may contain sensitive content. In general, Google does not review nor do we endorse the content of this or any blog. For more information about our content policies, please visit the Blogger Community Guildelines.

I UNDERSTAND AND I WISH TO CONTINUE I do not wish to Continue

It was clearly urgent that this happen now, after five years. 

The story was "Giulia". It was the tale of a young WWII serviceman, stationed in Italy, specifically, Florence, during that late conflagration of the 1940s (do they teach WWII in school now) and of the young woman with whom he lived for a time. I couldn't remember much of it, so I re-read it, giving myself a statistical hit for the who reads the thing meter, and I printed it out to give it a good once over to see what exactly was the problem. It is a dark story in some ways, but less dark than what passes for entertainment without restriction today. For example, I offer a recent entry on national television--the Satanic Grammys. Viewer discretion, you think?  In any case, in "Giulia", the narrator goes to a theatre during the war, in an American uniform, with few of the other attendees so attired. He is seated next to a beautiful girl. The performance proceeds. Then the Master of Ceremonies speaks vehemently against the Allies and the Italian girls who agreed to be bedded by them. It gets ugly, and the girl urges the young man to leave, fearing for his life, and for hers, which he cannot comprehend. They had merely been seated next to one another.

After that, they began a relationship, and her history, including being of Jewish ancestry, having been previously married, and having spent time with a "black shirt" one of Mussolini's military thugs of the time, with a changed identity, her life had been a sad one. But the narrator of the tale, in some part, perhaps large part, a true one, enjoyed her company as well as her enthusiasm for the Art of Florence, and together they lived. He would discover that her sadness was enhanced by the cocaine addiction she had acquired along the way. He was innocent to the depths of human misery before he came to War. She knew, and he knew that their time was short, as he would get orders one day to leave. And so he did, in 1945, leaving while she slept. 

Was it the mention of Mussolini that caused a red flag? The fact that he was executed along with his mistress--a reality that the fictional girl in the story resonated with because she too had been the mistress of various men? Was it the use of a slightly salacious word--hardly one that would rise to the level of a simple rap song or anything on any streaming service, or some video game? Was it the mention of cocaine? Are the impressionable of today (like there are any) unaware of its existence, and of addiction? Was it about the fact these two lived together?  Well, pretty much half or more of the population today does that. Was it the reference that one of the girl's lovers had "taken her", a disguised, benign phrase for a violent act that even Captain Rhett Butler did to Scarlett O'Hara in the 1939 movie "Gone with the Wind" a film which itself gets censored all over the place? Was it the mention of anti-semitism? You can go on You Tube and see anything about that from the same period, with the evil gore documented fully. You can see virtually anything on You Tube, unless it goes against some view that has been denominated "misinformation". 

I did ask the censor in reply to their e-mail to me, but I do not recall getting a response. I agree it is a sensitive context.  Is it a mature story? Yes. But no more or less than a multitude of things that do not have discretionary "Buttons". And no more or less than a society which has denominated all sorts of things good, which are in fact objectively evil, as out there for all to see. Boys and Girls and Children of all Ages! Well, are we allowed to say "boys and girls"? In some places, no. And that's the problem. 

The standards for what is seen, what is written, what goes against community standards, what is sensitive, and what is done are no longer in any sense objective, deriving from long standing principles of philosophy and theology, of natural law, of the laws of nature scientifically speaking. Standards are the gut reaction of whoever has power and whoever has power shifts as do the things which the powerful consider valid. I would understand and even agree to a discretionary button on this story if this society and its leaders, the important, the famous, the known and unknown, had even a modicum of consistency that was driven by an IDEAL, of what we in Catholic circles (also getting the discretionary button in a sense), The Good, the Beautiful and the True. There are two standards for everything, but they are not what is good and what is bad or evil. It is about what someone feels and can enforce no matter what anyone else believes, and what they do not. X and Y engage in the precise behavior. But only X is brought on the carpet because X has the wrong ideas, the wrong thoughts as pronounced by the ones who have the bull horn. The bull horn now is the media, the government and the university, all of them oozing their way into religion so that the secular and the religious are indistinguishable. 

The standard is no standard. Or, I suppose the standard is "Because I say so" and who says so isn't your mother or dad, but some faceless administrator in a permanent job no one voted for, or can speak to, and with no clear guideline as to when something is valid or invalid, except the undependable gut reaction. 

I can't do anything about the standardless bearers who have put a button on a wonderfully written tale. My dad wasn't famous like Norman Mailer, or Kurt Vonnegut, or JD Salinger, whose Catcher in the Rye, with the applicable curse words I read in my Catholic High School, but surely his carefully worded story doesn't violate any community guideline in that universe. Unless one applies the moveable standards without that precious equity that I keep hearing about that has nothing really to do with any meaningful equality. 

Well, it's a really good story, and I'm hoping that the button that suggest "discretion" will be a draw to something which was well written and sad and real--because it was semi-autobiographical. My father did live with a young woman in Florence for two years. She had been with a "black shirt'. She did have a cocaine addiction. And he understood and felt her sadness for 50 years after he had to leave her behind in a little apartment in Florence. This is history, writ large and personal. 

And compared to what's out there, that is not denominated "sensitive", it's tame stuff. If this were sixty or seventy years ago, when the there were indexes of immoral movies and books, I'd say, yeah, put on a discretionary button. But until we have a consensus as a society once again as to what can and cannot be written and spoken without restriction, this just is random application of a rule without consistency.

The good news is that I corrected some typos in the original rendition of the story. So thanks to the reviewers. 

Sputnik by Constantine Gochis

Time for a Dad story. I had long set for myself the placement of as many of Dad's stories as I can on this site as I have no progeny to whom to leave the actual paper of which there remains an abundance. I want him remembered as I guess I want for myself as well, if only by the digital. It seems the best solution in the absence of anyone to make a bequest of such memorabilia. I am writing on Christmas Eve and since I have time until I shower and dress for the Mass that used to be at Midnight, but now is at the more charitable time (I guess another complaint of we modern weaklings) of ten p.m., I figured something meaningful to do would be to add another of Dad's musings. This one is longer than most and harks back to days likely most schoolkids are no longer taught about as it reflects an American nation of ideals and we don't like national pride or encourage meritocracy any longer. It is so gauche and un-woke. But I digress. The story is called, "Sputnik". Sputnik was that little Russia satellite that started the space race back in the 1950s, launching the rise of technology that made things like the computer on which I am writing so advanced. But I digress again.

                                                                    Sputnik

It is the summer of 1957. Big Jim, Al Smith, Major McCloud and I meditate over our beers at McKeever's Bar and Grill.  McKeever himself serves us. He is somewhat displeased we do not order drinks with our usual frequency.

"Whaddya say, boys, we do not rent beer in this establishment. We try to sell it!" he admonishes.

We do not care for such critical comments, especially from a guy whose premises have so many empty stools.  And we patronize McKeever's joint with great regularity over many years. So, we ignore his lapse in good manners.

The day is one of real sadness. I cannot tell for sure, but I am convinced that McCloud, who just makes Major, sheds a tear or two into his beer.  The additional moisture does nothing to add a head to the flat beverage. My guess is that we are likely to join him in lamentation.

McKeever looks at us suspiciously. He knows that sometimes we feel like crying when we taste his usual bar whiskey. McKeever's Bar and Grill is not known for vintage liquors. There's also little evidence of a grill, unless one considers the stale pretzels, and a jar of pickled eggs, which may be an American version of the Chinese "hundred year old eggs".

"What gives?" says our solicitous bartender. "Do I not spring after the first three rounds, or do you guys lose a bundle on 'High Flyer' in the fourth at Pimlico? I drop a few rubles myself today. You win some. You lose some."

That's pretty close. I mean, the coincidence that he uses the word 'rubles" is startling. McKeever is no Nostradamus, but he is on to half the reason for our discomfort.

The Soviets send a satellite the size of a basketball into space successfully, causing great unhappiness from the Pentagon to the field units.

The daily newspapers take up the hysteria. They discover that American school students are seriously deficient in science and mathematics, which they conclude is the reason the Russians beat us into space. They neglect to mention reading and writing, a skill deficient itself.

In fairness, many of our youngsters are manifesting real talent in economic matters, like selling grass, and other basic needs for a good fix before classes.

It is not the news about Sputnik that distresses us and the rest of the company officers most, though.

The latest latrine rumor is that our unit gets the axe and that the fourteen days of our activity, this summer, will be the last.

The Congressional economy drive against the military budget reaches epic proportions. It does not make page twenty in the papers, but it does get down to our civil affairs company. This is the substance of the rumor and it comes from commode number three in the latrine, a reliable source.

"That Sputnik is a very bad omen indeed," says Major McCloud. "It is the year we go to summer active duty with a civil affairs group and a civil affairs area headquarters."

This is distressing news indeed. That group is headed by a two star general who is very picky about shiny brass, spit-shined shoes and especially empty beer cans in bivouac areas.

On the other hand, it is a chance for officer to negotiate for spots in these very large units. There are no odds of getting a pay slot, but there is a chance for 'attached' status. This way we earn retirement points; if one is lucky the guy he understudies gets hit by a truck, or imbibes a snootful in the Officer's Club and falls on his head.

The Commander, our own Frank DiGirolamo is very tense when we arrive in Fort Devens, Massachusetts. He is of a rank not very much in demand, a full Colonel. He recently passes his command and general staff correspondence course with a grade of 'excellent'.  Under normal circumstances, he makes General. But I think this is about the time the movie hero, James Stewart, makes General, even though some lady senator drops in the black ball. In the current situation, DiGirolamo is lucky if he escapes a poor unit performance report on his way out.

On the first day we arrive, an interim inspection finds that there are too many cigarette buts on the grounds in front of the Command Headquarters. In the military, this is a grievous matter. Our Commander is wroth, indeed.

The Old Man is further distressed when he gets a peek at the general situation, the theme for our Command Post Exercise. 

There is terminology such as ''thrust', 'solid fuel' as opposed to 'liquid propellants', escaping the 'gravitational pull', all foreign object to us, and especially him.

The Old Man, whose specialty for becoming a Principal of a Junior High School is a Masters in gymnastic matters, is in a deep fog. He is not alone.

At our first Officers Call, we sink low into our seats. The Old Man looks searchingly around the room for a savior.

"Where is Major Goodman?" he asks suddenly. "Sir," says our Executive Officer Salvador DiPena, "he has been excused from summer training. He marries and is on a honeymoon in Puerto Rico."

"Why am I not informed?" says the CO. "He is the only man in the unit with a science major."

"Sir," says the Exec. "You sign the papers yourself, when I place them in front of you."

The Old Man dismisses us without rebuttal.

"Let us head to the nearest town for some liquid sustenance," says Al Smith. Indeed, we have acquired a heavy thirst. We head to the town at the back entrance of Fort Devens, a burg named Athol.

We search diligently but there is no joint open that sells the kind of refreshment we are in sore need of. We settle for coffee at a sloppy joes, a very poor substitute.

Major McCloud is especially bitter, probably because he is in critical dehydration of booze. The Major is not given to a fast.

"The guy who names this town must have a lisp," says the Major. "He certainly misspells the name of this village."

Big Jim adds to our discomfort. "Do you not see that the officers of the group all have red bands around their caps?"

I do not see the relevance of that, but Big Jim elucidates. "They are all umpires for the exercise, and we are the patsies. They will be in our hair for the next fourteen days."

It is indeed prophesy. The next day, there are 'red hats' everywhere, in the barracks, in the mess hall, even in the latrine, where a man should have a little privacy.

"They are an ubiquitous evil," says Major McCloud. He is very learned and he explains the unfamiliar word to one and all. He even spells it, and while I do not claim any training in these matters, I see the word before, and he misspells it.

I agree, though that they are indeed ubiquitous.  I am proud that I spell the word correctly, under my breath. I do not wish to cause the Major any discomfort.

The summer is hot, the days are long, the 'red hats' are everywhere. They issue paper problems for us to complete and pick up paper answers which we work in whatever shade we can find. Captain Berkowitz and I play word games. I beat him handily. I am not crowing on how smart I am but on how unlearned he seems, unless it is the humidity which dulls his brain. I spell 'unlearned' in my head to be sure I can.

There is a saying by some philosopher whose name I hear once from Major McCloud after a third round of drinks at McKeevers. Plutarch, I think. Anyway, he says, "If something can go wrong, it will."

The Commandant of Fort Devens is a famous infantry hero. He likes nothing better than bivouacs in the woods, the digging of foxholes and his favorite, 'perimeter defenses'. It is required that all units spend several days 'in the field'. This means sleeping on the hard ground, powdered eggs for breakfast and canned beans for lunch and supper.

The Commandant makes it four days. He lops off two days of paper problems. We pack up our pup tents, don the metal hats and head for the woods. 

It is fortunate we have Major O'Houlihan, whom I recruit into the unit. He is an infantry officer with the 77th Division before he loses his spot and joins our unit. He sets up a perimeter defense such as would please General Patton himself. I do not recall ever seeing such fine fox holes, such camouflage and not a single empty an or beer or a cigarette butt to be seen.

If there is anything I hate, it is being in the field. When I am a shaver, I refuse to join the Boy Scouts. I do not understand why units that run whole countries need pup tents and fox holes.

When I am in Italy during World War II, I do some of this work. We pick the best housing that is still standing. Once we find great quarters just before Naples, where a mortar hell explodes just enough to let us know where the wine cellar is hidden. If the Italians do not hide their wine, the Germans will surely drink it or send it home with the paintings they steal. Of course, we do not let it go to waste.

Several days pass without incident, unless I count when Private Golowitz encounters a nest of Yellow Jackets as he pounds his tent peg into the ground. On the plus side, he then escapes another night on the hard ground and gets to sleep on the white sheets of the hospital.

The Old Man visits him in the ward. I go with him to help commiserate, even though I don't know Golowitz personally, and I generally do not have conversations with privates. Of course, I do make exceptions for Private DiMaggio, who is a cop and drives the Police Commissioner around. 

Golowitz is sprightly and alert. I see from the empty tray in the room that he has had roast chicken for supper, which I begrudge him. He also has news for us that causes great alarm for the Old Man.

"I hear these two red hats, both full birds, converse in the hall," he says.

"They grade our unit on the Command Post Exercise. I lay six to five we do not make satisfactory, which is a low grade indeed," says Golowitz. He does not seem even slightly perturbed about his prophecy. Perhaps this is because he suffers great insult when a thousand Yellow Jackets cause him great discomfort.

If anything can go wrong, it will. It is the last day of our field exercise. The Old Man looks at his watch and observes a stubborn sun that refuses to go down. He is approached by two red hats with bright stars on their epaulets. I am, unfortunately, in the vicinity and there is no foliage into which I can scurry to practice cover and concealment, a vital military maneuver. This is double trouble I think to myself. 

A third red hat approaches the Old Man with a prominent clip board and reads the following to him:

"Your unit has been hit with a low grade atomic bomb. What are your immediate actions?"

The CO yells my name, which causes me great apprehension. He introduces me as the Chemical and Biological Officer. I am very surprised at this change of military specialty.  I am, in fact, the company's Arts, Monuments and Archives Officer. I see a large crater into which I will surely fall.

It is fitting that I relate that this is in the days before the hydrogen improvement on the miniscule Hiroshima type. There is no talk of megatons. We are dealing with kilotons, which is small indeed to the one that almost sinks the Isle of Bikini, and introduces a revealing bathing suit in the process.

"Sir," I reply, "We are in process of washing the unit equipment inventory with a slurry of 'Dakin solution'. I read, purely by accident, an Army manual where I fun across this treatment recommended to remove radiation. The problem umpire nods his head and makes marks on his clip board. It occurs to me that if a low yield bomb hits us, there will not be enough of our unit and equipment to put in a large ash tray.

The two generals have poker faces, stern indeed. I look at the Old Man and see that his expression is a reflection of my own sad one.

Major McCloud finds a bistro in Athol to which he suggests we repair to drown our sorrows. It is a creditable joint, though we find out immediately this bartender does not spring after the the third round. This breach does not deter us as we have had a long period of fasting.

Major McCloud adds more gloom. "How can we show our faces when we apply for spots in the Area Headquarters or Group?" Private DiMaggio says no one will make book on our chances.

"We will be held up to ridicule in the after action report in the auditorium, tomorrow," wails Al Smith.

And so the dreaded moment arrives. The hall is filled with dress uniforms. The guest speakers orate on the great deeds that are accomplished in the last two weeks. The Group General proclaims that all unit receive the rating of "excellent". 

There is much turning of heads in our portion of the audience. The Camp Commander is next introduced who has, we are told, a special commendation for a particular unit.

"I never see," says the General, "such a perfect perimeter defense as I find in the 400th Company. I do not find a single cigarette butt or empty beer can, though I see many in the other unit, for which I forgive them, this time, in my joy."

"To Colonel Frank DiGirolamo I present this Unit Citation. It is indeed fortunate he knows about "Dakin* solution". He responds with true leadership, indeed."

There is no mention of the Command Post Exercise. We do not inquire further.

Al Smith buys a round in the bistro at Athol. Major McCloud apologizes for his earlier remark about the town. I do not think he is sincere. He has a snootful.

The fact that Al springs is in itself another miracle. He too is potted.

*A note from the transcriber. My father spelled the solution he referred to as "Dank" or "Dark" Solution. I had never heard of this so I went online and could find neither as spelled. But I did find something called "Dakin" solution. Whether that is precisely accurate or not, I substituted it. It does not change the substance of the story.