Pluribus Non Est Ponenda Sine Neccesitate by Constantine Gochis

Imagine my surprise when I heard these strange words uttered by my street bum friend on the occasion of our most recent encounter.  Some of you here are familiar with Diogenes, a peripatetic beggar, who for years has accosted me for his stipend of spare change, to the point that I am considering declaring him a dependent on my tax returns.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the person so named, let me offer herewith a brief biography.

Diogenes was not always a bum.  In fact, he had, at one time, achieved the apogee of financial success and popular acclamation.  His material demise, as he once explained to me, came when his wife left him in the midst of a cruise of the Greek Islands, for a poetess with whom she became enamored.  It was all downhill for him from there.

He is no ordinary bum.  He is learned and multilingual, as you can divine from the recondite title above, which he translated forthwith--after I had deposited my stipend in his grimy hand.

"Very simple," he explained, 'it means that 'plurality should not be posited without necessity.'"

"Indeed, it is not simple," I objected.  "What has that got to do with anything?" I began to feel a little resentment. Diogenes had assumed a patronizing attitude, a characteristic not consonant with his social status.  This affectation is rare for him, and, to add insult to injury, is only displayed AFTER he has already received his spare change. 

"Don't be so sensitive," he said.  "I am only quoting a medieval theological principle, 'Occam's Razor.' I will expound if you consider adding a few more coins to that miserable offering you have made."

He continued without waiting for a response, another example, it seemed, of arrogance.

"William of Occam was a 14th Century philosopher and controversial theologian, a minimalist like me, in that he also chose a life of poverty.  Less or fewer is the more perfect state--to elucidate-is better--to simplify.  The concept has perfect application to secular monk status and current politics."

"Elucidate!" I challenged, echoing his proposition.

"Take the brouhaha about the last presidential election.  The general clamorous tocsin centers about the greater number of votes received by Al Gore.  There is no greater illustration of excess and meaningless plurality.  The 'plaints of the hysterical hoi polloi have no Constitutional veracity. Less is better--The Electoral College, for example, is an example of the 'razor', the means by which the superfluity of the headless mob is constrained--Madison's Tyranny of the Majority.  Need I say more?"

"You are saying that the privileged minority is imbued with the Greater Good?"

"Let me," continued Diogenes, "answer with a theological application of Occam's Razor from the Middle Ages, an argument by Peter Abelard. You remember him, no doubt played on stage or in movie by someone like Peter O'Toole.  The question? 'Whether a higher angel kows through fewer species than a Lower?' This was answer in the affirmative.

I did not really understand the quote.  "Diogenes," I asked.  "Does that mean that there is more room on the head of a pin for the higher angels?" He ignored the question.

"What's more," he continued, "Peter Abelard added the conclusion of Aristotle that 'the more perfect a nature is the fewer means it requires for its operation.'"

"Who is Abelard?" I asked.

"You do not know the saga of Abelard and Heloise?  A sure fired movie potential--it was done on stage you know, showing how God's business is inimical to hormonal manifestations in the population of Holy Orders.  But I digress.  Occam's razor has been used to suggest that 'material substance is an unnecessary plurality," and you know what the Democrats would do with that? Let me say, in closing, that I object occasionally to minimalism, but given my status, could you spare a little more change?"

I am always awed by Diogenes' displays of intellectual prowess.  I felt the least I could do was to augment my donation to him. I fingered a fifty-cent piece in my pocket.  Had it been a shade less weighty, I should have give it to him, in appreciation.  I settled for an additional quarter. I am also on occasion a believer that less is better. 

Encounter on a Bus by Constantine Gochis

 She was not a guy, as I had originally assumed when she passed me at the bus stop. It was the shaven head that misled me, though to be frank, I thought the legs were too creamily tanned and shapely for a guy.

The bus was very long in coming. We mounted together and dismounted again at Fairfax and Third Street. Both of us took the northbound 217 to Oakwood Avenue, where she was behind me when I got off.

"We meet again," I said. "Like ships that pass in the night." She laughed.

"We've talked before," she said, though the phase was more like a question than a statement.

"I should have remembered if we had," I said, looking at her intently.

She was gray-eyed and small fatured, and pretty.  Web-like creases at the corners of her eyes testified that she was approaching forty, or had passed it. She wore no make-up. She was trim and casually dressed.

"What do you do?" I asked.

"Do?" she queried.

"I mean, work."

"Right now, I'm not working."

"When you do?"

"Counter-work in department stores, when I have hair."

It seemed to me that work was not a major concern of her life style.  I probed. Though she was articulate, she had not had college. My impression practically screamed, "Berkeley!" Later conversation verified she was leading an unencumbered lifestyle, which would not be foreign in that environ.

"I don't have a TV, or a VCR, or even a radio," she told me. I was not surprised.

"Or a dress suit?" I offered. "Surely not an evening gown, or a family?"

"A sister in Florida, where I come from." Her accent was not Californian.

"My guess is that it takes only a slight wind to fill your sails," I ventured.

"I go when the urge comes."

"Where are you going now?" I asked.

"I'm going into this shop to look at some books," she answered.

We were standing in front of the Out of the Closet Thrift Shop, on Fairfax Avenue.

She offered her hand and I took it.  It was warm and friendly.

"I hope we meet again," she said.

"I hope so too. I feel we might," I responded. I thought she might make a fine addition to my collection of Fairfax Avenue notables who give the area its flavor. I did mention to her in passing that she was interesting enough for me to write an immediate five pages.

She laughed.

I watched her walk away. She wasn't a guy, but it was not a feminine walk.

Then a Thrift Shop isn't a place to look through books. 

Hawaii 2006

Although I worked for the State Bar of California for some 25 years, and though I was a manager for about 10 of those years, I only rarely was able to attend the NOBC, National Organization of Bar Counsel, events that mostly took place in locales in the mainland United States, but on occasion in such as Hawaii. I went to Chicago and Philadelphia in my time, and once when it was held in San Francisco. But in 2006 I got lucky, because I was to be a presenter and I would get to make the first of two visits to Hawaii, specifically Oahu, and Waikiki. My presentation was less than spectacular, alas, though my boss at the time, the late Scott Drexel, was very kind when I felt the need to confess my poor performance. I didn't know him well, but I miss him, and his very real commitment to the legal profession's ethics--a rarity in these wild west days--especially among our national, state, and local leaderships. We attended a whole bunch of seminars, but we did get a chance to venture forth and see the sights. I engaged in my first, and thus far, only effort at Kayaking, a 50 something bringing up the rear of kayaks, in a field of 20 something beautiful bodies. As I looked at some of the photos (among those not posted here) I was probably at my fattest. Still, I managed the activity in Kailua, a pristine part of Oahu. And a residence of the very rich. And I got to spend time with colleagues and friends, as well as to visit one of my now late aunts, who had taken up residence there, in Oahu, though not in the most view worthy area. Truth is, most of the interior is rather like any city. Her life had become somewhat difficult by then, and I was able to bring her to share my room for a day or so, and took her to the Outrigger for dinner. 

We really did work hard--those seminars are incredibly. . . .shall we say, boring?! But we didn't miss one of them. Rewards, below. 

The view from my room.  

Hawaiian palm trees are different from those in Los Angeles. Slimmer, better fronds. And they blow beautifully in the wind. 

A group shot at dinner somewhere, Murray, Anita, Kristin, Jeff, Tom Mills, Itzel among them. A couple of folks, alas, not sure who they are. Kim and Jeff.

Another group shot.

There is no trip to Oahu, without a visit to the Arizona and the brave men who died at the beginning of the battle to save the world. 

In 2006, the oil from the destroyed Arizona still rose from the surface. A reminder of the extremity of the sacrifice that in my view, Americans HAVE forgotten. (Sorry)

Yes, I was in one of those kayaks. Forgot to use suntan protection on my legs. I was lobster red.

The Duke's Statue on the strand, and another picture of the ocean, can't get enough of that.

My room and a daytime view from the terrace.

And below, my Aunt Kathleen, now passed away (2014), and her friend Leaujay (who lived to a great age up to 2016). 

The Celestials Among Us by Constantine Gochis

I actually had to look up the "history" of this event of which my father wrote in this short short story.

He refers to a "Denise" in it, and I could not for the life of me remember who that could have been. So I looked up the times that then former President Clinton played the sax publicly, along with the names of "Denise" and "Hillary", you know, the one who designated so many American voters (about half) as "deplorable" in more recent years and really won the 2016 election to what she designated an "illegitimate President" (when she said it challenging elections was ok; not ok in 2020 when Mr. Biden won--ain't that magic?). And I found it. The "Denise" was/is Denise Rich, former wife of Marc Rich, a commodities trader who was controversially pardoned (no matter who does it, either side of the aisle, I have to admit it is always controversial) by the former President on his last day in office.

The occasion of which my father wrote, in 2000, whew, 23 years ago now, was a gift of a saxophone to Mr. Clinton at a fundraising event hosted by Ms. Rich.

https://www.gettyimages.com/detail/news-photo/president-bill-clinton-receives-a-saxphone-as-a-gift-from-news-photo/51570532

I also leave you, before I add my father's observations about life and politics, with an article from the Washington Post which interpretes Ms. Rich's interactions and donations to the Clinton(s). You forget things after nearly a quarter of a century. That's just the way they like it.

https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/politics/2001/02/18/friends-defend-denise-rich-as-naive-soul/be60bff9-4ab2-4bc4-9b98-ec453842b8b9/

THE CELESTIALS AMONG US

There are divinities among us.  Each night, we press the remote and they appear magically for our admiration and then, adoration. They provide us with the illusions we require as we do bread for sustenance.  Sometimes they disappoint us and we quibble about a minor lapse. I beseech you. Why cavil about a little sin? We have made them in our image, with the imperfections of our fallible natures.  Given the chance to romp among them on Olympus, who would not play as they do and look down with disdain at that clamorous human with his everlasting lamentation?

Listen! You too! There was an eternity of nothingness before you arrived on this orb, and another to come when you leave. Live and let live. You're burning daylight.

Let us rather cavort with them insofar as our limitations allow, and revel in and retell the tales of their mingling with us, playfully, so their deeds become the mythology of our generations and the rites and liturgies we employ to give them meaning.

These were some of my thoughts as I viewed a fleeting television snippet depicting the peccadilloes of one of the deities. Well, "peccadillo" is a little excessive. Still, if you look long at his persona, he casts too definitive an after-image, as do some of his heretofore playmates--two, at least in this clip.

They are on a dais--Bill, Hillary and Denise. He is resplendent in black tie as is Denise. Her gown is partially obscured by the podium over which she holds the instrument of the presentation--a saxophone. The bare shouldered dress is clearly Cote D'Azur, or Biarritz.  The moments are fleeting so it is difficult to assess her beauty.

The profile is straight and aquiline and accented by heavy pendant earrings, in my impressionable mind in the face of this majesty, clearly diamonds. My guess is beauty carefully ministered against the encroachment of time, palliated by the emoluments of wealth. 

Hillary is demure in a simple suit, with bright buttons that begin in the center of the jacket, at the neck, and extend to her waist. Her hands are clasped at the fourth button until Denise presents the ex-President with the saxophone, causing her to clap her hands appreciatively.  After all, this modern day Hera shares much of the overlapping spotlight that seeks out her husband's image. 

Bill receives the gift, seeming to brush Denise's proffering hand in the process. He looks lovingly at the saxophone, his eyelids lowered sufficiently to enhance the expression of humility and gratitude.

The clip ends here. It is the one being offered universally by the media. I recall having seen the end of the aborted one, which I feel is more interesting.  Forget the baal talk of the exchange of millions, the quid pro quo. It is within the province of immortals to maneuver battalions of us in their Olympian chess games, acting like profligate generals in costly battles, weighing the anticipated casualties of Titanic proportions implicit in grandiose operations.

Like all of you, I dare not look at the full glare of greatness.  I prefer catching their unguarded moments. They resemble us more in their simpler acts of humanity, the inevitable vulnerable spot of all, the heel in the armor of proposed invulnerability.

The ex-President bends down and embraces his wife, turns and places his cheek against that of Denise.

The gesture is fleeting, but I sense warmth and appreciation for the gift and the friendship. Even for the great, money isn't always everything.

All Over Time

 This has turned out to be "The Great Project" of many potential "great projects" I have designated for myself--putting all my hard copy photos (or most of them) on the cloud and some here on this blog. I'd say it is a history of one, but really it is part of the history of others, people I have known, some no longer, some still. As if I am not introspective enough, this endeavor has made me more so, for the things done, the things not done, and the people in that context. 

Above are the high school graduation photos of several youngsters who once were. The third from the left looking like a bear with a shag cut is me. Ugh. I am still in touch with three of these folks, saw them just this past August at Bryant Park Grill in New York. It's only ahem, 50 plus years!

Two of my favorite things in the photos above, one my Plymouth Fiero, a two seater sports-ish car no longer made. And frankly it had lots of mechanical issues. Which is probably why it is no longer made. But I loved it. And Fiero with car and cat. And me outside the front door of my apartment in the Fairfax District. This is all circa late 80s, early 90s.

Naturally, when I first moved to Los Angeles, I was a regular visitor to the beach. Almost every weekend. Then life and work took over and those dalliances were fewer and farther in between. These two photos I know the date of because it is on the back, 1982.

Now, the next series of photos are from a visit or two I made back in the early 80s, I think. The reason I think it's early ish 80s is that you will note that my dear friend Ellen is enceinte as we are pictured in front of a lovely Manhattan restaurant, Cent'anni. (Don't know if it's still there, why would it be it's like 40 years!) The first of her two children, Matt, is a regular visitor to these climes for events at the Hollywood Bowl in the summer, and other such LA events. 

Below a few pics of Len and me at Yamashiro in Los Angeles, before he made Los Angeles his bi-coastal home; me, reclining on my 200.00 Ortho bed; and me with a couple of friends, among those with whom contact was lost, but still they are a part of my life and so here they are. 

Larry and Len and me below.

Below, Susan and my dad communing musically. Isabel, a friend from law school visits, and Margo, a college friend who also moved to Los Angeles in the 1980s.

Below, a publicity shot of Alan Alda and writer-producer Thad Mumford, who was a friend until his passing in Sept. 2018. We are Fordhamites all. 

My architect and college friend Ralph. The top picture he sent to me long ago. The bottom picture is from his 1980s visit to Los Angeles, a year or two before he met and married the love of his life, Mary. 

Ralph and I visited the then new LA County Museum on Wilshire Boulevard, Museum Row. After only 30 something years, it has been torn down and something new and massive is being built. 

Family and Friends

 

As will be the case in many of these photo entries, there is no particular order to this bunch. I tried to go from older to newer but that did not entirely work out. So I shall narrate the time frames as best as I can.

Above. Aunt Teri and Uncle Frank. She is my mother's last remaining sister, still with us at nearly 97. She is the one I visited in New York a couple of months ago. Uncle Frank was a bus driver. In one of the old photos I think I've already posted, I am a four year old opened and closing the door of his bus one afternoon near Woodlawn Cemetery (I think). Uncle Frank was an inveterate Camel smoker, without filters. He ended up with throat cancer, but survived it for quite a while before he did circa 1999. When I was a kid, they lived right next door to us on the fourth floor of a Bronx walk up.

This is my grandmother on my father's side. She was four foot 10 or 11 of Italian toughness. Born on Mulberry Street in Manhattan at the end of the 19th century. I can't say we were close. For some odd reason my mother wasn't invested in my father's side of the family, nor frankly, other than her sisters, in her own side. When she got sick in the 1970s, she became more family oriented, at least on her side of the family. And my father wasn't that crazy about his childhood. 

More pics from probably around the late seventies, at the top at least. My late cousin Barbara, my late Uncle Nathan, my Aunt Georgia, somewhat younger than she is in the lower photo. She lived until she was 100. She was a kind, and soft soul. On the right top my Aunt Rita, one of my mother's other sisters. She was the salt of the earth.  She also died way too young.

Above. I begin my life in Southern California. Some pics are before I actually oved, and some after. I couldn't tell you which at this point. I do believe the restaurant shot, which I think was La Villa Taxco, one of which was then in Hollywood, reflects my cousin being just a tad upset about something. At this time, she was about 14 or 15 and I was in my early 20s. They were very good to me when I visited and ultimately when I moved here, letting me sleep on their couch until I found a job. And then, for 31 years after that, I lived right across the street from them.

The above picture was taken in my Dad's apartment near Fairfax and Beverly.  Not sure of the date, but figure it is somewhere in the late 1980s or early 1990s. My friend Susan Margolis is listening to me hold forth, glass of somethin' somethin' in my hand. I am always a bit surprised by this photo of me. So sad I did not think of myself as attractive when I was young(er). What an idiot! Or truthfully. I was afraid to be. Now that I am old(er) such disclosures really aren't particularly sensitive. As you will see, below, my weight always fluctuated. At this point, I was my best size. Hmmm, Need to try for that again, just for nostalgia sake no?

More Dad, and me. The top polaroid? I think it might have been when Dad took me to a Greek place that used to be on Cahuenga, for my 30th birthday.  He always enjoyed the scenery.

Brothers Constantine and Steve at top. Steve was the youngest in Dad's multi-children family, and they really weren't close as there was something like 7 or more years between them. They never realized, either of them, how much they were like each other. The middle picture is later, probably in the 1990s or later, when my friends Len, and Chris, and Andrew and various folk used to gather for Christmas dinners and wild exchanges of gifts.

Above: My Cousin Carol and I on my 50th birthday in Malibu. I threw myself a party at Moonshadows and got a few rooms at the then not extravagant, but very nice, Malibu Beach Inn for visitors. Now renovated and owned by David Geffen, I would have to sell my possessions to afford it. That weekend I also did an ethics presentation at Pepperdine, and Carol and Mike (who took the picture) joined me. That's Carol also with Aunt Teri all the way on the right, in the 80s. Always looking good! Me in the middle also in the 1980s, with too much weight. I really hate this picture, but in the interest of transparency about the vagaries of life. . . . there it is and my Aunt looks great there. She still lives in that same apartment, which was once all rentals and now is a big old condo building. 

This pic is a little out of left field with the others, but I don't want to forget it. On the right is Geri F. Geri and I met many years ago, when each of us was in Rome, like the early 1990s. We met on a bus that I had taken a tour on of the sites. She was from Australia and really worried about one of her grandkids' health. I promised to pray for him. We parted at the Roman Forum but promised to keep in touch. Her grandson survived and thrived. And Geri and I became friends of many years. She even came to my 50th all the way across the world. It is a regret that I lost touch with her in the last 20 or so years. I never did make it to Australia, with my fear of flying. (I fly but it's white knuckle all the way).

Reflections of No Real Consequence by Constantine Gochis

Dad was apoplectic about the state of our nation way back in the 1960s. I was young, so while I didn't dispute, or necessarily disagree with him, I had the typical teenage fish to fry and paid little attention. As we got into the 90s, that is the 1990s, I was seeing what he did, but I didn't have time to absorb it and become, as perhaps we all should have, alarmed by the disintegration of our nation. Dad was retired. I was working. When Dad died, we were, nationally, at the denouement of all the years of corrupting influences of things like, yeah, Communism. My father was aghast when Mr. Obama, the candidate out of the blue promised to "transform America". People failed to ask "into what?" My father knew. He's been spared seeing the sad ending of a once imperfect, but still, great, nation. You and I are not so lucky.

This was written circa 1998. And a quarter of a century later, after sex and drugs have fully blinded us, we are on the edge of WWIII. And led by individuals that used to be diagnosed as non compos mentis. 

    REFLECTIONS OF NO REAL CONSEQUENCE

It is, perhaps, of some significance that Thoth, the ancient Egyptian god of wisdom, is represented as a baboon.

This is not a new expression of an apocalyptic discovery. Timon of ancient Athens, an historic observer, studying his peers, is said to have the following epitaph. "Timon, the misanthrope, I am below. Go and revile me, stranger. Only, go!" Timon was clearly not enchanted with his fellow man.

Then, of course, there is the reclining cynic Diogenes, who, when offered anything he might wish by the conqueror Alexander the Great replied, as reported by Plutarch:

"Move a little. You are blocking the sun."

This brings me to my street person friend who is named, coincidentally, Diogenes. He materializes with such regularity for his periodic stipend that I am convinced his orbital peregrinations are governed by the immutable physical laws that direct the universe.

Diogenes has none of the pretensions of polite conversation. He is always on point. There is never a greeting or a sign of superfluous amity.

"Christmas is next week, can you spare a little extra change this time around?" His expression suggests my contributions are generally penurious. I feel guilt.

In a way his address is a kind of a lexicon of plebian grandeur. It makes me admire the egalitarians of the world. Truly, this latter day Diogenes is as self-contained and independent as was his homonymous predecessor--he of the ever present lamp in a quest for an honest man. My hobo carries a flashlight, these being more modern times, though I suspect he has no particular desire to see any politically correct holy grail.

Like the ancient Diogenes, he has eschewed obeisance to the amenities which burden ordinary man.  He is asking simply that the passerby do him the courtesy not to block he sun while he seeks its warmth. Of course, "spare change" is welcome at any time.

While Diogenes has the classic appurtenances of a bum, he once was a man of substance.  In our meetings over the years, I have given him an ear as he described the travails of his past. I have also enjoyed the wisdom of his vast experience when I need solace, understanding and compassion.

Diogenes is a veritable expert in the arena of sexual encounters, the subject of so much of our present day life. He knows what is and what is not.

He was toppled from the pinnacle when his beloved wife fitted him with the horned headdress of the cuckold. She forsook him for a woman, though, in mitigation, she was a noted poetess.

I probed him regarding a hot news item of our times.

"I hear that the new speaker of the House has admitted to 'occasional' departures from the hearth."

"Curious," mused Diogenes, "you should bring this up.  Last night I have great trouble sleeping. The guy in the next cot at the mission has one of those little radios tuned to KABC radio. It was like an echo of the past, a woman with the harridan voice of my ex-wife. She was screaming at conservative callers. 'All the great men fooled around. How the hell can we get good leaders who never unzip their pants. Take the President Kennedy, Roosevelt, even Eisenhower. . . "

"Did she mention," I interrupted, "old Ted Kennedy and the nephew who followed the example of old Joe Kennedy himself--you know, ten children at home with Rose, while with Gloria Swanson for better sex?"

"She did not," he answered. "Frankly, though, I have to note that the prurient left has brought such aplomb, such diversity, such grandeur to what started as a simple bit of the apple."

I think of Ramses the Great. He had over one hundred, shall I call them gently, illegitimate children, though they were embalmed royally, as even then, the enlightened imbued their extraneous issue with validity of a sort. The progeny were all embalmed in the approved manner, so that they could be admitted unblemished to the Egyptian afterlife. Henry the Eighth might have spared many a head if he had legitimized the birth of any one of his male bearing dalliances."

Diogenes is indeed a lamp unto the darkness. I prodded further.

"How do you explain Jimmy Carter. He was above carnal sin. The only fault I can find with him is his brother. Alas he was prone to open his zipper, but only after each gallon of beer he drank."

"Ah," countered Diogenes. "He was a lousy president."

"But he did lust in his heart," I said.

"That's the point," confirmed Diogenes. "He needed some kind of stimulus. Perhaps a little cavorting in the Oval Office might have been more salutary for his running of the country."

Diogenes digresses, but to a related point of societal reality. "Did you know that Larry Flynt, that paragon of pornography, appeared on that same harridan's radio show? He said he would pay a million dollars for information about sexual dalliances of any member of Congress? One has to respect him, no? After all he is protecting my constitutional freedom, which I would lose if his magazine were prohibited."

I cannot rebut his wisdom. Diogenes is certainly worth the few pesos I accord him periodically.

Truly, he bespeaks the new verity garnered in the crash pads of the sixties where the 'sine qua non' of good leadership was practiced.

There was none of that middle class Victorianism to inhibit education. Once could lie down with one partner in the evening and awaken with another in the morning. It was a free-wheeling time, and a liberating heritage for the maturating baby boomers to pass to their progeny.

Sixty-eight percent of the 'people' approve of the new freedom, not merely for the leadership, but for the 'hoi polloi' as well.

I gave Diogenes a little extra. I did not go overboard since I expect we will probably meet again just before Christmas.  I am hopeful that before that time, Monica's war, will be history. It is sad that our revered President is not allowed to devote his full attention to a pursuit which everyone knows is a favorite of his--leading the troops in battle.

In the meantime, there is still time for Joan Baez to gather an audience for some old Vietnam songs. Just a few changes in the lyrics, perhaps. Maybe there are some CNN reporters in Baghdad available for a photo-op. Jane Fonda can sit on a cannon for all the world to see and the everlasting glory of Turner Enterprises.

Then there is Ramadan, a time for introspection for men of good will, perhaps even a right winger or two.