Christy was near Lincoln Center. She was not on the campus, certainly, nowhere near the fountain that Marc loves so much. The usual crowd heading to the theaters was round and about. She was watching them.
Lincoln Center
She noticed a disgusting woman, who was about 5’2 and slightly overweight, and was wearing glasses. The woman was texting on her phone using Siri. The sound of her voice nauseated Christy. She made herself sound important. At least she tried to. Christy heard such arrogance in this heinous specimen’s voice. She stood there waiting and listening. She knew she had to attack. It was a matter of timing.
The woman put her phone into her purse. As she was zipping it, stale, moldy bread landed between the zipper’s threads. All of a sudden, pieces were flying all over. They were smacking her in the head. They got caught in her eyes. One piece belted in the back. Christy just wouldn’t let up.
Turns out Marc and Alana were on their way to the opera. They were only a few blocks away and in their own world. Their twins were at Anat’s, smiling as they were eating baby food. Anat has turned into quite the mommy.
Marc and Alana were excited to see “La Boheme” for the 12th time. They couldn’t get enough of it. They knew they’d keep seeing it every opera season. Sometimes they’d see it more than once. They were heading to the brunch at the Smith before the matinee. Once it concluded, they’d wind up at PJ Clarke’s.
Christy was still attacking this woman, who was now wheezing around on the concrete and barely able to breathe. People were gathering around her. Christy was now perched atop the roof of David Geffen Hall. She was no longer slinging bread.
Sirens were blaring as Marc and Alan approached Lincoln Center. They saw pieces of bread all over. They knew what happened. They sensed Christy was nearby. They saw the EMTs pull up and lift the woman onto a gurney. Marc froze.
He knew the woman Christy attacked. He did not like her at all. The two used to fight at an old job like cats and dogs. Marc never wanted to see people get hurt. But in his mind, he was not upset that this woman was being rushed to the hospital. He overheard the EMTs say she was not breathing and had a lot of blood loss. They weren’t sure if she was going to make it. Tough as it was for him, he cracked a smile. This woman was the beast from hell.
Jen decided to take Benjamin and Jerry to the Bronx Zoo. The real one. Not the Stadium. One day, they will get there. Despite Anat’s sick loyalty to the Red Sox, Jerry decided he loves the Yankees. He only wished he were old enough to have seen the Core Four. Oh well.
Giraffe
Everything was great. Jen had stuff under control. Ben and Jerry were becoming good friends. Benjamin was a grounded kid and not as goofy as Mom. But he had his moments. He was dancing with the lowland gorilla. He only wished he really were with him, and that the gorilla was not in a cage. But he watched it and danced along. Jerry liked the serpents and tigers. Jen was all smiles and bought the kids ice cream. That turned into a mistake when it wound up all over them. But they are kids and were having fun.
They were meandering over to see the giraffes. That is one of Marc’s favorite animals. As they passed the elephants, Jen got hit in the head with a moldy piece of bread. She was knocked to the ground. Benjamin ran over to his mom. She was scraped up and slightly bleeding. More bread was flying their way. It missed.
Elephant
Jerry saw Christy launching her bread near the elephants. She was hanging off a tree like a monkey. Jerry needed to test his aim. He usually shoots his olives at a more direct target. He’s never shot at someone swinging off a tree branch.
Monkeys
Meanwhile, Benjamin got napkins and was wiping his mom’s face. She got up and kissed him. Jen was shaken. But okay. Jerry launched his first round of olives. A few missed. But one hit Christy on the arm, causing her to fall into the water that the elephants were drinking. She panicked. One of the elephant’s trunks was slapping water around to cool down and to communicate with his fellow elephants. Christy was getting soaked. She tried to stand up and get to the fence. She tripped and wound up back in the water. She was getting quite dirty.
Jerry waltzed over to Jen and Benjamin. He was all smiles when he was Jen was ok. They carried on and went to see more monkeys.
Email has been mainstream in business since the 1990s. As we know, we now have too many other ways to communicate, including but not limited to social media and texting. Remember faxing? Or snail mail? Both are still in play.
As a chair of a community organization and a volunteer in a few others, we generally communicate our business via email. Several of us who are friends often have our own discussions via chat. But all official business is done via email.
We have members who do not have email. They do not have computers. Some are senior citizens. But before we toss in the age factor, I have worked with people in their early 90s to create PowerPoints and run podcasts. They had no issues. Yes, I worked with people much younger who had no clue how to use email or other communication methods. So, age is just a number.
About two weeks ago, it snowed in New York City. It hampered some events. One started at 7:30 a.m. ET. The other was supposed to begin at 9 a.m. ET. We wound up combining our groups. This recent storm was not the first time we have had to take that course of action. It will not be the last. We early birds sat around, and the folks from the later-starting group wandered in. Both groups have their latecomers. Snow delayed some of them even further. A day or two later, I suggested that when we know the weather will not be good, we send an email and make a robocall to let people know we are combining. Several people blasted this idea, saying some people don’t have email, and others don’t want to be bothered by a robocall. I made the case that email has been in play for a long time and that the call was coming from a number we all know. It should not register as a potential spam call, as carriers like to say.
I know people who text to landlines. I still have one. The texts usually arrive in gibberish. As chair of my group, generally start meetings (which are traditionally on Zoom, that’s another issue), reminding people you need to text their cell phones. Some folks love Facebook Messenger. Unfortunately, they do not realize Messenger works on Facebook. Many don’t know that you cannot email Gmail or send SMS messages from Messenger. Don’t get me started on WhatsApp. I think it works great and has its place.
Before I was chair, I was corresponding secretary. I created a form for people to send me via email when they donate. I can take their contact information off it and generate thank-you notes to distribute via email and traditional mail. It is still lovely to receive a personal, warm thank-you note in the mail. One of my chairs used to mail me handwritten notes with donor information. Sometimes he would wait weeks, and I’d get an envelope with 30 or 40 scraps of paper with contact information. This issue severely hampered our program.
The question has always lingered in my mind: What to do? I continue to use email and will call people. But the question will always linger on how to reach everyone.
Does Music Make a Difference When Shooting and Editing Photos?
By Mitchell Slepian
Hello, readers. As my regulars are aware, ninety-nine percent of the time, the images in my stories have been shot and edited with my Nikon camera. As Paul Simon sings, I like to take photographs. My Kodachrome sits on a table next to an old Nikon that was a workhorse and is now out of commission.
Sheepshead Bay by Emmons Avenue – Edited to Sir Elton
When shooting and editing, I always have songs in my head. One of my all-time favorite songs is “100 Years,” the opening track on The Cure’s “Pornography” album. It might be the darkest, most goth album of all time. I listen to it nonstop. Here’s a taste of Robert Smith’s (The Cure’s founder, lead singer, and possibly the best songwriter ever) lyrics. “It doesn’t matter if we all die. Ambition in the back of a black car.” I listen to lots of other great artists. Some are happier than The Cure. Of course, some are just as dark. Here’s a partial mix: Bauhaus, David Bowie, Billy Joel, Depeche Mode, Erasure, Sir Elton John, Joy Division, John Lennon (probably the best musician of all time), Led Zeppelin, Bob Marley, The Psychedelic Furs, The Smiths, Siouxsie and the Banshees, U2 and The Who. And the list goes on.
Red Flower – Edited to Sir Elton
It’s not unusual for me to have some of these lyrics floating through my brain when I’m shooting. “Confusion in her eyes that says it all. She’s lost control. And she’s clinging to the nearest passerby.” – “She’s out of Control,” Joy Division “Girl of sixteen, whole life ahead of her. Slashed her wrists, bored with life. Didn’t succeed, thank the Lord.” – “Blasphemous Rumors” – Depeche Mode “Back to the howling old owls. Hunting the horny back toad” – “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” – Sir Elton and “Before you cross the street. Take my hand. Life is what happens to you. While you’re busy making other plans” – “Beautiful Boy” – John Lennon. He always nailed it. They all do.
One can be sure the songs in my head while I am shooting affect how they are taken. I might adjust the ISO and F-stop based on how I am feeling. In case you were wondering, I do not listen to music on my iPhone. I hate headphones. I used to wear my Walkman’s headphones slightly above or below my ears. Sometimes I still do that with headphones when I am Zooming or watching things on YouTube. Songs always go through my head. It gets me through the days. Or as Robert Smith says, “In Between Days.” That’s on the “Head on the Door” album.
Bees Fetching Honey – Edited to the Cure
The other day, I was editing some images from Emmons Avenue, Sheepshead Bay and the New York Botanical Garden while listening to Sir Elton. Then I switched to a mix of The Cure, Echo and the Bunnymen, Erasure, and Psychedelic Furs, Siouxie and the Banshees. Erasure brings back memories of camp. The Cure, Erasure, and the Furs bring back old memories of dating and driving around in my old Caddy with the girls I liked. We usually listened to those bands. My first date was to see The Cure with Love & Rockets and the Pixies as the openers. We were too young to buy beer. We shared M&M’s. I still think about all of this when certain songs play.
The Hanging Flower – Edited to The Cure
Look at the images and see if you can tell the difference. This was written and edited to Led Zep’s “How the West Was Won.” With final touches while listening The latest from The Cure: “Songs of a Lost World.”
Eight days later, Alana and Marc left camp and went home. Before they left, Alana nursed her beauties. Marc sat with the Woodsman and listened. On the eighth day, the herd of buffalo approached the babies and blessed them.
Marc got behind the wheel. Alana carefully placed the babies into her Infiniti. Alana put Depeche Mode onto the sound system and signaled it was time to go. They drove straight to the temple. Their parents were waiting. Yes, these two have parents. They are very strange. Anat, Jen, and all of the others were waiting with big smiles and gifts.
The mohel was ready to perform the circumcision on the boy. He stared at the knife. The girl was beside him. She, too, stared at the knife. The mohel gave him some Shiloh wine. Anat knew the owner of the vineyard. She had him make a remarkable vintage. Marc and Alana gave out a bottle to all attendees. The girl snagged some of it. Was this a sign she would be like her mom? As the mohel cut the foreskin, the boy just smiled. His eyes fluttered. They wanted to name him Palpatine. But settled for David Benjamin. He has this funny look in his eyes. Of course, Marc and Alana were waiting to see what he would do. Would he shoot lightning out of them, like Palpatine? The two were quite worried about how powerful their children would be. To the best of their knowledge, they are the only two born to parents who both have powers. The girl was named Sarah. They were thinking of Leia or Ashoka. Or maybe just Tano. They would probably call their kids the Star Wars nicknames. Sarah and David Benjamin seemed happy. They were dressed in cute, all-black baby clothes from Sisley.
They went to the basement of the shul for bagels and lox. Jerry was bouncing around. He was making sure Gillil was ok. A great big brother he is. Suddenly, they heard some loud noises outside.
Jay was bashing cars outside the temple. Anat immediately pelted him with raisins and dates. She was taking care of business. But Jay snuck away and entered the delivery door by the kitchen and started shooting glass. A piece shot off Sarah and Benjamin David. Marc and Alana ran over to their babies. They looked like they were smirking. They were in their strollers. The two kids looked at each other.
Suddenly, the strollers started moving. Marc and Alana got nervous. They knew the kids were ok. They knew some of their friends were waiting for this moment. They wanted it to be delayed. They certainly didn’t want their parents and other relatives to see what would happen next.
Memories of Lazy Weekend Reading with the Newspaper
By Mitchell Slepian
My mom sometimes said, my dad was married to his New York Times (NYT). My parents divorced before I was a teen. I often spent weekends with him. I have distinct memories in the mid-to-late 70s of my dad reading his Sunday newspaper and, of course, reading his copy of the daily paper on his NYC subway train from Sheepshead Bay into Bloomingdales when he was a manager of its finance department.
In 1978, a great year (the Yankees repeated their World Series title), dad, mom, my sister and me left Brooklyn for an exotic place – Staten Island. Dad now had a much longer commute to work. He took his paper on the bus or the Staten Island Ferry.
“You can read it in the Sunday papers. Sunday papers.” We know Joe Jackson was criticizing the British tabloid press when he wrote “Sunday Papers” for his debut album “Look Sharp.” Much of it rings true. But I wanna talk about the Sunday papers in a different mode. I know most people get their news from their phones. I do love Apple News. But there is something about having the old-fashioned newspaper in your hands. I still get a Sunday paper. My mom taught me to read it by placing it on a beach towel on the kitchen table. She said you’d save our and eventually your table from ink stains. The stains that got on my hands that’s what the sink is for.
My memories of the Print Edition
Some of us are old enough to remember the old school weekend NYT. It had tons of thick special sections that were delivered on Saturday. The Arts & Leisure section had information about what was happening in NYC’s museums and elsewhere. Often, you’d see how if you went to one at a certain time you got in for half price or got a free something. My dad clipped out all of this, and on Sunday, we went to Museum Mile and other spots. I have an older cousin whose dad did similar, I loved the museums. My cousin hated them. I’m a member of nearly every museum in NYC. Years later, when both of us were laid off, I spent my time at the Guggenheim, Whitney, Tenement Museum, and others. I always asked my cousin to join me. He would never.
At home on Staten Island, we got our daily delivery of the Staten Island Advance (Advance). I read it. I loved reading Moss Klein’s stories in the sports section about my beloved Bronx Bombers. My first job was in politics, serving as a press secretary for a local NYC Council Member. I pitched our news releases to the Advance and was friendly with several reporters. My sister another newspaper reader became a reporter at the Advance. I was long gone from politics when she was employed at the paper, so we never worked together. That would have been interesting.
When I was a kid, my grandparents would come over from Sheepshead Bay for Sunday afternoon barbeques. We had the NYT and Advance on the table. As we were getting ready for our hot dogs and burgers, grandpa would read both. He usually read the New York Post or New York Daily News at home. In the metro section of the NYT, he always looked for stories about Staten Island. It was funny. That never happened. That’s why Staten Islanders swore by the Advance.
Eventually in the late 90s, I moved out and started buying my Sunday papers. I started in Rego Park and came back to Staten Island. I read all the dailies, the New York Daily News, the New York Post, and my eventual favorite of the bunch, The Wall Street Journal (WSJ). I would buy them before boarding the Subway or Staten Island Ferry. That’s when they sold papers all over. It was before you woke up, and your iPhone was buzzing like a madman with the latest from Apple News, social media, and Snaps from your friends, about, as Depeche Mode would put it, “the world we live in and life in general.”
I enjoyed reading the papers on the commute to and from work. Of course, the news in the morning wasn’t any different than the news on the ride home. I just read a different paper. So, the only differences could have been the opinions of the writers. Nothing was updated from the morning to the evening. We sometimes had the radio or news channels on at work. So, we followed Wall Street and breaking news with the available technology to the best of our abilities.
On my ferry rides, I often sat with a group of friends on the a.m. commute into the city. We discussed the latest news. Most of us had a paper. Usually, our conversations focused on the Yankees. We did discuss politics and movies. We compared the opinions of the writers in the different papers.
When I was back on Staten Island, my sister got an apartment in the same building complex as mine. On weekends, I would read my copy of the NYT and walk over to her building, throw it at her door, and scream out, “Mr. Flintstone.” During the holiday season, I put a card into the paper and begged for a tip. She gave me a dollar. It was so sweet of her.
As you have realized, I love baseball. I remember sitting at my table reading the NYT, which we know is not known for having a great sports section. I read its feature about the orthopedic surgeon Dr. James Andrews (now retired). You got nervous when you heard your favorite athlete was going to see him. You knew he was down for the count. The article gave an in-depth feature about how he evaluated and treated the athletes. It was a great learning experience. Holding the paper in my hands and reading about baseball feels more real than scrolling through my phone or tablet.
The Arts & Leisure section of the NYT offered similar. When “Wicked” was still starring Kristin Chenoweth and Idina Menzel, it did a terrific feature about how the two Tony winners were brought up and how they began their storied acting careers. Jumping ahead to the WSJ’s Off-Duty section, Lettie Teague’s weekly wine column offers great advice on what to sip, buy, and order. The paper’s magazine sectionoften has beautiful watches. I want all of them. Sometimes, I get ‘em.
One more memory of dad and his paper. All the Sunday papers had many circulars featuring coupons of the latest sales at the drug store, supermarket, local clothing stores and restaurants. My dad called them “couponys.” He used to sit and clip them out. He stored them in an index card holder and had a filing system. He was one of those people, who would walk up to the register in Waldbaum’s with more groceries than you can imagine and pay about $10.
I Began Having Newspaper Issues
I moved off the rock and went back to Queens. I transferred my weekend NYT subscription. Eventually, I switched to WSJ’s Weekend Journal. Pre-Covid, the paper used to be delivered to my apartment door. During the height of the lockdown and today, all the papers are in the lobby. We rarely had any problems. There was a pile of newspapers on the radiator. On Saturday morning, I would walk downstairs around 6 a.m. and take mine. The walks up and down the steps prepared me for the day. I would start reading. Sometimes, I would finish the main section and go to morning services or elsewhere— hopefully, Yankee Stadium. They returned to deliver the paper to my front door a few months ago. Then it went back to the lobby.
Most people I know stopped getting newspaper delivery or stopped buying them at newsstands. Many newsstands are only selling junk food. Several have closed. Just walk along NYC’s streets and you will see many locked-up newsstands. Most of the people I know, just get their news online.
Sadly, since the beginning of 2025 my WSJ stopped showing up. I go downstairs and see other papers. I have emailed and spoken to the WSJ’s customer care countless times. They keep promising to get it right. Occasionally the paper comes late Saturday night. It is still the weekend. But by that time, I do not want to read it. I have already seen everything on my phone. I like a Sunday paper. I enjoy being offline as much as possible on the weekend. Like most people, I am on too much. While disappointed to do this, I will likely cancel my Sunday paper.
Mitchell's thoughts, photos, etc. 