Unexpected

 Yesterday I was doing a crossword on my phone.  Every few minutes an ad pops up.  This time it was from teepublic, advertising t shirts.  “Wait a minute!”, I said to myself with a jolt. The name “horberg”  was in the space bar.

I texted Bill.  “Are you selling t shirts on the internet?”  “Yes”, was his answer.  T shirts and sweatshirts with his drawings of authors and others in the film noir genre.

So now, I’m going to get a Raymond Chandler sweatshirt.  Chandler to Chandler.

But here’s what’s driving me crazy.  How did my crossword, or teepublic, know to put “horberg” and me together in the ad? 

An internet mystery.  Not worthy of a Chandler plot, but just the same.

P.S. That's the man, not the drawing.

Blind Sided

 

I loved the movie The Blind Side.  And now I feel bad. Confused.  I know enough about movie making to understand that “based on a true story” leaves a lot of room for the plot to work.  I know a little about who gets paid and how much to not be surprised by any of the stories of where the movie money went.

What makes me feel bad is this:  am I a “white savior?”  What does that even mean?  When one of my favorite writers, the leftie Dave Zirin, says the movie was trash because of the “white savior” thing, I am paying attention.

Yes, I marched with MLK when he was in Chicago.  One of my best friends, Chuck Markels, went south to register voters and I cheered him on. I cried when Lyndon Johnson said “We Shall Overcome.”  Is that “white savior?”

So, now I’m feeling bad about feeling bad.  Don’t tell me I’m one of those people who want to “black out” history because I might feel bad.

So, who am I?

Stranger to the Stands

 This fall I am taking a class on "The Literature of Baseball."  I'm already immersed in the reading.  I thought it was a good moment to publish again one of my favorite baseball stories.

Stranger to the Stands

My step-father Harry was a sweet man.  He was a doctor who, during World War II,  had been a Captain doing research in the Air Force.  One of the men on his team had been the trainer for the Detroit Tigers.  Grateful for not being in combat, he said to Harry: "When this mess is over, I want you to be my guest at a game.  I'll roll out the red carpet for you."

When Harry found out I was a huge Tigers fan, he made it happen.  We had great seats behind the dugout.  I got to shake hands with some of the players. They autographed my ball.  I was busy explaining the action to Harry when he drifted off to sleep.

Many years later when I was working at the American Medical Association, I looked up Harry in the archives.  I found out that he had a distinguished career and had worked on the invention of ultra sound and the fetal heart monitor.

Harry had great stats.  He is a member of my personal Hall of Fame.

Emergency Grammar Prevails

 

I was at the doc's office the other day when he recommended that I go to the Emergency Room.  The nurse said:" We're required to recommend an ambulance.  If you want to go on your own, you need to sign here."

This reminded me of one of my most strenuous encounters with the English Language.  I was playing ping pong at a Senior Tournament at the Cultural Center.  While attempting to return a slam, I fell and broke my wrists.

One of the employees at the Center arrived and asked if I wanted an ambulance.  My friend Bev said: "It will be faster in a cab."  The young woman wrote:  Joan Chandler don't wants an ambulance. Sign here.

I left muttering:  "Doesn't want! Doesn't want!

Barbie Explains Everything

 This oldster wanted to know what all the fuss is about.  My friends said the movie was about “girl power”.  “Like Legally Blonde?” , I thought to myself. 

Barbie and Ken leave BarbieLand for The Real World.  Waiting for them is Greta Gerwig.  And the human power of creativity.  I’m overwhelmed by how she made something so meaningful and important out of plastic and pink.

The moment for me was America Ferrara’s soliloquy on being a woman.  

Okay.  Maybe I’m taking it all too seriously.  

You know who else isn’t brushing off Barbie?  The men who went to the theater and now feel “barbi-qued.” And, the bloviating politicians who are screaming foul. 

The Pinocchio ending is perfect.