The Doors. “People Are Strange”.Hearing this on my car’s Air Play, I think back to my youthful songs of choice, and except for the Motown sounds I sang with my buddies in the 171ststreet subway station for the acoustics and harmonies.

Why was it the songs I identify with are songs like those?

I always sang the Melvin Franklin Bass lines, or as a fake Bowser of Sha-Na-Na in a local group. I was never the lead; always a backup singer.

It’s funny how music can represent a life.

People are strange
When you’re a stranger
Faces look ugly
When you’re alone.

When you’re strange
Faces come out of the rain
When you’re strange
No one remembers your name
When you’re strange.

I was always the outsider, uneasy with new people. I recall singing that to myself at parties or hanging out at Poe Park. Most at ease on the playing field with my teammates and even my opponents, and when an adult among his colleagues at work, I was shy among girls, then as I grew older, women.

Then, as now, I wondered why I felt alone in a room, no matter how many people were there. Growing up poor, as an only child, I knew what being alone meant as I spent countless hours inventing things to do by myself with whatever I had; playing real baseball with baseball cards, diving on the couch to score touchdowns until I heard one too many cracks in the old wood, or as I grew older…playing with myself as opposed to by myself.

He laughed to himself…. “I should make a playlist of those songs. The Animals: We’ve Got to Get Out Of This Place.”

We gotta get out of this place
If it’s the last thing we ever do
We gotta get out of this place

I always felt I had to get out of this place. Where was this place? It was where ever I was.

Another Animal’s song pops into his head…”Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood”.

I’m just a soul whose intentions are good
Oh Lord, please don’t let me be misunderstood…

Sitting alone in his home filled with people at his 65thbirthday party, Paul thought of many other songs. “God Bless The Child’. “Nowhere Man”. “The Stranger”.

“STOP!” I yell at himself. “Shake it off man. You’ve had a pretty good run. Why get so down on yourself?”

Why indeed?


“Inside every cynical person, there is a disappointed idealist.”




“Dyavid…Don’t say that word.”  (Mom never quite lost that bit of Russian accent.)


“Mom, All I said was shit… (He knew better than to say it correctly.)


He was seven.


As a kid he had memorized Marx… Groucho, that is. His earliest TV moments were more You Bet Your Lifethan Howdy Doody.  Groucho had a wisecrack about everything…and everyone. How many times did he watch “The Cocoanuts”, “Horse Feathers”, and “Duck Soup”?He loved Groucho. He imitated him. He was him.


How many parties had Paul been to where he wished he could have said, half joke—half truth, as Groucho did, “I’ve had a perfectly wonderful evening, but this wasn’t it.” 


How many people did he meet, even as a kid, when the Groucho in his head said, “He may look like an idiot and talk like an idiot but don’t let that fool you. He really is an idiot.”


Growing up in the Bronx made one bilingual. You spoke English and Street. Street involved lots of cursing. There were no better words to express certain feelings at the right times and right place. The secret was in knowing those right times and right places. Today sociologists call this code switching. We called it, “Don’t let your dad hear you say that shit or he’ll whip your ass.”


Paul’s Black friends all knew how to code switch. The skill went back to slavery.


“Yes’m Master.”


We watched Jack Benny’s TV butler do it weekly.  Benny: “Ohhhh Rochester?”


Rochester: “Yes’m, Mr. Benny.”  While thinkin’… “You white, can’t play no fiddle no how, motherfucker!” 


Even us far less cool white guys had to learn to “code switch” when in school, at home (usually) and while doing personal appearances at Aunt Fannie’s house because she’d rip you a new one if you cursed.

His early life wasn’t pretty, and he had to deal with it. He learned to fight, talk, and crack jokes. To survive you needed to be a bit Clark Kent and a bit Superman. Paul know that dual personality far earlier than Jekyll and Hyde. You learned to speak and act as Clark Kent in the adult world, but on the street …you had to get in that phone booth.


There, you could be either be Superman with fists or with words. Paul was ok with fists but preferred using words. He became a master of “doin’ the dozens, snappin’, and wisecracking. His Black friends taught him well. He can’t tell you how many times he got out of jams when someone said,


“That’s one funny dude. Let him slide.”


He learned to “lawyer” his friends out of beefs. He even talked a cop down who was pointed a gun at him and his ladder carrying buddies, two of whom were not white, during the 1965 blackout.


“Shit…He thinks we’re 2ndstory guys.”


Paul told the cop the truth. Paul knew, even at 15, how perception altered reality.


“We’re going down into the subway to get people off a stuck express train.”


The cop kept his revolver pointed right at him.


“Damn, don’t believe us? Come with us and help.”


Nothing defused a fight or a cop better than words.


Paul learned that to survive you often had to think one thing and say another. Now this wasn’t the Eddie Haskell kind of fronting. Paul was never that slimy B.S. artist. He hated Haskell types. Still does…




He adopted a George Carlinesque view of the world. By the way…“Have you ever noticed that anybody driving slower than you is an idiot, and anyone going faster than you is a maniac?”

“Inside every cynical person, there is a disappointed idealist.”


Is it possible to be an optimistic Hobbesian? Or is it a Hobbesian Optimist? Famous for telling us that life is solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short”,Hobbes was the pessimist’s pessimist. Paul, on the other hand still thinks himself a cock-eyed optimist, somehow combining his parent’s optimistic views of life. The problem was that each of their lives were failures.


Dad always thought his intelligence and talents, combined with his brilliant schemes would lead him to great successes. NOPE!


Mom always trusted everyone and thought people would always watch her back. Her bosses? NOPE. Dad? NOPE.


Paul’s life balanced his parent’s naïve optimism and Hobbes’s philosophy.  Paul didn’t want to think that humankind asbasically “selfish, driven by the hope of personal gain, and a constant seeking of power over others”, or that, “The condition of man… is a condition of war of everyone against everyone…”


He preferred RalphWaldo Emerson’s, “The purpose of life… is to be useful, to be honorable, to be compassionate, to have it make some difference that you have lived and lived well.”


Paul believed his compassion and work for others as a husband, father, teacher, mentor, and coach would make the world a better place. Paul wanted to believe, like his mom, in the good in people and like his dad, that his intelligence, talents, and abilities would persevere whatever life placed in his path, but his experiences more often negated those lofty thoughts.


Too often, he confronted others less honorable, less compassionate, less curious, less giving, and less thoughtful than he optimistically expected. More and more he found stupidity, cowardice, and arrogance… Idiots


He always sought Lincoln’s “better angels”among Hobbesian “brutes”but was too often disappointed.He began to think more like many the stand-up comedians who observed life and with a sarcastic, comic, and often snide remark… though rarely did he make these out loud. He knew who he could crack everyone up with those thoughts and with whom he couldn’t.


As he grew up, Paul the idealist found escape in skepticism and in sarcastic humor, even if some others sometimes didn’t approve. He knew his audiences. Over time Paul learned how observe very carefully.  He took everything in, things most people never noticed. He had an untrained comedic eye. Long ago he realized, like Carlin,


“Some people have no idea what they’re doing, and a lot of them are really good at it.” 


As he grew older, he just saw more and more of it and made it a habit to point it out…for the humor in it.  Paul’s sincere, honest to a fault, cordial, and polite, charming Clark Kent often masked the skeptical, sarcastic, ironic, funny, and yes even sometime cynical Superman scenes rolling across his mind’s eye.


Paul became the Master of ceremonies at roasts, formal or not… a guy who provided the punch line in every too serious conversation to lighten it up or move boring ones along. He calls himself a counter punch… liner.


Like Carlin, he liked to“think off center”,although most people didn’t understand his off centered wit. He questioned everything. He believed as a teacherand as a parent, “Don’t just teach your children to read…Teach them to question what they read. Teach them to question everything.”


From his Bronx second grade class on, when he learned about Little Rock, Arkansas, he questioned our society. As a teacher, his kids loved his humorous questioning approach to examining history. He loved making fun of the foolish decisions made by so many. And they loved him for it. History came alive. Barbara Tuchman wrote a famous book, “The March of Folly: From Troy to Vietnam”.  Duh, of course!  Mel Brooks did “History of the World.”Paul used both in classes.


He took great pleasure in pointing out absurdities as he saw them. He still wonders why others don’t see those things. He never liked to hide truths or conceal them with pretty words. He loved edgy, probing, prodding, poking humor. Bruce and Saul and Carlin. Not Seinfeld.


He thought, like the comedian he often wanted to become, that he had a “duty to find out where the line is drawn and cross it deliberately.” Over and over again he saw too much evidence that when you “think of how stupid the average person is” you “realize half of them are stupider than that.”


As Foghorn Leghorn always said…. “It’s a joke, son. A joke.” What choice do you have?


My emotional and rational selves have been at odds for 2 years. I am angry yet try to remain calm. I try as much as possible to avoid the bombardment of hatred and outrage. It’s impossible. I skim read articles instead of attacking them. I try to calm people down.

I have joined BETTER ANGELS (, a group devoted to bringing “red and Blues together to hear each other, have civil discourse, and hopefully spread that idea to those on their political sides. I think I have lost a similar number of friends on either end of the political spectrum because neither group can deal with rational thought. They respond 100% emotionally. I may lose more by saying that. This is what President Trump has done to us.

Until recently I felt that, “This too will pass”. However recent events have changed me. Twelve bombs mailed to various blue leaders, celebrities and journalists. A Synagogue shot up in Pittsburg. This is serious shit. It is too similar to what happened in Bloody Kansas in the 1850’s…just before the Civil War exploded. We must figure out how to stop this.

Tuesday was election day. I was optimistic about a blue wave, not a tsunami, as some overzealous fellow blues keep saying would happen. Yes, Democrats took the House. But they lost Senate seats as well.

The House may continue to be more representative of those areas while the Senate will continue to unequally represent rural states with entire populations less than 2 million (Wyoming, Alaska, Montana, Idaho, Utah, North and South Dakota, Vermont, Delaware, Nebraska, West Virginia, Hawaii, New Hampshire, and Maine). Those 28 senator’s votes far outweigh the 8senators from states with at least 10 times that population (Florida, NY, California and Texas).

Geographic divisions are getting more entrenched. In the 21stcentury the division is between mostly blue urban/ suburban areas and mostly red rural.


Seventy percent of Americans live in areas of 500, 000 or more. Thirty-one cities have populations greater than the entire state of Wyoming (@573,000). The top ten most populous cites each have greater populations than 7 entire states. This is a big divide. Few issues unite them, especially today.

What will be the result of the now Democratically controlled House and now even more Republican controlled Senate?  A split Congress will perhaps be more active and effective. Or not, in this highly partisan world. They will have a shot at conversation and compromise, but I doubt it. Urban/Suburban vs rural will be the rule of thumb.

Now add the president to this split. Trump may up as bad as James Buchanan, primarily blamed for the Civil War. His continued stoking of the R/US divide what I prefer to now call Red/Blue has already set off a new civility war.

The celebrity apprentice president will keep doing what he is doing. He will enrage and enflame. He will sign executive orders whether or not they can actually do anything. He will mangle the English language, much to the chagrin of most blues and howls of “Yeah Baby” from many reds. He will continue to be Con-man in Chief. He will continue to divide us. That is the reason he is the least presidential president ever in our history. He will be the worst.

There is nothing wrong with a powerful president, even with their faults. We have many examples of strong presidents; Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, Wilson, both Roosevelts, even LBJ, who (even with faults) who made us a better nation. That is very different from this president who sees himself as a president of a family business, to be run as he likes, not the United States, to be run as the Constitution demands.

It is not enough to appeal to one’s base. It is not presidential to purposely use language that separates, that ignites, that leads to violent acts. You must lead “the whole people”.

Even John Adams, President during the extremely contentious late 1790s and during election of 1800, the most controversial of them all said, “The people cannot be too careful in the choice of their presidents.”

Harry Truman, who has risen in the presidential ranks to #6 this past February, has said about presidents, “You can’t divide the country up into sections…and you can’t encourage people’s prejudices. You have to appeal to people’s best instincts, not their worst ones.”

Truman also said, “The country has to awaken every now and then to the fact that the people are responsible for the government they get, and when they elect a man to the presidency who doesn’t take care of the job, they’ve got nobody to blame but themselves.” 

We can only blame ourselves. We were not careful enough in 2018. It will be harder now.

As a former history teacher, I tend to take the long view about our crazy time and look back at what was worse: The Civil War. The Great Depression. World Wars 1 and 2. My long view has said we will bounce back, just as we have done in the past. But even my faith has slipped.

I keep trying to hear Lincoln’s pre-Civil War plea,

We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory will swell when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.”

In 1861, that did not happen. It MUST now.

It’s the Id and Ego, Stupid!

What the hell is going on?superego-ego-id

What has happened to civility? Compromise? Common sense, discussion? Listening? I have come to the conclusion that this craziness is not based on policy. Rather it is based on our emotional connections to policies and policy makers. We simply cannot admit we are wrong, we haven’t done our homework, the other side has some valid points, or that we have been conned by one of the most successful celebrity con men in our history.

If we stop to take a breath and look at ourselves in the mirror, what might we find? Our egos will not let us admit the errors of our ways. Ego prevents us from listening. It stokes our anger. It enrages rather than calms. It allows our Id to run amok.

What has happened to our individual and collective Super-ego. It is supposed to internalize cultural rules and organize our thoughts rationally. It works in contradiction to the Id. The Super-ego wants us to act in a socially appropriate manner. The Super-ego controls our sense of right and wrong and guilt. It helps us fit into society by getting us to act in socially acceptable ways. That is what we have lost.

According to David Brooks, “The chief struggle of the day is sociological and psychological, not ideological or economic. The substrate layer of American society — the network of relationships and connection and trust that everything else relies upon — is failing. And the results are as bloody as any war. And here’s the hard part of the war: It’s not between one group of good people and another group of bad people. The war runs down the middle of every heart. It is the battle between Id/Ego and Superego. Most of us are part of the problem we complain about.”

Most of us live in insular media and social bubbles that affirm our own moral superiority, thus congratulating our Id. Our Ego is pleased.

The good news is that most of us are part of the solution as well. Most of us can balance the battle between Id and Superego. All we have to do is convince our Ego.

Let your Super-ego determine how you vote November 6thand in 2020.

Let it make you join groups like


What does available evidence tell us about the relationship between social class and schools in The US of A?


Sean Reardon of Stanford showed a widening class gap in both math and reading test scores. “The achievement gap between children from high and low income families is roughly 30-40 percent larger among students born in 2001 than among those born 25 years earlier.”


He also found that schools themselves ARE NOT THE CULPRITS! The opportunity gap is already large by the time they enter kindergarten and does not grow appreciably through school. James Heckman expands that by saying that the gaps in cognitive achievement are most predicted by the level of maternal educationas early at the age of six, and that schooling… as unequal as it is in the US… plays only a minor role in alleviating or crating test score gaps.


What’s the real culprit? Residential sorting! Americans are increasing living in separate neighborhoods, unintegrated by class, income, or race, especially over the past 30- 40 years. Regardless of their own family background, kids do better where the other kids come from affluent, educated homes. This is universal, not just in the US.





The Donald doesn’t want to be a dictator. He doesn’t want us to become a dictatorship as we know them. He tells us how he adores Kim and Putin, but they are not his real hero. His real love is Benjamin “Bibi” Netanyahu. Supported by the Christian right even though he is far from a religious person, The Donald admires Bibi’s power and strength. He and his followers want the US to become a Christian version of Israel.

Take for example the “we are always under attack” and “we must do whatever we can to defend ourselves” philosophies. Don’t trust anyone who isn’t “our kind”? Build a wall? Israel had one first.

We all know Israel is the only democracy in the Middle East. We support it wholeheartedly, sometimes even when its policies don’t agree with ours. We always have. Now something new has been added: the idea that Israel is a model for a Trumpian version of a “Demotheocracy”.

The Donald admires that although Netanyahu has now been under investigation for more than a year, he seems to be more popular than ever even while running the government with a coalition of parties and not a real majority. He admires the Knesset’s (Israeli Congress) coalition of conservative religious folk who have turned Israel into a Theocratic Democracy devoted to only those who are “chosen”. He admires the power to take a very split populous politically to make the power of the government speak ONLY for approximately half of the population. Israeli political polls show this approximate 40/40/10 split on most issues.

Consider this current situation. In January, Israel blacklisted 20 organizations, including a Jewish group in the US, whose leaders it has barred from entering the country for supporting an economic, cultural and academic boycott of Israel.The list was drawn up under a nearly year-old law enacted to combat the boycott, divestment and sanctions movement.

“We have shifted from defense to offense,” said Gilad Erdan, the minister of strategic affairs, whose office drew up the list, according to an article in Ha’aretz, an Israeli newspaper. “The boycott organizations need to know that the State of Israel will act against them” and not allow them to “enter its territory to harm its citizens.” “These people are trying to exploit the law and our hospitality to act against Israel and to defame the country,” Interior Minister Aryeh Deri, who is responsible for enforcing the ban.

In March the Knesset passed another law barring entry to foreigners who have publicly supported the boycott Israel movement. The vote came as the Israeli government’s conservative majority been emboldened by President Trump and his love forPrime Minister Netanyahu.

Dov Hanin, who voted against the legislation, said that at a time when boycotts against settlements are being promoted around the world, the law “is really a law to boycott the world.” “A country that boycotts the world is basically isolating and boycotting itself,” he continued.

What can we say about a nation which aims to portray itself to the world as liberal and democratic, blacklists activists dedicated to nonviolent organizing and dissent? Isn’t that what we fear will happen under the Donald?

As RabbiRick Jacobs, the president of the Union for Reform Judaism, the largest Jewish movement in North America, said in a telephone interview from Jerusalem: “It’s going to be a giant sign up by the door of the Jewish state: ‘Don’t come unless you agree with everything we’re doing here.’ I don’t know what kind of democracy makes that statement.” Most US Jews are reform, as am I.

And now this: An American was barred from entering Israel after she was accepted for study for a master’s in human rights law at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. She landed on the night of Oct. 2 with a one-year student visa issued by the Israeli Consulate in Miami. Why? Because she was one of 19 University of Florida Students to launch a boycott an Israeli brand of hummus.

Does all of this sound familiar? Aren’t these the types of laws limiting freedom of speech we are afraid may be passed here?

Is this The Donald’s and the Conservative Religious Right’s real goal, to model the new US Democracy after Israel’s? We all know how much The Donald and the Bibi love each other.


spoons1What is it that makes me just a little bit queasy?
There’s a breeze that makes my breathing not so easy
I’ve had my lungs checked out with X rays
I’ve smelled the hospital hallways

Maybe if I could do a play-by-playback
I could change the test results that I will get back
I’ve watched the summer evenings pass by
I’ve heard the rattle in my bronchi…

Someday I’ll have a disappearing hairline
Someday I’ll wear pajamas in the daytime…

Afternoons will be measured out
Measured out, measured with
Coffee spoons and T.S. Eliot

Paul loves that Crash Test Dummy’s song.


He had no idea that today’s talk would be to a geriatric chorus that would be right at home singing that song. He expected an older group at this “Food for Thought” meeting at a local Temple. After all he knew his book appealed most to old Jews who could identify; he had done two similar talks in the spring, but when the first octogenarian came into the room and asked him how much lunch would be, he had a feeling.


About 30 chairs had been set up with tables on the side for the post talk lunch that was to be served. Five minutes before the talk was supposed to begin, eight wheelchairs and walkers outnumbered the six members of the audience. By the time the young Rabbi introduced him the number of wheelchairs and walkers was only 40 % of the audience of 10. He gauged the average age as 85.


As he looked out at what could have been an assisted living activity room, he hoped he would not have to use his CPR skills, or that a 911 call would not stop him in his tracks. But he went onward. It didn’t take more than 30 seconds for the first question to be raised.


“Is your name really Paul Gordon? I know three other people by that name, including my grandson.” “Thank you, Mam,” Paul replied, “but it was changed to Gordon by my father, from Grodowski, which was my grandfather’s last name.”


About three sentences later the oldest appearing person in the room, who introduced himself as, “David, and I am a WW2 veteran”, shouted out “what college” when Paul mentioned the word.

Paul was happy no one feel asleep although he could see one woman was fighting it. Eyes were mostly bright and curious. Heads affirmatively nodded. There was less laughter at what lines he thought would get at least some, but in general they were politely attentive. As Paul predicted to himself, there would be no more questions.  At the talk’s end, there was, instead, a polite thank you from a woman who seemed to be their spokesperson… followed by nodding heads.


Only one woman came up to him and purchased two of his books. The Rabbi reappeared and led the group in a rendition of Happy birthday to one of the younger looking women. They then shuffled to the side of the room where the soft, precut, half sandwiches were located, sat down, and ate as if Paul was gone.  He grabbed half a sandwich and chatted at a separate table with the Rabbi.


Before he left, Paul went to the birthday girl’s table. He told her she looked no more than 55. She responded that she was actually 99. Paul couldn’t believe it. He thought she was maybe 75 tops. He looked for confirmation and he got it.


She was indeed 99. She told a story that a plastic surgeon wanted to have her come see him to put lines ON her face. They all laughed….


It was, after all, now …


An afternoon being measured out,
Measured out, measured with
Coffee spoons and T.S. Eliot


Paul looked at the I-pad. it was barely 7:30 AM. “Why can’t I sleep?” He tried to force his eyes shut but couldn’t, so he got up and got ready for morning ritual. Shit, shower, and shave. No shave this morning though. He dressed to drive home and had his diet breakfast again; non-fat yogurt with fresh blueberries, half a banana, and a protein shake.   He had enough time for one last beach walk.

It seemed a bit hotter and more humid going down the stairs. He crossed the street to see beautiful silky-smooth water, and at high tide, a yoga group Yogabeachon the beach facing the water. He smiled. Then, for some reason, “goat yoga” and altered the serene image in his head. Now he was seeing goats walking among and on some of them. “What if they leave goat bites, or goat hoof marks, or… goat droppings?” He shook his head and continued walking. He really needed more sleep.

He turned to walk the length of the boardwalk.  It is 8:45 and no one is at the beach Silver Sands Park really is beautiful at this hour.

Walking back, he saw that the huge Pink Flamingo float was still there. He pulled out his I-phone and holding it at knee height, took some low-level shots, so the sand’s wet reflection would glimmer.Flamingo

Some random guy from the closest beach house holding a coffee mug as Paul was figuring out how to shoot this bird stumbled over to him and mumbled. Paul turned to him, “Imagine if a drunk woke up on the beach at 4 am, opened his eyes and saw that hovering right over him? That’s something I would pay to see.”  The guy side eyed Paul, hesitated, then turned and walked away. “Maybe, chuckled Paul, “he thought I was talking about him.”.

Before he hit the road, Paul went back to Scratch Bakery. It had a far better “capp” there but when he drove up to it he saw the line was out the door. He drove the extra 3 blocks to the much quieter Café Atlantique where he was the day before. He heard the barista tell another customer the same thing he was told two days earlier at Scratch. “Why is does it take 20 minutes to prepare food here too?” Too hot for a “Capp”, he bought an iced cold brew.

He drove, incident free, back to the apartment.  He checked that he left nothing behind, loaded the car, and tried not to run into the dragon lady killer nurse landlady again.  He lowered his six-four frame to climb in, closed the door, and was just about to turn the key…

“Why do we still use that expression when cars now are button pressed to start?” he thought to himself when suddenly the dragon lady magically appeared. “How the fuck does she do that?” “How did she know I was here?”

He and she had the usual end of Air B&B stay chat. “Gimme a good review.”  are her final words. “Are we on Broadway?”  “Was she viewing me in the room?” “I wonder if she reviewed my morning routine.” Now that was creepy.

“What could happen next?”

Paul pulls out of the drive way and goes the half a block to swing around to get outta town and suddenly he sees a guy standing in the middle of the street pulling back a hunter’s bow and arrow and shooting it up a driveway.

“Holy Shit.” He put his foot down and drove a bit faster than he had planned.

He checked WAZE and was shocked to see it said it would only take 1:04 to get home using the usually traffic jammed I-95. “Good. Now I don’t have to get slowed down by the Merritt Parkway Fools on the Hills.” Until that is, he got stuck in non-traffic traffic. Once again WAZE told him there would now be delays. Paul wondered if the app could say what it really means…

“Stupid people drive slowest in the far left passing lane. It is faster passing everyone in the right lane. You have been transported to the UK.”

“Stupid people drive slower as soon as they see any orange construction related sign whether or not there is construction.” “Stupid people will resume speed at the ROAD WORK ENDED sign.”

 Then Paul thought he heard WAZE say, “God help you.”


Fuck,” Paul mumbled as he got up at 5:45 AM because he promised himself he would take some sunrise shots. “Oh well, might as well. I did promise myself to try different ISO settings.” He pulled on his shorts and tee shirt from the day before, grabbed the tripoded Nikon and set out across the street. The idea is to set up way before sunrise to catch the pre-sunrise aurora.

“The beach is so much nicer with no one here”, he thought. It was now 5:55. He set up the camera and took a few shots from different vantage points with different ISO settings as the clouds turned purple and pink, then orange and yellow. sunrise 3Some of these may be sales worthy, wondering how much better they would be than if he used his I-phone.

Waiting patiently for the scheduled 6:11 ball of light, he sent off some really good Instagrams of his tripoded Nikon looking at the soon to happen sunrise. tripodedOnly it didn’t happen. The sun was supposed to rise over the opposite shore of the low tided bay, but this lucky morning it was shrouded in fog and there was nothing to capture. “For this I got up so early?” He pulled his shit together and headed back across the street, around the back of the house, up the what now seemed like too long a staircase, and back into his room. He closed the blinds and went back to sleep.

It’s 8:30 at Café Atlantique, the place Paul couldn’t find the day before. Nice place. Good croissant. Decent cappuccino. Good table by the window to gaze at the railroad trestle, pink real estate agency, and whatever cars drive by. Diagonally across the street is a huge Caldwell Banker Real Estate billboard with pictures of each of its local agents and in the center, the manager. Having nothing better to do, Paul counts them. Forty-three. Of the forty -three, eight are male. Of the forty-three one is African American. The manager is an older white guy. Yep this is Connecticut.

Inside, the banter between the two millenials at the counter and one customer/friend with green and purple hair with way too many tattoos is too reminiscent of the bar from last night. Green hair tells them about a fat dog that couldn’t walk 50 feet without laying down and what fat means. Paul couldn’t help laughing to himself while seeing that she was, dressed in obligatory overstretched leggings that were way too small, what fat means. Do people really not see themselves?

Did Harvey Fierstein just come in? Nope. That’s an actual woman. Paul asks himself, “Let me just finish this croissant and cap and get outta here. The cap in the other place was better anyway.”

As he gets into his car Paul decides to find Connecticut in Milford, so he makes a right turn instead of left to go back to the apartment. Lo and behold, about three blocks away, the world turned green and colonial red brick, punctuated by a white portico capped with a similarly white steeple. Next to this truly New England scene was a river with, of all things, a waterfall running through it. Paul found a parking spot, pulled out his Nikon, marched across the street, traversed the green while hopefully dodging the goose shit


and started shooting
… photographs, that is.

Invigorated, Paul drove back to the beachfront property, climbed the steps and entered… forgetting to take off his shoes. The he noticed the goose shit shot rug. “I gotta clean this shit up,” he said aloud to himself. He went to the bathroom, grabbed a wash cloth, dampened it and added some Dial hand soap, then blotted the carpet clean. That made him wonder, “If Dial cleans that mess up, what does that do to your skin?”

Paul figured he would save the little Greek Spot 2 doors down for his last meal in town, so he went for lunch at what he thought was the most WASP looking restaurant in town, Stonebridge. Stonebridge is in a beautiful old white house right in the middle of town overlooking a stone bridge crossing the Housatonic River its way to the Long Island Sound. This is the Milford of Paul’s imagination.

A male whale greets him as he downshifts into the parking lot. “How is this guy going to get in my car, let alone park it?” But wait. He isn’t’ a valet. He is a “spotter.” He just walks you to a parking spot. “Can’t WASPS find their own parking spots?” Paul spots a woman leaving a spot nearer to him and motions to Mr. manatee that he will simply take this one.

As he enters, to the right is a dining room with a bar and buffet with very white older men with Brooks Brothers jackets and even whiter women in Talbot dresses. BULLS EYE. WASPS!  The next all white room, decorated in floral arrangements, has a bridal shower for “Michelle”. The hostess asks if Paul prefers to sit inside or out. “Out, of course.” The restaurant is huge and has other rooms he could not see or, were not open. She then walks Paul through a casual pub like seating area with a bar. Apparently, the rooms are segregated by class.

Maybe because of how he is waspily dressed, Paul is given an outside table with a beautiful, unobstructed view of the river and the bridge, but he chose the chair that also affords views of the clientele.  Paul had hoped to take some I-phone portraits without people noticing. He finds he captures people as they truly are that way, but no one stood out to him among the smattering of floral patterned dresses with visors and the appropriate number of Nautica and Land’s End polos.

His sparkling water with lime fits this place. He orders his glass of Sancerre, and a “Cajun Cod” burger with sweet potato fries, knowing that he won’t taste any “Cajun” style heat on his food here in WASP land. The food was good, not great, but he hadn’t come for that.

Far more interesting was the family that was soon seated next to him. It was a black family, right out of the movie, “Get Out”. They were light skinned, waspily dressed, with a young daughter, maybe 5 years old dressed in similar style. “Is Jordan Peele nearby?”

Occasionally he looked up at them waiting for the right shot. Finally, he saw the photo. The little girl had ordered apple slices and calamari. Her Finding Nemo sippy cups were perfectly placed next to her hot pink framed cartoon filled I-pad.

And sitting in the chair across from her, seemingly also having lunch, facing Paul, was her teddy bear like puppy. A perfect image. puppy lunchNeither the child nor her parents were in the image, just her lunch and guest. He smiled to himself. As Paul walked back out, he noticed the parking lot was now virtually empty and wondered if Mr. Manatee still did his thing.

Paul went back to his room and played with some pics as he wrote accompanying notes. Maybe this will be a photo essay. As the late afternoon sun lowered, Paul decided to go back out but wanted to wait to take photos until just before sunset again. There would be a better sky. The fluffy and scattered clouds would morph into pink and purple flora and fauna as the sun set below the horizon.

When he went out at 4:30, he found the quiet beach at low tide with the sand bar to Charles Island fully exposed. When it is, you can actually walk the mile off shore on that narrow strip of sand to the island that usually seems to just float there. He just lounged and enjoyed the view.

An hour and a half later he rose. Gathering himself, he showered and changed. At 7:30, with his tripod mounted camera mounted to his shoulder, he walked the quarter mile to the spot he had already chosen to get his twilight shots with blurry images of people as they paraded down the boardwalk.

Silver Sands 1

Paul was hungry, so he pulled his gear together and walked back to put it away, then walked the two houses over to the Greek Spot for a nice al fresco dinner. It was the type of beach place you ordered food from the kitchen and brought it out to your own table. As he got there Paul saw the staff starting to bring in the tables and chairs. It was just 8:00 PM. “Huh?”

“If you want anything you have to order it now and take it to go only. We are closing.” Paul contemplated his options. “Now that sucks. I waited until my last supper to eat here and now I have to eat it up in my room?” “I don’t feel like driving to one of those barstaurants.” He felt another disappointment but, c’est la vie. It could have been interesting watching the people walk by on the beach strip and avoiding the older pony tailed ex hippy eating his baklava sunday. Yes, a baklava sunday. He ordered his stuffed cabbage and spanakopita, went back up to his room, had a lonely, viewless dinner, watched a little TV and went to bed. But before that he went out to shoot the beach at night. Moonscape

Check out is 11:00 AM tomorrow.


Paul was once again duped by the promise the Merritt Parkway always breaks. It is one of the most beautiful highways in the nation, tree lined, and curvy enough for his 6 speed 228i. That is until it breaks its promise. WAZE said the drive to Milford was to be one hour and 13 minutes. Then exactly four times during the drive, WAZE dinged. The female British voice said there would be a 5-minute delay because “traffic was building up ahead.”  What it should have said is, “Paul, you should have known that the “, fool on a hill” fuckers will brake as soon as they see a hill …,” or “Sorry Paul, your exit has a curve that scares the idiots.” Still, it’s better than the dreaded and seriously ugly, I-95

Milford’s old, but not architecturally curious houses don’t make him downshift. Finally, he hits a main drag while looking for a place he found online for a light lunch, but he can’t find it. Optimistically, he drives on figuring he can scope out this top 5 coastal Connecticut town. He eventually finds Broad street, a boulevard with a broad green median. “Not very creative.” There he finds a place called Scratch Bakery.  “Odd name. Bedbugs? Ticks?”

Curious and hungry, Paul parks and enters. “Ok.” Inside there isn’t much seating but a long open kitchen with 4 busy worker bees.” A few people are waiting for their orders yet there are a few open tables inside and out. He steps up to the register to order a simple and quick BLT. “Hello?” The closest worker bee is so busy working she doesn’t notice him as she finishes a coffee order and brings it to a table.

Paul turns around, and notices a woman behind him, also waiting. He shrugs. The busy bee comes back to the register and just as he opens his mouth to order she makes eye contact with the woman behind him who gives her order. “What? “Paul thinks, then politely says while waving his hands magicianlike in front of his 6’4” frame, “Hi, Am I invisible?”

The woman behind him says, “Oh I’m sorry I thought you ordered, and were waiting.” The nice Paul replies, “That’s alright.” Inside the real Paul is saying, “What the fuck? How about a simple ‘Are you waiting’ BEFORE you order with me standing in directly front of you?” The worker hardly mumbled an apology. She knew he hadn’t ordered. Paul breathes deeply and simply orders his BLT.

The busy barista bee now tells him, “Oh that will take about 20 minutes.” Rather than pull the New Yorker schtick, Paul says, “Just give me a croissant and a large cappuccino with an extra shot.” To himself he mumbles, “Count to 10 slowly… Breath.”

Croissant in hand, he grabs a table and picks up his much-needed triple shot cappuccino. Disposable cup in hand, “What, no real cups?” he sits to relax and enjoy his “lunch”. He feels a tap on the shoulder and turns to see this grizzled oldster pointing to his sneaker that somehow slithered next to his uttering, “My sneakers are nicer.”  Paul’s immediate retort to rid himself of this intrusion was, “Mine are bigger. I wear a size 13.”   That didn’t work. “Shit, is this old dude trying to pick me up and measuring cock sizes by comparing foot size?” Paul changes the subject. “It’s harder to pack at my size, because everything is twice the length of everyone else’s.” Paul caught himself too late.

Luckily, the footster started jabbering away about learning to pack in the Navy. “Oh, Paul thought, “This old coot just wants to chat with someone. I hope that’s not me in fifteen years.”  He cordially replied, “I know how to do that. Roll things, but the math and physics of it still says my clothes take up more room so I’ll get half as much as you in because you are half my size. Anyway, I have to run.”

The drive through town to the Air B&B to meet landlady, Susana, is even less impressive. Trip Advisor, Fake news flash. This cannot be one of top five cute CT towns.  East Broadway turns out to be a typical beach town beach road but without Mc Mansions. It’s surely not the Hamptons. It’s more Jersey shore.

It turns out my host, Susana, is a hard to understand thickly accented Chinese woman. Paul’s mind wanders. “Is she the presurgical killer nurse from Columbia Presbyterian.” As she walks him around back and up the stairs to the private entrance, he still wasn’t sure. The room looks just like the pictures on Air B&B. Simple. Clean.

In their correspondence Paul told her he was a photographer. Paul asks, “What are good spots in town for photos? I didn’t see any driving in.” Weakly, she says, “None.” “Any parks?” “You may have to drive around.” “Any interesting old buildings?” “Nope.” “It isn’t a very pretty town.”

Yeah, too late now.  She knew why Paul was coming. He had been at many Air B&Bs before with lots of brochures or a notebook full of options for food, drink, activities and highlights of the area. He figured she figured that people just came to her place for the beach.  Still.

She left. He unpacked, put on his red Tommy Bahama trunks with the blue swordfish, and took her beach chair and umbrella across the street to the little beach.  This is obviously the value of this place. Where are the WASPS? Paul felt like it was more Staten Island or Jersey than Connecticut. He expected more people wearing whales. Instead he saw more whales wearing bathing suits they should not be wearing.Beachday 1

Peaceful. Calm water.  An island floats not far off shore.  Sailboats cruise as power boats rip up the smooth surface of the water. A woman walks backwards across the darkened sand as the tide goes out.  She is still walking backwards.  “Hope she sees the jetty out of her rear-view eyes.  Damn.  She did.”

Paul tried to look suave as he put the umbrella in the sand.  Of course, it wouldn’t go deep enough to stay firm even with no breeze.  It was old. It didn’t have a screw in bottom like the new ones that drill a hole deep enough in the sand so they don’t get blown over.  The one Paul brought had it …but was still in the trunk.

Paul felt eyes on him. He was new to these parts.  He didn’t want to look like a beach newbie. He, had, after all spent a great deal of time on beaches, albeit without a dumbass umbrella. This “Tommy Bahama” would have worked except for the fact that the umbrella wouldn’t lock in place.  It kept slipping into the 60˚ angle position. Rather than look even more idiotic, he decided to just soak up the sun. Down came the umbrella.

That’s when the under suited whale (manatee?) looked up at him and asked, “Do you need sun block?”  Thoughts of manatee flippers spreading liberal amounts of creasy goo on his skin made him shudder, so he responded “Ha, ha. Thank you, I already put some on in my apartment.”

Hoping Ms. Manatee didn’t come talk to him, Paul settled in listening to his Apple Music. Deodato.  Desposito. Then he noticed the Keb -Mo/Taj Mahal song.  Laughing to himself, he realizes, that it is, “Please Don’t Leave Me Here.”An omen Next song?   “Keep On Waiting For The World To Change.”Pleeease’, he thought.  “How long do I have to wait?”

Note. Paul looked around and noticed that several houses were recently rebuilt or are being rebuilt on stilts.  Sandy? Across the little Bay up on a cliff, are the real Big Ass Houses.  “Bet the WASPS are there and the beaches are private.”

WASPs at 4 o’clock …. time and direction. Paul spotted an 80 something couple setting up their chairs and umbrella as the sun gets lower and less intense.  He’s wearing black shorts and a white tee with matching black suspenders stretched over his expanded gut. Paul chuckles to himself.  “Oh shit, there’s a dog squatting in the water.” The sign entering the beach said “NO ANIMALS!”

“I can’t find where I put that $200”, a woman shouts as she walks to her friend.  So nonplussed. Paul thinks, “I’d be shouting, Shit. What happened to my 200?” She doesn’t seem to care as she sits and lights up a smoke.  An ambulance slowly cruises by behind us.

“Medication” by Steven and Damian Marley.  Ganja music.  Paul wishes he had.  That floating 12-foot-long and 10-foot-high pink flamingo anchored at the edge of the water would be even more far out than it is. Uh, oh! The surgical killer nurse and 3 other older Chinese women are walking to the water with a cooler, pails, and shovels. “Are they digging for dinner or recovering a corpse?”

Paul packed his stuff and went back upstairs to shower, change, and go to dinner after sunset.  There is, a block or so away from the Air B&B, a beautiful boardwalk, through dunes, tall grasses, and long willowy reeds. Paul took his gear and took about a dozen pictures, hoping for the best when he gets to his computer after dinner.  “Time to go. Better not to be alone. He doesn’t know where killer landlady is hiding.

Paul chose to have dinner at a place called SBC. It looked good on “The Google”. The place was too full so he at sat at the bar to watch the Giants – Jets game. To his right sat an annoying high pitch voiced millennial who could not get over the nails of one of the bartenders. Paul’s barkeep took his order and calls him Bud. Paul hates “Bud” … and the beer of the same name.

Paul ordered a pulled pork quesadilla, with crispy sweet potato fries and 2 Sam Adams’s… one at a time.   The Giants are doing well. Paul is a big fan.  Then another shoulder tap. “Is that old guy here and checking sizes again?” Nope. A scrawny, bearded, tattooed, short of a full set of teeth 20 something wearing, of all things, an Eagles jersey asks Paul if he can move over, so he can squeeze in another chair for his companion.  Of course, he added insult to injury by calling Paul Sir. Paul slides over and gets back to his food, drink, and the Giants game.

It turns out Paul got lucky. When Paul asked for the check, his barkeep told him he got the last pulled pork quesadilla. Paul told him thanks and when he asked if Paul wanted dessert, Paul said “I am both done and full.” while thinking, “These other people will never say that.” Paul had already taken out his cell phone and snuck a “portrait” of a tattooed, food slurping manatee. barstaurant

Tattoos and beards to the left of him. Tattoos and beards to the right of him.  And that’s just the women.  “Is this really Connecticut?”“Wonder what would happen if I yelled Trump sucks?”

As Paul gazes around the “barstaurant” the crowds have disappeared and it’s only 8:45. But never fail. More tattooed beards just walked in. Paul would soon be taking up valuable bar space. He decides not to give up his stool until halftime.