The Greatest Passion is Compassion

2008-07-31T17:24:00.000-07:00

"A religious man is a person who holds God and man in one thought at one time, at all times, who suffers no harm done to others, whose greatest passion is compassion, whose greatest strength is love and defiance of despair."

"Racism is man's gravest threat to man - the maximum hatred for a minimum reason."

"A Jew is asked to take a leap of action rather than a leap of thought."

-Abraham Joshua Herschel

"For alongside our famous individualism, there's another ingredient in the American saga, a belief that we are all connected as one people. If there's a child on the south side of Chicago who can't read, that matters to me, even if it's not my child. If there's a senior citizen somewhere who can't pay for their prescription and having to choose between medicine and the rent, that makes my life poorer, even if it's not my grandparent. If there's an Arab-American family being rounded up without benefit of an attorney or due process, that threatens my civil liberties. It is that fundamental belief -- it is that fundamental belief -- I am my brother's keeper, I am my sisters' keeper -- that makes this country work. It's what allows us to pursue our individual dreams, yet still come together as a single American family."

-Barack Obama, 2004 Democratic Convention, Boston, MA

Obama

2008-07-13T20:42:00.000-07:00

What is all the fuss? The man is human, but has lived a life like few others. Could we really have a president who spent years as a child running barefoot in a poor Indonesian village? Who mixes Kansas white bread culture with Kenyan cousins living in remote villages with no running water. The US is a cultural wasteland where the rich and poor sit up in bed and watch the same stupid TV shows. Why shouldn't we continue to allow our leaders to feed on our stupidity? Here is a picture of a long white trailer taken from 35,000 feet in the air. It IS proof of weapons of mass destruction. Looks like a long white trailer to me, but who the hell am I but the boy who saw that the emperor was naked

Maybe this man is a fake. Maybe just another politician. But look at the alternative. Please please people - think for once.

Italy 2006 by Bike

2008-06-08T08:42:00.001-07:00

We arrived at the Rome airport at 9:40 in the morning on Tuesday, May 16, 2006. We took a cab to our hotel, which was near the garage where we were to pick-up the bikes in a working class part of Rome. The hotel was modest but clean, with a single bed in a small room with bath. We bought all-day bus passes for 4 euros and rode into the center of Rome. We traipsed around the Coloseum and the forum and then took a bus to the Vatican and traipsed around St. Peter's square and the big church. But the Sistine Chapel was closed. We did get to see Michaelangelo's Pieta, which I last saw at the 1964 NY Worlds Fair. It is still encased in its bulletproof glass case.

That night we ate outside in a mediocre restaurant in a lively part Rome known as Trestavere. I was wearing my leg brace. We wandered around afterward and ended up in a nice residential section on the banks of the Tiber. The busses stop running at 12 so we were concerned when no #23 busses came by. We started walking. No busses. My foot hurting. Strangely, no taxis either. It was 11:45. Then it was almost midnite when we decided to look for a taxi on the other side of the river. While we were on the bridge crossing the river we looked back and watched the last bus go by. It got so desperate that I told Matt that if we did not see a cab soon, I would prefer sleeping on the quai of the river rather than walking the 5 miles back to the hotel. He said he would prefer walking. Then a cab went by and in minutes we were back at the hotel.

The next morning we walked about 3 blocks to pick up the motocycles. I got on the new and shiny red bike and Matt took the grey bike that was a year older and had a dry clutch that caused it to have a noisy idle. Francesco gave us a detailed atlas of southern Italy, told us we had a 3,000 euro deductible on insurance and lent us a cell phone so we could call if we had a problem. We all agreed it would be best if he didn't hear from us.Francesco said he had chosen this garage because it was close to a quick and direct boulevard leading out of Rome. It was called Christofo Columbo.

We thought we turned onto it, but within seconds found ourselves lost in a maze of traffic choked back streets leading nowhere. Each street changed its name after one block. Do not enter signs appeared everywhere. It was 90 degrees F. The bike was pushing off 105 degrees C, which is over 220 F. My motorcycle jacket and black riding pants heavy with padding and a black gritty web of fabric trapping the heat against my body. My helmet holding stale air stationary around my head.Every turn we made brought us to another street heading back into the maze. There was no escaping the city. Then we saw a green arrow pointing the way to the autostrada for Naples. Eagerly we followed it. Two blocks later we came to an intersection of four streets. No sign. A mass of cars and scooters and motorbikes twisting and beeping aound us at high speeds, cars backed up 15 deep and 5 across while the two wheelers screamed around us like insects attacking from every side. We stopped our bikes, took out the map, and helplessly tried to find where we were in the maze. Of course, I can't read any print smaller than a billboard, so I was of no help. Then, suddenly, joyously, we would happen upon another green arrow, and eagerly follow it, only to be faced 2 blocks later with a choice of streets without any sign pointing the way. We kept up our aimless turning and stopping, suggesting to each other baseless strategies for escape from this navigational spider web until eventually the green arrows appeared more often and we ultimately worked our way onto the beltway surrounding Rome packed with cars and trucks and motorcycles driving at 135 kmh (76 mph).

Soon we found ourselves on A-1 heading to Naples at 150 kmh (90 mph) in order to keep up with traffic (except for the occasional BMW whirring by in a blur on the left at 175 kmh (you can figure that one out yourself). We spent half our precious first riding day lost trying to get out of Rome.We arrived at the southern end of the Amalfi coast road because we missed the exit to climb the back road to Ravello. The coast road was breathtaking, not only in its views. Indeed, we dared not look at the view for fear of missing a hairpin turn and flying off the cliff into eternity. Motorbikes passed us with daring risktaking young men speeding around each bend, while we leaned heavily on the brakes, downshifting into first to avoid smashing into the car barely moving in front of us, then lurching into second for a few seconds before braking for the next 180 degree turn. I hear the views are spectacular, but I missed them watching the bumper of the car in front.It was then when I experienced the first of three instances when more of the motorcycle than the bottom of the tires was touching the ground. At less than 1 kmh, I came around a bend to find the car in front dead stopped while a huge bus attempted the hairpin curve going the other way. I jammed the brake hard. The bike slid out from under me leaving me standing over a quarter of a ton of now scatched up shiny new bike. The hand brake lever severed, but at a place where I was still able to use the brake without a problem. (Matt later figured out that the lever was designed to break at that point if it was to take the first impact of the fall). Matt helped me righten the bike while other drivers desparately ran up the road before and behind us to warn other drivers to stop. I was crestfallen. My image of myself as a macho motorcycle man with 37 years (despite a 30 year hiaitus) experience extinguished in an instant. But more serious humbling was to come.

Soon I was up and running again, ego injured but basically intact. We stopped in Cetara so I could talk to lawyer in NYC by cell phone to explain a client's elaborate trust structue while looking at sparkling azure water. Then we climbed up from the coast to Ravello, one of the most beautiful spots on earth. Our hotel had a charming garden veranda with colorful flowers smelling of lemons. The room was nothing to write about but the placement at the top of the cliffs did it all, especially at 115 euros (about 145 dollars). The Caruso, where I stayed with my parents 37 years ago, is 750 euros a night.After settling in, I went to ask the hotel keeper a question. He was talking to a gentleman. They both turned to me. I looked into the face of George Hirschhorn, an accountant I've known for years in Philly. I was amazed at the coincidence to find us both in Ravello. We sat on the veranda and talked for more than an hour, he drinking tea and Matt and I sipping a well deserved beer.

Matt and I then descended the stepped pavemnts around the town, had a drink at a bar in the main piazza and watched children playfully holler and run in joyful circles, watched stout old women come out of the church and watched men of all ages cluster in groups and pass the time of day. This scene said it all, the human saga devoting its brief moment in time simply living. I dare anyone to watch this, smell the lemon flowers in the fresh evening air, and make a meaningful case for justifying a war. I bought three bottles of the local wine to take home, the same local wine mother took home in 1970.

Thursday morning we headed down the back way from Ravello ending up in a nondecript town of rectangular boxes called apartment buildings. True to form, we followed the signs that vanished and in no time we were lost. A nobly dressed polizia and his nobly dressed female counterpart turned on the blue light on top and escorted us to the “autostrada per Solerno.” Solerno was a lively traffic filled city moderately comfortable with a bright blue sky. We found our way in and out with relatively little trouble.The coast road south of Salerno is flat and straight. We made good time to Pasteum, where we stopped to see magnificant Greek architecture in fields in the middle of nowhere. Thousands of years ago this was an important Greek colony, then independent, then conquered, then sitting idle for millenea in the dry air, perfectly preserved.We next stopped lunch in Agripoli next to the sea. One of only three memorable meals on the trip. Squid, mussels, clams, octopus, fresh anchovies.

We left Agripoli and climbed a road leading up into the hills. Convinced it would come to a dead end, instead we saw long and wide vistas of orhards, vineyards and farmland. Small settlements scattered across rolling landscape.We came out on the main road and headed south on mountain roads less spectacular than Amalfi, but quite beautiful and a pleasure to ride the curves. We spent the night in Palinura, at a deserted non-descript institutional looking 4 star hotel/recreation factory. A great salt water huge pool devoid of people with vanishing sides.We rode the next morning through varied landscapes, along the sea. Spotted with small towns, we found thirty children and their teachers waving flags and lining the streets in one, as if the deputy assistant associate director of some regional bureaucracy was about to visit. The kids were much happier to see two guys in black jackets and pants and helmets on shiny powerful motorcycles instead.

Then we hit the most amazing mountains jutting out of the sea, the coast road built precariously into the side of the mountains, curving, curving endlessly over the sparkling blue Mediterranean. We were approaching Maratea. Down and around, down and around, leaning to one side, then to another, we came into a valley and then a few kilometers up and the little town was before us. We parked and sat at a cafe in the piazza. It was noon. A cold aqua minerale frizzante was perfect.Then we were off to the east, to cross the across the calf of the boot that is Italy. To the Adriatic! Wild riding, passing trucks on two lane straight roads squeezing in front just between the hood ornaments of two trucks, one oncoming and one the one I'm passing. Whew. Then on to Potenza, up the hill to the centro, then down the other side - a surpringly cosmopolitan place in the middle of a relatively undeveloped South. Basilica is the name of the province. Some hills, some flat, some fast, some slow. Learning that I am not as brave on curves as I thought.

Absolute Perfection

2008-06-08T08:13:00.000-07:00

Sailing closely hauled through spray with cheeks wet
heeling 25 degrees facing straight down at the port side of the cockpit
feet firmly placed against the side of the locker
my hand gripping hard the tiller as it pushes back just as hard.
This is the meaning of life, the religious ritual that taps any spiritual side of me.

There is no spiritual side of me. I don't believe that some master sargeant in heaven is commanding the troops and knows if we have been bad or good. There are no commands to eat fish on Fridays or separate meat and milk by a 20 minute wait. There is no use taking the wafer and wine kneeling or putting little leather boxes on your forehead and inside your elbow. Facing east is just one of 360 directions we can face.

So where is the spiritual side of me? In the spray of millions of tiny prisms through which I can see the blue sky and blue water. My hand reaches over the side into the water and feels its refreshing coolness. I know that I am alive and in tune with some kind of universe. It is Absolute Perfection.

The Early Years

2008-06-07T21:43:00.000-07:00

World War II

Daddy comes home 1949. Now there are three of us.

It is 1954, and I remember the cars. First was a 1954 Buick Super, coupe, yellow with a dark green roof. Three holes on the side. This is my first conciousness. Corvette and Thuderbird are the golden calfs of my childhood.

Row homes built in the 20's. I remember the large canopy of trees in the old neighborhood. Cool in the summer, I can hear Jesse on his motorcycle with a freezer attached on the front. Ice cream, popsicles. Eating dinner and hearing the motorcycle coming up the street. Everyone yells, JESSE!, and jumps up from the table and runs to the street. Then came the negroes from the south. Property values will drop.

Then we move to the suburbs. Split-level tract housing. All white. The tiny thin sticks of trees line the street without shade. The new development is full of mud and earth moving machines. Kids playing in the orchard throwing peaches at each other - the crop is ruined, but why should the farmer care - the land will be sold for more developments in any case.

comeabout

The Greatest Passion is Compassion

Obama

Italy 2006 by Bike

Absolute Perfection

The Early Years