Hamina, Hamina, Hamina

I heard once that, second only to death, the thing people fear most in life is speaking in front of a group. "Glossophobia" or speech anxiety comes from the Greek word glossophobia  meaning tongue, and phobos, fear or dread. If you've ever waited in the wings to make a presentation, cotton-mouthed and sweaty-palmed, you know the feeling. I shudder when recalling the first time I had to speak in front of a business group. I was in the sales training program for the Standard Register Company. Before trainees were admitted to the sales force and assigned a territory, they had to make a presentation to the rest of the sales team and several managers including the regional Vice President. Although you might think this would be a relatively friendly audience, this was not the case at all. This rite of passage was hell for the trainees because the audience got a fiendish pleasure out of hazing the presenters. Heckling, rude noises and rapid-fire technical questions about the company's products were par for the course.

I was nervous for two reasons. First, there was the aforementioned fear of public speaking. We wore suits and ties in those days and I was sweating like an Enron accountant. Second, I really didn't understand the company's products all that well. Standard Register made electronic cash registers and data handling equipment like "bursters" that removed the margins with holes that fed the continuous sheets of paper through the printer. This was in the days before sheet printers eliminated these clunky machines. Although I didn't even have the sales job yet, I had a sinking feeling that sales was not the career for me. Because I sensed there was no future in this job, I didn't exactly kill myself preparing for this gig. I could see some of the older guys, Lou, Bob, Bill, Stan, Larry and my manager Alex, signalling by gestures that they were laying for me. What could I possibly say to hold their interest and keep them from humiliating me in front of the big V.P. who would decide my fate?

There were no desktop computers or snazzy visual aids in the 1960s; no PowerPoint software that in 30 minutes could whip out a professional presentation with stunning graphics. All we had were big flip charts on which we wrote out our story using magic markers, the smelly kind that could get you high if you sniffed them long enough. I had maybe a dozen sheets filled with bullet points about what I wanted to say about our company and its products. I was careful not to put too much text on each chart because I was told that reading it can become tedious for the audience. I was going to paste colored pictures of our product line on the charts to supplement my talking points, but at the last minute made a change in the charts. As the other presenters finished their remarks, it was now my turn. I could see Lou nudge Bill; two of the biggest b-busters in the office were getting ready to ambush me; the blood was in the water.

I could barely speak as I croaked out my first few lines. My mouth was dry and my voice quavered. (Later in life as I became a more experienced speaker, I learned that these symptoms never go away, you just learn to deal with them better.) My introductory remarks were met with bored stares. At least four speakers had preceeded me, and I was standing squarely between these guys and their lunch. Alex, my manager, gave me the "speed-it-up" signal. As I flipped the next chart page there was an uproar in the group. In place of the colored pictures of company products, I had substituted pictures of scantily clad women from the pages of an old Playboy that was floating around the office. The audience was all men, and I immediately had their undivided attention. I didn't miss a beat. I told my story with a straight face, exactly as I had rehearsed it. I don't think the guys heard a word I said, but they hooted and applauded as I turned each page. As any secretary in the room could tell you, the regional V.P. was the biggest letch in the room. He smiled and nodded through my entire pitch.

The ploy worked. As I heard the audience's laughter and applause, I relaxed. My voice became strong and assured, and I pulled it off without a stumble. When I finished, it was handshakes all around. Over the years I have learned that humor in a presentation can be a great tension reliever, but it can also lead to disaster. I once saw a V.P. at Con Edison, who was making a presentation to the company's Board of Directors, tell the most inappropriate joke anyone ever told to a business group. The deathly silence that followed was a sure indication that not only would he not get a promotion to senior V.P. (which this presentation was kind of an audition for) but shorthly thereafter, he was let go by the company. Oh by the way, I did get the sales job, but as I suspected, it was not for me. I hated making cold sales calls trying to sell people stuff they really didn't need. I soon left Standard Register for a job on Wall Street, and single-handedly caused the market crash of the mid-Sixties that temporarily ended all those fat bonuses I was promised, but that's another story.

I always felt like I cheated in getting through my first real public speaking experience. Giving a good presentation is really an art form, and later in my career I had occasion to give many that I thought were pretty good. I can't help but wonder though what my fate would have been if I tried to survive Lou and Bill that day without help from Playboy.

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Brother James?

When I was in the seventh grade I wanted to be a Franciscan Brother. We were taught in school by these fine men, and at the time they made a powerful impression on me. True there were a few wackos mixed in, Like Brother F. who used to hang me up by my belt in the cloakroom (there's a word you don't hear much anymore) and use me for a workout bag when I misbehaved. Then there was Brother D. ( the role model for Darth Vader). A short, bald, muscular man, Brother D. had problems I can't get into here, but fortunately he was transferred out of our school the year I was to get him as a teacher in eighth grade.

Luckily, most of the Franciscans who taught us were good men who sacrificed for the good of serving God and man. I respect all religious...priests, nuns and brothers...who answer the Lord's call and devote their lives to helping others. While my religious career was cut short after my first game of "Spin the Bottle", Phil, my good friend and neighbor, entered the Franciscan Order and spent a number of years teaching and working in administrative posts. He later left the Order, married and currently lives in Phoenix with his wife Susan and daughter Claire.

At Mass today we were addressed by James McKnight, Marist Priest and spokesperson for the Catholic Missions around the world. Father McKnight is a former New York City native about my age who also heard the call and spent his life doing missionary work, including 25 years in the Philippines helping people in that largely Christian country. As he talked of his experience I kept trying to picture me at the age when Father McKnight joined the Marists. Could I have ever left my family, my country, and everything I held dear to travel across the world not knowing what fate had in store for me? I think not. The church was wise in choosing a man like James McKnight to pick up this challenge and help spread Roman Catholicism to new converts.

Let's take religion out of the equation for a minute. Even if we want to be cynical and say the Catholic Church does good just so it can swell the ranks of the faithful, no one can deny the fruits of their missionary outreach. These dedicated men and women help educate, doctor, feed, house and clothe the poorest of God's people. They go to the farthest corners of the earth bringing something that the people living there never had much of...hope. The Church is criticized for all its riches, and yet there is no other religion I am aware of that walks the walk more than Roman Catholicism. All this happens no thanks to weaklings like me, but to staunch, steadfast and courageous men like Father McKnight who spend their lives fighting for the dignity of others.

I remember as kids in school being asked to take home a "Mite Box", a cardboard cutout that we folded into the shape of a box. We were expected to go out and solicit coins to put into the box that would then be donated to Catholic Missions around the world. Like Father McKnight did at today's Mass, a missionary priest would visit our parish back then with tales of unbearable poverty in some exotic country where they were posted. It was hard to relate to such hardship even though the way we grew up would have probably placed us below the poverty line by today's standards. How could children have nothing to eat or wear; how could there be no drinkable water; how could babies die for want of basic medical care?

As a kid I could never fully appreciate the accomplishments of Catholic missionaries on earth, but I can now. I pray that these good women and men receive blessings in the afterlife a thousand times more than they earned during their lifetime. If by any chance I do get into Heaven, look me up. I'll be the guy shining Father McKnight's golden sandals.

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Following the Rules

I’m a rules guy. I try to follow the rules that help keep our society civilized and expect others to do the same. That’s where my plan fails. By the way, I should state up front that I do break the rules myself sometimes, but I try to do it in a way that doesn’t affect others. For example, I’ll exceed the speed limit by five or ten miles an hour, but I’m not reckless about it. I don’t tailgate or cut people off, but just drive faster than the rules say I should. Since maybe 7 out of 10 drivers do the same, it has become sort of OK to do this, but yes, it is breaking the rules. What bothers me is people who flagrantly break the rules with no regard as to how it affects others. Here are some examples:

Lines: We stand in line for all sorts of things like supermarket checkout, department stores, banks, DMV transactions, etc. Most businesses now use a single queue for multiple cashiers so you don’t get stuck behind the guy who needs the price check or the pinhead who is never ready to order or pay when his turn comes. I also hate people who come to the head of the line and say: “I’ve just got one or two items…is it OK if I cut in?” Am I empowered by all those in line behind me to give permission for this line cut? No. Why can’t the cutters just wait their turn! If I’m alone with a big order, I’ll always let them ahead of me, but I won’t presume it’s OK if other people are waiting as well. The vehicular equivalent is the guy who starts his own exit line after driving around all the other cars waiting to exit. If I thought I could get one, I’d have a bumper-mounted missile launcher on my car to take these selfish bastards out of the gene pool.

Courtesy: Extending simple courtesies to one another is the grease that keeps our society lubricated. Some misguided men decided that the advent of “women’s lib” was an excuse to stop holding doors and giving up their seats on public transportation. Courtesy has nothing to do with gender. Standing so an older or physically challenged person can sit is just common decency. A modern discourtesy that pushes my buttons is loud, inane, never-ending cell phone conversations in public. In New Jersey and Connecticut, drivers stop when there is a pedestrian in the crosswalk. Some New York drivers step on the gas. People show up in restaurants and hotel lobbies in bare feet. Inconsiderate theater-goers show up 30 minutes after the curtain only because they’re too damned lazy to leave home on time. I could go on. We need to examine our behavior and restore some of the little niceties that were once taken for granted.

Classroom behavior: When I was in grade school, the teachers ruled with an iron fist. People today are horrified by this. They can’t bear the thought of a child being spoken to in a critical tone in school much less physically disciplined. They miss the point entirely. In school, right from first grade, the rules were explained to us. We had two choices: obey them and be left alone, or disobey them and risk the consequences, including maybe a whack or two with a ruler. It didn’t take much to get us to appreciate the wisdom of following the rules. Once we did, the teacher was free from distractions and could focus on teaching. Moreover, we were less inclined to make trouble and could focus on learning. And learn we did. Students today can do as they please and teachers have little recourse. Discipline is non-existent and to make things worse, parents will often defend their children without even hearing the teacher’s side. If you need a reason why students today learn less than those of 50 years ago, look no further: it’s the lack of discipline.

In the workplace: There are rules that apply on the job. Like in school, workers have the rules explained early on and also the consequences for not obeying them. That should be enough but it never is. People come late to work regularly. They abuse sick time. They take risks at work that put themselves and their co-workers in harm’s way. They horse around, harass co-workers, dress inappropriately, defy management and generally behave like babies. One development that works against compliance with the rules on the job is the power of unions. Originally established to fight abuses of workers, unions have seen to it that the shoe is now on the other foot. Like the misguided parent in the classroom, they stand behind their members no matter what the offense. They also press for pay rates and benefits far above what is paid in other countries for the same skills. This has made doing business in America very expensive and unproductive. Ironically, the very jobs unions seek to protect have been driven overseas because of their greedy excesses.

I know I am probably out of step with a lot of people, especially younger ones, in insisting that people obey the rules. Today’s mantra is “Let me do my own thing.” The problem is when your thing conflicts with my thing, who wins? That’s why rules (and laws) are set up…so we all know what we are required to do to avoid anarchy. Is it too much to expect people to obey?

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Scraps

I know the legions of the politically correct will gag on this, but I'll put it out there anyhow. Why do women walk around scantily clad, showing all their assets, and then get indignant when somebody notices. When all the merchandise is on prominent display, why be surprised when perspective customers show an interest. If the store's not open, why hang out the sign? Enough with the maxims, you get my point.

On the subject of compliments, I agree with Mark Twain...beware. He believes people are mainly interested in themselves, and only flatter others when they harbor an ulterior motive. Most seemingly innocent compliments have strings attached. So when out of the blue someone gushes over your wonderfulness, check the envelope carefully for surely there is a bill enclosed.

What is it with fat guys and motorcycles? I'm not talking "20 pounds overweight" fat, I'm talking "their shadow can kill a dog" fat. In thinking this out it occurred that maybe they just can't fit into cars; that makes sense. I don't know how the bike frame even supports them. I did a blog once about the worst jobs in the world. Being a seat on a fat guy's motorcycle has officially moved into the top three.

Speaking of bad jobs, we need to rethink the way we deal with the poor folks who hold these jobs. It's so easy to tee off on that nervous kid behind the McDonald's counter when he forgets the secret sauce on your Big Mac. We figure his life must already be in the crapper to be working here, how can one more chewing out hurt. Be the better person and save your sharp tongue for the condescending bitch at Nordstrom's who thinks she's better than you.

Is that the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff? No wait, maybe its a brain surgeon on 24-hour call, or a NYC Mayor who needs to be reached at any time while on his Bermuda vacations. Oh sorry, false alarm. It's just another one of those pretentious a**holes walking around with that Bluetooth stuck in their ear as if they couldn't possibly be out of communication with mission control for even a minute. Please.

Human perception is a tricky business. We see things so differently, especially when it comes to resemblances between two people. Sometimes a friend will say: "You know, you look just like so-and-so." Naturally, you wonder and you're curious to meet so-and-so to see this "double" of you walking around. When you do get introduced, you're usually horrified to see that he looks like the star act in a circus sideshow. Is that what I really look like! Shoot me now.

This isn't pleasant but it needs to be said. Summer is a great time, but the 'Wardrobe Horror' meter lurches into the red zone. Top of the list: ugly feet. Please don't wear flip flops if your feet are so disfigured that they cause children to cry. Next: donate the tank tops and Spandex pants to Goodwill if you're 80 lbs. overweight. Finally, older men who wear black socks with shorts, you look like you stepped out of a 1950s porno movie. Stop it.

In a letter to the Editor of the Daily News, a woman complained that they wouldn't let her take her Kindle e-reader into Yankee Stadium. Here's an idea lady...watch the game. Root for your team, talk to the fans, have a hot dog, and enjoy the sunshine and green grass. It won't kill you to take a break from your pathetic electronic addiction for a few hours. (see Bluetooth.)

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Oh Give Me Land, Lots of Land....

I just finished a book called "The Mighty Chieftans" about the most prominent leaders of Native American tribes in 1800's America. These were extraordinary men who did their best for their poeple to save a way of life that deep down in their hearts they knew to be doomed. The United States government stole their land to make way for railroads. The buffalo hunters exterminated their main source of meat just for the hides, and left the animal carcases rotting on the plains. The ranchers and farmers laid claim to land that the Indians never thought of themselves as "owning", but as being stewards of for future generations.

"In making treaties white men always assumed that the red men had unsophisticated imitations of their own institutions. The government wanted title to land which the Indians were hunting on, and they took it for granted that the Indians owned it, even convinced them that this was so and they could therefore transfer title. It was hard to accept the notion that Indians might have entirely different ideas, ideals, motives and ways of life. Indians had no more idea of owning land than they did of owning the waters they traversed in their canoes or the air over their heads. It is said that the Indians who disposed of Manhattan for twenty-four dollars were somewhat in the same position as the man who sold the Brooklyn Bridge for ten dollars; they didn't own it, just chanced to be on the island for a week-end fishing trip." (The Book of the American West, Jay Monohan, Editor).

But now to my main beef today, which by the way has nothing to do with Indians. I was just pissed off about the way we treated them and wanted to vent. Today’s real question: Why do we live literally on top of each other in cities like New York when there is soooo much space all around us? I can see banding together for protection back in the day when Indians ran wild scalping white people for stealing their land. (Hey, there is a tie-in to Indians after all.) But today we have no need for such precautions. Ironically, people spend big money on vacation houses so they can get away from the crowded, hectic place they have chosen to live. Why not just live where you want to live and skip the getaway retreat!

If you drive upstate New York, there is nothing but space. Many upstate counties are withering for want of jobs and economic stimulation. Here’s an idea: move the friggin’ jobs to the country. This is not a perfect solution, but one which may be perfected. This idea would encourage home construction, generate small business growth to support the new population centers, and give people all the space they needed for raising families. We could live in bigger houses built on decent plots of land instead of in shoebox apartments or tiny homes on skimpy 40x100 lots. The exodus from the big cities would alleviate the ridiculous overcrowding and traffic jams. The cost of doing business would be greatly reduced by moving excess population out of New York City. NYC services like education, sanitation, police and firefighters could be relocated to the country as well. Everybody’s quality of life would improve.

This holds true for urban centers from Maine to California. Some years ago I drove from Phoenix, Arizona to Las Vegas, Nevada, a distance of about 300 miles. During that long trip I saw 5 tumbleweeds, 2 jackrabbits and a coyote, but no people. I know it's desert land but so was Phoenix before they started developing it. We have to get people out of our teeming cities and into the open spaces all around us. Then give them some training and jobs so we can get them off government assistance and on to the tax rolls. We are turning whole generations of young people into permanent dependents who rely on the government for everything. They no longer want to work, and think it’s OK to live off the sweat of others. They demand free education, room and board and health care, and that someone else pay for it.

Look at the rioting and turmoil in Greece, where socialism and unionism have destroyed a once-healthy economy. This is the end-state for people who believe in something for nothing. They are on the verge of bankruptcy, and world bankers will not bail them out unless the government passes new laws leading to severe austerity. These measures are necessary now because Greece failed to keep its commitments for previous austerity programs. How many fools believe Greeks will keep any new program that is even harsher? Note that Wall Street found great promise in announcements over the weekend that Greece will be offered yet another chance. Isn't that more like offering a drink to an alcoholic, while accepting another promise from the same drunk to stop drinking?

One final thought to tie up this disjointed post…the Indians never asked for something for nothing.

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Huckleberry Jim

I began re-reading The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and I think I have a new appreciation for the genius of Mark Twain. Okay, I'm not reading it, but listening on a recorded CD that I play in the car to keep me from flipping off Staten Island's notoriously discourteous drivers. Actually listening is a better way to hear the story because the narrator does a splendid job of recreating the Mississippi River accents that Twain tried so hard to reproduce in the book. A big part of enjoying books on CD is how well the book is narrated. Unlike the written word, sound brings a whole new dimension to the enjoyment of the story, and a good narrator always adds another level of enjoyment. Some authors try to read their own works thinking no one knows them better, but they fail to recognize that as they are masters of their craft, so too are the actors who do so much better as recorded book readers.

 But I'm off the track. One of the gifts that Twain had was his ear. He unfailingly captures the regional language spoken in Missouri by people who lived along the banks of the Mississippi. Their "backward" way of looking at life often reveals a shrewd wisdom not always found among the higher cultures in American society. Twain satirizes the pathetic attempts of ante-bellum Southerners to hold onto a lifestyle that pretty much ended with the Civil War. He also takes a scathing look at the prevailing attitudes in the region, especially racism. The book was criticized upon release because of its coarse language. It became even more controversial in the 20th century because of its perceived use of racial stereotypes and because of its frequent use of the racial slur "nigger", despite strong arguments that the author and main characters in the book are clearly anti-racist.

I don't want to bore you with deep sociological issues, but rather focus on the main character, Huck Finn, who narrates the book. Twain's genius allowed us to look at the world through the eyes of this extraordinary 14-year old boy. Huck's adventures with runaway slaves, con men, Southern aristocrats, river travelers and townsfolk provide the platform for the author's keen observations on life. Huck's ability to make up whopping lies every time he's in a tight spot is highly amusing, as is the dead certainty with which he speaks about things of which he knows absolutely nothing. His flaws can't mask a kind and innocent heart that almost always leads him to do the right thing when push comes to shove.

Reading this wonderful tale reminds me of the differences between 14-year olds in the 1880's and now. In Huck's day, book learnin' was rare, but boys were schooled in a different kind of knowledge...call it outdoor lore for want of a better term. They spent a lot of time outside, and could hunt, fish, cook, handle a boat, navigate by the stars and generally survive on their own. A lot more was expected of them when it came to helping the family, whether it was working on a farm or finding a job that allowed them to contribute to their upkeep. Today's kids are far brighter academically, but often don't get the chance to loosen those apron strings until they go away to college.

It's fun re-reading some of the books we were made to read as kids. You get a different kind of pleasure as an adult and can finally appreciate why Mrs. Hornburger tried so hard to beat this stuff into my thick skull.

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Stuff

To all the guys who creep along the highway and then speed up when you try to pass them, may an army of fire ants crawl up your play station.

Why do people dump things like old appliances in vacant lots in the dead of night when all they have to do is put them out on the curb. I think they like the feeling that somehow they are "getting over". Morons.

A helicopter mom (always hovering) was in the paper recently suing the Girl Scouts of America because they don't make gluten-free cookies. The GSA says there just isn't enough  demand. Here's an idea lady, buy your kid some gluten-free cookies and shut up.

My tolerance for stupidity was never very high, and as I get older, it just gets worse. After being in the workplace for 40 years, I learned to play nice by censoring myself whenever I encountered a jerk. It's just easier than going to war every time. Now that I'm a senior citizen, I don't care any more what people think of me. I'm a lot more likely to say exactly what's on my mind and let the chips (or my teeth) fall where they may. I'll still make an effort, but not much of one. Recently, while playing a round of golf at a charity outing with two younger guys, we were asked by the starter if it was OK with us if he added a single player to our group to make it a foursome. This happens all the time, and since golf is a game steeped in courtesy, people have no problem having a stranger join them. Most golfers are genuinely nice people you don't mind spending a few hours with. There are exceptions.

This guy was initially greatful for us allowing him to join the group. I explained that my two young companions were novices at the game, and that if that would be a problem for him, he could hook up with a more experienced group. He assured us he was a terrible player and that it was fine. He lied. He was a very good player and his impatience with my companions hitting their balls all over the place soon boiled over. He began giving unasked-for advice to my friends, embarassing them and making it clear they were slowing him down.

He then began yelling at the group in front of us for playing too slowly, something we all experience occasionally, but being gentlemen, we grin and bear it. If you saw Caddyshack and remember the Rodney Dangerfield character, you know what this guy was like. At one point this guy says to me: "I know my behavior puts people off, but I don't know what I can do about it." With my moron meter in the red zone by now, I told him straight out: "Why don't you just stop acting like an asshole." He blinked and then said: "You're right." See, that was easy...nobody ever told him he was an a**hole before.

I try not to pick on people who don't know better or who couldn't be different if they tried. They're stupid and there's not much anyone can do about it. I save my venom for people with an attitude who should know better. They need some push-back once in a while to remind them that not everyone will meekly take their crap. I should hand out silver bullets like the Lone Ranger after dusting someone off who badly needed it. I consider it a social service and I'm happy to contribute.

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The Honor of the Game

I could say I play golf, but maybe a more accurate description would be I play at golf. In all honesty, I’m not very good. That’s what this post is about…honesty. Golf is one of the few places where honesty and integrity are bound up with the sport itself. In professional golf, there are no referees. The players themselves are honor bound to play by the rules. If a player sees another player commit an infraction of The Rules of Golf, he or she is required to report it. It almost never comes to that though, because the player who committed the infraction, however inadvertently, will call the penalty on himself. (I’m going to abandon political correctness here for the sake of language simplification and stop saying he or she; he will have to suffice. I don’t hate women, but I do hate having the reader constantly tripping over “he/she” every time I would be forced to write it.)

The Rules of Golf were written by a group of the most anal Scotsmen ever to walk on grass. They were first set down by the Royal and Ancient Golf Club in St. Andrews, Fife, Scotland in 1754. Most casual golfers don’t even know all the rules, much less abide by them. That doesn’t make them bad people necessarily, it’s just that the rules are extremely complicated, and learning them requires more effort than the average weekend golfer is prepared to invest. Also, the penalties for infractions are very harsh and can just destroy a golfer’s score, if not disqualify him from the round altogether. Strict adherence to the rules would generate too many arguments in what is supposed to be a social game, and a four-hour round of golf would stretch out to six. However, winking at the rules does not apply to professional golfers. They take pride in knowing and following every single rule, no matter how stupid it may seem.

For example, Brian Davis, a talented English player who has yet to win on the PGA tour, was tied for the lead after regulation play had ended in a recent tournament. During the ensuing playoff, he hit his ball down into some long grass off the fairway. On his next shot, while taking his backswing, his club moved a single, long blade of grass. Brian then made a good swing and hit his ball up near the green to a spot where he could easily get it into the hole for his first tournament win. Davis stopped play and asked a PGA official to review the videotape to see if he had brushed the grass on his backswing. The review showed that he had. This is deemed by the Rules of Golf as “improving your lie” (as if brushing that single blade of grass gave the player any advantage). Result: Davis was assessed a two stroke penalty and lost the tournament. He was the only one who knew that his club may have glanced off that blade of grass, and yet he did not hesitate to call an official’s attention to the possible rules infraction, costing himself the win.

This kind of self-policing in golf is not an isolated incident. A few weeks ago, a PGA Tour rookie named Webb Simpson was ahead by a couple of strokes in the Zurich Classic. He was playing well on the last day of the tournament and it looked like nobody was going to catch him. While taking a stance to tap in a six-inch putt, he set his putter down behind the ball, not touching the ball mind you. Something, probably the wind, caused the ball to oscillate, moving fractionally and then coming to rest in its original position. Simpson stepped away from the ball and called over his playing partner and a tour official to review the situation. The Rules of Golf state that if a ball oscillates because of wind, that is OK; no penalty is assessed. In this case though, because Simpson had set his putter down behind the ball, he is deemed to have caused the ball to move; penalty 1 stroke. Nobody but Simpson saw that ball move, yet despite being a rookie and maybe a little nervous to be holding the lead in pursuit of his first tournament win, he had the character to call the penalty on himself knowing the consequences. The incident had to rattle him and he went on to finish second.

Maybe the most famous rules violation in golf happened in 1968 when Roberto DeVicenzo, a talented player from Argentina, had seemingly tied for the lead in the Masters, arguably the most prestigious tournament in golf. At the end of the day, De Vicenzo was tied with Bob Goalby. The two should have returned on Monday for an 18-hole playoff. Except that De Vicenzo's final-round playing partner, Tommy Aaron, had made a mistake on De Vicenzo's scorecard. Aaron gave De Vicenzo a par (4) on the 17th hole rather than the birdie (3) De Vicenzo had actually made. De Vicenzo failed to catch the error. When he signed the scorecard, De Vicenzo was guilty of turning in an incorrect scorecard. Under the rules of golf, the higher score that De Vicenzo signed for stood, meaning that he was credited with a 66 rather than the 65 he actually shot. And meaning that he was one stroke off the lead rather than tied and heading into a playoff. A wide television audience had witnessed him shoot the 65, but to no avail. DeVicenzo was awarded second place and deprived of a possible win that at the time would have been an enormous boost to golf in South America.

It would have been easy, even expected, for these players to whine about the Rules of Golf being so penal for what most of us would agree were insignificant violations. Instead, their responses in every case were the same: “It’s my fault. As a professional I should know the rules by which this game is played, and if I break them I must accept the consequences.” How refreshing and rare to hear such sentiments expressed. How nice it would be to hear a lying, thieving politician say something comparable after being caught in some ridiculous lie that would earn them the Pinocchio Award. I used to believe that ethics meant doing the right thing, but there is a better definition: “Doing the right thing when nobody is looking.” Amen to that, and hats off to professional golf for living by the rules.

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The White Man's Shame

For me, growing up on cowboy and Indian movies really left the impression that the white American settlers and the "horse soldiers" who protected them were the good guys. How dare those uncivilized red savages stand in the way of the vanguard of our country's relentless move westward in the 1800's. Some would say the end justifies the means, but the more I learn about the noble races of Native Americans that we brutally subjugated in the name "Manifest Destiny", the more sorrowful I feel for what we did to them. It started simply enough when the Pilgrims first landed. The local tribes like the Wampanoags, who first greeted and befriended them in 1620, brought corn and turkey to help them through the difficult winter; this act of kindness started a Thanksgiving tradition that is still observed today.

Unfortunately, the relationship soon soured. As more British colonists arrived in Massachusetts, they began displacing the Wampanoags from their traditional lands, particularly by plying Wampanoag men with alcohol and obtaining their signatures on land sale documents while they were drunk. The Wampanoag leader Metacomet, known as "King Philip" to the English, tried to get this practice outlawed, and when the British refused, a war ensued. The British won decisively, sold many of the Wampanoag survivors into slavery, drove the rest into hiding, and forbade the use of the Massachusett language and Wampanoag tribal names. Only in 1928 were the Wampanoag people able to reclaim their tribal identity. This was just the beginning.

Between 1778 and 1871 – when it needed Indians as allies against European powers, land for settlers spreading west, and an end to wars with the Indians themselves, the U.S. government signed hundreds of treaties with tribes offering health services, schools, teachers, and money in exchange for Indian land, trade concessions, fishing and hunting rights, and the tribes’ jurisdiction over their remaining land. But the schools the treaties authorized did little more than spread Christianity and Western culture and provide training in farming to compensate for the loss of the Indians’ livelihood. The U.S. government was ill equipped to provide mainstream education, and they failed utterly to recognize Indian languages, culture, and history.

Indians wanted to remain on their ancestral land, which Whites wanted to occupy. The solution reached by the states and the U.S. government under President Andrew Jackson was to remove the Indians from the path of white settlement. Some tribes, such as the Sac and Fox in Illinois and the Seminoles in Florida, were subdued, but they resisted removal. The Creek, Winnebago, Cherokee, and other tribes were forcibly resettled in “Indian Territory,” separated from whites. The Cherokees tried to hold onto their land by becoming “American” in customs, language, and constitution and by educating all their people through Osceola’s "alphabet" of the Cherokee language. However, the state of Georgia arrogantly refused to recognize the Cherokee Nation and declared its laws null and void.

The “Indian Territory” to which tribes were removed faced more demands by Whites who continued to move westward, taking land, killing buffalo, and further weakening the economic viability of the tribes. Constant fighting ensued as Indians valiantly but unsuccessfully resisted white threats to their civilization. The last battle that could be called a victory for the Indians was the Battle of the Little Bighorn, also known as Custer's Last Stand. On June 25 and June 26, 1876, led by the great Sioux chief Sitting Bull, the Lakota, Northern Cheyenne and Arapaho people defeated the 7th Cavalry Regiment of the United States Army under George Armstrong Custer. It really turned out to be the Indians' last stand.


On the morning of December 29, 1890, the Sioux chief Big Foot and some 350 of his followers camped on the banks of Wounded Knee Creek in South Dakota. Surrounding their camp was a force of U.S. troops charged with the responsibility of arresting Big Foot and disarming his warriors. Suddenly the sound of a shot pierced the early morning gloom. Within seconds the charged atmosphere erupted as Indian braves scurried to retrieve their discarded rifles and troopers fired volley after volley into the Sioux camp. Clouds of gun smoke filled the air as men, women and children scrambled for their lives. Many ran for a ravine next to the camp only to be cut down in a withering cross fire. When the smoke cleared and the shooting stopped, approximately 300 Sioux were dead, Big Foot among them. Twenty-five soldiers lost their lives. The massacre at Wounded Knee effectively ended the Indian Wars.


Hindsight is always 20-20, but no matter the pressures for national expansion that may have prevailed at the time, what we did to Native-American Indians in the United States was shameful. The white man's "certainty" that his way was the right and inevitable way justified policies that eradicated centuries-old cultures in the blink of an eye. In the time these tribes flourished, the air and water were pure, the game plentiful, and the land easily supported the people whose sacred stewardship kept the earth the way they found it for future generations. The earth on the White man's watch has not fared as well. We have exterminated hundreds of species of birds, fish and animals, torn up the hills for the coal they held, and polluted the water and air, all in the name of progress.


I've heard people joke that with all the new casinos being built, the Indians are finally getting their own back. Sadly, that is not possible. I'm sorry that when I was a kid, for all those years and through all those B movies, I was cheering for the wrong team.


(*This information is taken partially from from "The Quest for Quality Education Report of the American Indian/Alaska Native Concerns Study Committee" June 2, 2000)

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Portrait of the Artist

About a year ago we attended a lecture by an extraordinary local artist named Greg Perillo. He spoke about his childhood growing up in Greenwich Village. His father would fire his imagination with stories of cowboys and Indians, and Greg began to use his God-given talent to draw scenes of the Old West. The only drawing paper he could afford were the brown bags in which he carried his lunch to school. When his teachers began to notice Greg's talent, they encouraged him and supplied him with clean, white drawing paper for which he was so grateful. (Can you imagine even the poorest kid growing up today being so happy just to have drawing paper!)

Greg's family moved to Staten Island when he was a boy. He spoke of what "the Island" looked like in the 1940's, a rural, sparsely populated place whose open fields and low hills made the perfect playground for a boy smitten with cowboys and Indians. Greg's father, being a pragmatic Italian-American, began to find "regular" jobs for Gregory, and talk him out of this crazy notion of becoming an artist. Greg worked to please his father and to help the family financially, but he never stopped drawing and painting. The young Perillo enrolled briefly in art school, but played hooky and joined the Navy in 1944, serving for two years on the U.S.S. Storm King. On one leave, he went home with a Navy buddy to a ranch in Montana where he first spent time with Native Americans.

Back in New York, Greg married and began attending evening art classes. In 1950, the couple headed West, and in Sedona, Perillo met William Leigh whose work Perillo had seen at the Grand Central Galleries in New York. Leigh had a studio in New York, and Perillo began visiting him there and spent the next five years, until Leigh's death in 1955, studying with him. In the 1970s, he began making sculpture, ultimately creating nearly thirty pieces. After Leigh's death, Perillo began selling his work in earnest, especially through his association in the Hudson Valley Art Association, galleries in Arizona, New Mexico and Texas, and the Wally Findlay Galleries in New York.

What struck me about Mr. Perillo's remarks were his sense of modesty and the joy he clearly felt when discussing his family and Italian-American roots. His art is a romanticized rendering of his love affair with the Old West and its inhabitants. Greg's realistic technique and sense of color bring his subjects to life. On viewing his paintings and sculptures, one almost expects them to move, as if being viewed through a window. He is a remarkable draftsman, and teased abstract artists a bit in his lecture as turning to that school of painting only because "they couldn't draw worth a damn." Troubled by America's treatment of Viet Nam vets returning home, Perillo created a series of 40 oil paintings called "The Vietnam Soldiers: The Unsung Heroes." They’re based in great measure on what the artist learned from a New Jersey friend, Charlie Loccisano, who saw action in two Vietnam tours of duty.

Here's what bothers me. We have a gifted artist like Gregory Perillo living among us on Staten Island. His award-winning work is known throughout the art world, and hangs in museums across the country. Do I see Greg's story being told on television, maybe to inspire young people to follow their dreams of becoming an artist? No, I see "Staten Island Mob Wives", idiot women whose claim to fame is being married to local hoods. Shows like these not only denigrate Italian-Americans and hold up terrible role models for young women, but also take up valuable air time that could be used to celebrate men like Gregory Perillo.

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