By Rick Fishman / Oakland, Calif. Sam Rosenthal's Willis Show Bar of the 1940's My grandfather, Sam Rosenthal, was born in 1897 and grew up in Pittsburgh before moving to Detroit, where he met and married my grandmother, Mary Levin. He came from genuine poverty and entered adulthood during the Great Depression, when "career planning" often meant figuring out how to eat that day. As a young boy, he sold apples and newspapers on the street, worked as a messenger in the post office. and did whatever else he could to make a buck. Sam learned early how to hustle. In our family, that was not a negative concept; it was practically a job qualification. It meant recognizing an opportunity, working hard, and never waiting for someone else to rescue you. Sam's portfolio was whatever he could sell before dinner. He told me that his father had taught him only one thing: "Bringing home the money." That became Sam's North Star, which, as far as he was concerned, was permanently located somewhere over Detroit. Sam and his Army troop in World War 1 Sam joined the armed forces in 1917 and got married in 1921. He eventually entered the coin-operated machine business with his brother Harry, placing jukeboxes and pinball machines in bars and restaurants and collecting a share of the profit. It was a beautifully simple business: people put coins into machines, and Sam came around to collect them. No online banking, credit card disputes, or customers repeatedly asking for his "best price." Just piles of nickels, dimes, and quarters. My grandfather Sam (left) and his brother Harry The Ringside: A Change of Management During World War II, while Detroit was working around the clock to support the war effort, Sam operated a neighborhood bar that became the place to go after a long shift. Workers came in for a drink, conversation. and a little relief from the pressures of wartime life. Sam provided the drinks, but he was also building relationships, making connections, and learning -where the next opportunity might be. His street sense and natural instinct for business turned that neighborhood bar into far more than a place to have a beer. It became the launchpad for a period of real success for Sam. Sam behind the bar with one of his waitresses; People enjoying a drink during the wartime effort. Boxing, Wrestling, and Knowing the Right People Sam's ambitions carried him beyond jukeboxes and coin-operated machines into boxing and professional wrestling. For a Jewish man of his generation, this was not as unusual as it might sound today. Between 1920 and 1940, Jewish Americans made up nearly one-third of all professional boxers and won 26 world titles. For many working-class Jewish men, boxing offered a path out of poverty and a powerful answer to the stereotype that Jewish men were physically weak. There were Jewish managers, promoters, trainers, journalists, and manufacturers, many building successful businesses around the sport. Ring Magazine was created in 1922 by Nat Fleischer, Everlast Boxing Equipment, founded by Jack Golomb. Sam recognized the opportunity and entered this world as a manager. The Ringside Cocktail Bar: A Change of Management The front and back of a promotional matchbook In the 1940’s, Sam owned the Ringside Cocktail Bar, an establishment perfectly suited to a man who never kept his businesses in separate corners. The front was a neighborhood bar, while the back contained a boxing ring where fighters trained and worked out. Sam could serve a drink, watch a sparring session, or arrange a future fight without ever leaving the building. It was not merely a bar with a boxing theme; it was part of the working machinery of Detroit boxing. According to the family story, representatives of the Italian Mafia arrived one day and informed Sam that they would be taking over the Ringside for their own network. Beginning the following morning, he would be operating the Willis Bar instead. This was not presented as an offer, and apparently nobody asked Sam whether the new location suited him. There was no meeting, no paperwork, and certainly no 30-day period for public comment. In that world, the phrase "effective tomorrow" seems to have been legally sufficient. Sam may have lost the Ringside Bar, but he did not lose his place in boxing. The arrangement apparently allowed him to continue promoting fights under his own name while remaining on the correct side of the people who controlled most of the business. He went on to stage numerous events, including programs associated with Detroit’s Olympia Stadium, the city’s great arena for professional boxing. The Olympia hosted important fighters, including Joe Louis, Jake LaMotta, and Sugar Ray Robinson. Sam was not fighting in the ring himself, but he had learned how to survive in a business where many of the most consequential punches were never thrown in public. Sam handled several fighters, but his most successful was Bennie Goldberg, a highly rated bantamweight whose professional career extended from 1937 to 1946. Goldberg remained a leading contender for the world title for approximately five years during the 1940’s. His success expanded Sam's reputation, connections, and income, eventually providing the means and confidence for Sam move his family to Miami to continue pursuing business opportunities. Bantamweight champ Benny Goldberg with Sam Rosenthal (circa 1944) Sam and the boys horsing around Miami and a Very Expensive Decision Like many Jewish families from the Midwest and East Coast, Sam saw opportunity in South Florida. He moved the family there, while keeping his house, his business and connections in Detroit, even though the family needed to commute back and forth for a while. In Florida he had capital, bought business opportunities and purchased land. He continued to operate in Detroit. He did not do any boxing promotions in Miami as the Ringside bosses seemed to have a hold on that territory. My parents were married at the Shelborne Hotel in Miami Beach in June 1947, and honeymooned in Cuba, a popular and glamorous destination at the time. The mayor of Detroit traveled to Florida for their wedding, which demonstrated the extent of Sam's connections. Either Sam was very important, or the mayor really needed a vacation. My parents’ Miami Beach wedding (1947) My family lived in one house on Harding Avenue in Surfside, Florida. I was born there in 1951. Sam also owned land that would later become part of the Bal Harbour Shops, the luxury shopping center that became one of the world’s most successful retail destinations. Unfortunately, around 1953, Sam sold all his property in Florida and moved the family back to Detroit. Had he kept it, this story might have been written from a mansion or a yacht in the Caribbean. Sam simply could not get Detroit out of his blood. Miami was developing, but Detroit was where he understood the streets, knew the people, and felt like somebody. He wound up owning the entire block at Willis and Third. Although Florida offered sunshine and land, Detroit offered established relationships and probably much better delicatessen. The Willis Bar and Third Street Original streamlined interior of the Willis Show Bar Sam was the landlord for the stores on Third Street. He operated the Willis Bar and opened Gurney's Chop House (an upscale steak house). My father even worked at the Willis as a bartender during the early years. Sam and Mary still had their home on Outer Drive in Detroit, and my parents bought one of those new construction homes in Oak Park. My dad, at 99 years old, still happily lives there today. Sam brought in the Budweiser Clydesdale horses to parade down Willis and Third Street There was also Willis Pharmacy, complete with the kind of lunch counter and soda fountain that once served as the social center of a neighborhood. I ate there constantly while growing up. Nutrition was apparently still waiting to be invented; if something came off the grill and was followed by an ice cream soda, it qualified as a balanced meal. One of Sam's other tenants operated what was then called a "dry goods" store, where my brothers and I were outfitted for school each year. Between the drugstore lunches and the back-to-school clothing. Sam's block provided nearly everything a growing family needed. Me and my older brothers Marc and Gary Fishman at the Detroit Zoo (circa 1957) The Willis Runs Again The Willis Show Bar opened at the corner of Willis and Third, during Detroit's glamorous era of live entertainment and jazz. It quickly became one of the city's popular nightspots and continued operating until 1978. After sitting vacant for nearly 40 years, the Art Moderne building was carefully restored and brought back to life in 2018. The Willis Show Bar celebrated seven years of presenting live music, entertainment, and first-rate cocktails in an atmosphere that transported guests back to another era. It was closed as of May 2025, having faced many of the difficulties that affected entertainment venues during the Covid pandemic, but hopefully this important piece of Detroit history will once again open its doors. In 2018, the Willis Show Bar was reborn. The photo on the right shows Sam Rosenthal’s great-great-grandchildren playing in front of the mural on the side of the bar (2023). The Patriarch Sam Rosenthal in 1954. By then, years of hustling, promoting and dealmaking had already shaped the larger-than-life character his family knew so well. Sam was the patriarch of our family. He survived poverty and built businesses through hard work, instinct, and force of personality. He was the boss, and people generally listened when he spoke. He could be tough, but he was also generous, loyal, and deeply committed to his family. My grandmother Mary was one of the few people who could change his mind, although she may have wisely allowed him to believe the new idea was his. He used his success to support his children and help establish the next generation. His son, my uncle Herb, became a doctor, and Sam helped his daughters and their families. My parents bought their home in Oak Park in 1953 and were a part of the progress made by many postwar Jewish families. One generation struggled through poverty and discrimination so the next could become professionals, business owners, and homeowners. As a child, I knew little about what Sam had endured. I only knew that he loved me and gave me an enormous amount of attention. He may have been the most important person in the early years of my life. I remember him constantly smoking Old Gold brand cigarettes. He would come to our house in Oak Park and take me to Rackham Drugs, our neighborhood drugstore or Hy Horenstein’s, his favorite delicatessen. He would bring my family boxes of candy and restaurant supplies he picked up wholesale. To my brothers and me, he appeared to have access to an unlimited warehouse of everything children wanted and parents usually refused to buy. Sam made me feel important. His affection was not expressed through long conversations about feelings, which would have been unimaginable for a man of his generation. He showed love by making certain I knew I belonged to him. What He Really Left Me Sam's life eventually took a dramatic turn. After rising from poverty and achieving considerable success, he lost virtually everything and died in 1964 with very little. The properties, businesses, and fortune he might have built were gone. His willingness to take risks helped him escape poverty, but risk works in both directions. Sam never lived cautiously. He kept moving, investing, promoting, buying and selling. Sam's fortunes were tied to Detroit, and the city itself was changing. Like many Detroit families of the period, ours became part of the great move to the suburbs. During the ‘50s and ‘60s, families were leaving Detroit in enormous numbers, drawn by new homes and suburban schools, but also responding to the racial changes taking place in the city. Neighborhoods shifted, commercial districts declined, and the personal connections that had helped men like Sam succeed were no longer enough to hold everything together. He had always relied on his instincts and knowledge of the streets, but even Sam Rosenthal could not outmaneuver the larger forces reshaping the city beneath him. Money was not his legacy. He provided for his family, helped his children establish themselves, and gave me love, attention, and an example of what it meant to make my own way. Much of what I have become: a dealer, collector, negotiator, risk taker, and businessman constantly searching for things other people might overlook, came from both Sam and my mother Jeanne Fishman (and that's a story for another time). Although Sam Rosenthal lost most of the tangible fortune he created, what he passed down instead was his drive, generosity and instinct for opportunity. The properties and businesses disappeared, but the hustle survived. l know it did, because I inherited it. Rick Fishman of the Martini Brothers Swing Band and a former Royal Jammer, grew up in Oak Park, Mich. He has owned his own retail businesses for close to 50 years. After moving to California in 1976, he founded the LeSportsac franchise in 1978, Traveling Light Stores, and As Time Goes By collectibles stores. For more than 25 years, he has operated ArtDecoCollection.com, now supported by a 7000 square foot brick and mortar showroom by appointment, while currently producing the digital book, Art Deco Resource Guide. https://artdecocollection.com/art-deco-resource-guide/

By Laurence Lerman / New York City Wile E. Coyote gets litigious with the help of Will Forte in Coyote vs. Acme SCREEN TIME Fittingly, there may be no more indestructible movie arriving in theaters this summer than Coyote vs. Acme. After all, its hero is Wile E. Coyote, a creature who has spent the better part of a century being flattened by boulders, launched from cliffs, blown up by dynamite and betrayed by every product he has ever ordered from the Acme Corporation—only to dust himself off and try, try again. The movie bearing his name has proved as difficult to kill. Completed several years ago, Dave Green’s live action/animated comedy was notoriously shelved by Warner Bros. Discovery in 2023, which planned to use the unreleased film as a tax write-off. The decision prompted an extraordinary public backlash, particularly because reports from test screenings suggested that the movie was actually good. Warner eventually allowed the filmmakers to shop it elsewhere, and Ketchup Entertainment, which acquired the film, finally released it theatrically this weekend. Its triumphant arrival is certain to vindicate those who fought to save it. The Roadrunner foils the Coyote (for a change) in Coyote vs. Acme Having seen the movie, I can report that Coyote vs. Acme is indeed a lot of fun—and importantly, it feels like one made by people who genuinely know and love the anarchic universe of Looney Tunes. Its origins are unusually literary. The premise comes from Ian Frazier’s satirical 1990 piece for The New Yorker, written in the form of a solemn legal brief detailing Wile E. Coyote’s product-liability suit against Acme for the catastrophic malfunction of its merchandise. The joke was irresistible: what if someone finally held Acme legally responsible for all those defective rocket skates, giant magnets and packages of explosives? The movie runs with the conceit without becoming a feature-length exercise in legal satire. Wile E. hires Kevin Avery (Will Forte), a down-on-his-luck personal-injury lawyer reduced to advertising himself on billboards. Lana Condor plays Kevin’s bright-eyed niece and legal intern Paige, while John Cena has enormous fun as Buddy Crane, Kevin’s former boss and the spectacularly smug corporate attorney representing Acme. Cena, increasingly adept at weaponizing his action-hero physique for comedy, is frequently hysterical. Forte, Lana Condor and Wile E. Coyote are driven to extremes The legal battle also provides an excuse to open the Warner cartoon vault. Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Porky Pig, Tweety, the Tasmanian Devil and others turn up in supporting roles and cameos, without the movie feeling like a feature-length corporate roll call. Best of all may be Foghorn Leghorn, pressed into service as a key witness for Acme. The film understands that much of the pleasure lies simply in seeing these characters behaving like themselves. That affection for Looney Tunes history extends to the filmmaking. Green and company combine live action and animation with considerable confidence, and while nobody is likely to dethrone Who Framed Roger Rabbit? —still the gold standard nearly four decades later—Coyote vs. Acme occasionally approaches its predecessor’s marvelous sense that humans and cartoons genuinely occupy the same physical universe. The slapstick has weight, the animated characters interact convincingly with their surroundings, and the filmmakers haven't tried to sand away the gleeful lunacy that made the original cartoons immortal. The picture isn't flawless. There are dry stretches, and the screenplay could stand some tightening; not every human subplot is as funny as the Coyote-versus-corporation material. But at 101 minutes, the movie moves briskly enough that its weaker passages don't linger. More importantly, it works as something increasingly difficult to find: a family movie that doesn't feel as though it was assembled by committee after studying demographic charts. Kids can enjoy the explosions and cartoon mayhem while adults get the corporate jokes, legal absurdities and nearly a century's worth of Looney Tunes history tucked around the edges. As the Acme Corporation’s lead defense attorney, Jon Cena takes on Tweety Bird Which inevitably brings us back to Warner Bros. Coyote vs. Acme creates a question that may be impossible to avoid: Why on earth did anyone think this movie should never be seen? The film’s near-destruction will probably remain permanently attached to its reputation. The irony is almost too delicious: a movie about a battered little guy suing an enormous, indifferent corporation was itself nearly obliterated by an enormous corporation for financial reasons. The Coyote couldn't have devised a better gag involving an anvil. But now the movie finally gets its audience—and perhaps the nicest surprise is that there's actually a movie worth celebrating beneath all that Hollywood infamy. Coyote vs. Acme isn't a lost masterpiece, nor does it need to be. It's funny, affectionate, inventive and refreshingly devoted to the characters that inspired it. In the dog days of August, there are plenty of worse ways to spend a couple of hours in a cool, dark theater. And after everything Wile E. Coyote has survived, it's awfully satisfying to see him get a shot at finally winning one. Laurence Lerman is a film journalist and a former editor of Video Business--Variety's digital media trade publication. Over the course of his four-decade career, he has conducted one-on-one interviews with just about every major filmmaker working today, from Martin Scorsese, Quentin Tarantino and Clint Eastwood to Kathryn Bigelow, Bernardo Bertolucci, and Werner Herzog. Most recently, he is the co-founder and editor-in-chief of the online review site DiscDish.com, the founder and curator of FilmShul.com, a multi-part presentation on the history of Hollywood and Jewish America, and a commentator on various 4K UHD and Blu-ray home entertainment releases.

By Bonnie Fishman / San Francisco Bay Area Ever hear the song, “Walk on By,” the 1964 Dionne Warwick-Burt Bacharach chart-topper that told the story of romantic heartbreak? It is also a useful message to remember when you’re shopping. Picture yourself in the produce aisles of your favorite grocery store or farmers’ market. Perhaps armed with a shopping list, you survey the usual fruits and veggies, tossing them in your basket with reckless abandon– carrots, celery, broccoli, apples, bananas, berries. Like most of us, you “walk on by” the weird stuff that you don’t recognize or even know their names. “Why would I buy that, what would I do with it, how do I cook it?” But much of this “odd” produce is commonplace in other food cultures and countries. An example of this happened when my good friend Margie and I backpacked in Europe in summer of 1973. During our six-week adventure, we befriended a Belgian student while traveling in Luxembourg. Margie and I bought a watermelon (imported from Israel) as a refreshing snack to take to a local lake. On the dock, we took out a trusty Swiss army knife and hacked into the melon. Our new friend was aghast. “What is that? How do you eat it? What do you do with the seeds?” We of course showed him the classy way of spitting them as far as you could. Watermelon was odd in his culture. The point is it was a strange fruit that he may have just “walked on by.” Sometimes, that’s not a mistake. Many of us do that with dragon fruit, indigenous to Southern Mexico, Central America, and northern South America. I’ve walked by dragon fruit a zillion times. I bought one recently. I peeled it, cut it open and admired the unusual center, white with small black dots. To be honest, after tasting it, I still say “walk on by.” Ick! Dragon Fruit Interior of the Dragon Fruit Another strange fruit that was introduced to the United States market in the ’60s was the kiwi from New Zealand. Frieda Caplan, who began her own produce distribution company in Southern California in the ’50s, made kiwis popular in this country along with many other “walk on by” fruits and vegetables. I remember when I first saw kiwis in the late ’70s when I lived in the San Francisco Bay Area for a couple of years. I thought it looked like a blimp-shaped brown fuzzy ball, almost animal-like. I bought one at a fruit stand, not knowing what it was. When I cut it open and saw the bright green flesh, I was floored! The tangy flavor was wonderful. I soon began using kiwis in fruit salads and on fresh fruit tarts in my first store, Bonnie’s Patisserie in Southfield, Mich. in the early ’80s. Kiwi fruit with fuzzy outside and a lush green fruit inside My sister, Marcia, is much braver than me when it comes to trying unusual ingredients. I think that’s because she spent five weeks in Southeast Asia in 1973 plus has visited nearly 40 other countries, which exposed her to different cuisines. She loves to experiment with produce that we didn’t eat when growing up. Last weekend at our local farmers market, there was a rare sighting of little baby turnips. Yes, full grown turnips are plentiful even though I never think of cooking them. Marcia sautéed them in oil until browned. They were divine! In my search for vegetables that many of us “walk on by,” I’ve noticed that a fair number of those veggies are in the root vegetable category. I stood in front of that section of the produce department, and staring back at me were rutabagas, celeriac (celery root), turnips, and sun chokes. These roots are great as a replacement for potatoes and are good mashed or puréed, sliced and put into gratins, and hearty soups. Hmmm. Should I buy one and try it? Rutabaga on the left and celeriac on the right I did just that. I bought a yuca root, also known as cassava, and made lovely appetizer yuca fritters, out of it. Fresh yuca I am pairing it today with tomatillo sauce. Tomatillos are also an unusual vegetable lurking in the produce section. They are in the tomato family but have papery husks on the outside, green flesh on the inside and remain firm when ripe. After you remove the husk, you’ll notice how sticky the outer skin is. Tomatillos are quite acidic, making it a good contrast with fritters. I would highly recommend buying frozen yuca. The fresh root is difficult to peel and cut. Whether you use fresh or frozen, after cooking it, removing the inner hard core is a bit tricky. You’ll be left with mushy flesh. Don’t worry, it’s supposed to be like that. Live a little and try not to always “walk on by!” Yuca Fritters Yield: 18-20 fritters Yuca Fritters with Tomatillo Sauce 1 1/2 lb. fresh or 1 lb. frozen yuca root 2 Tbsp. vegetable oil 1/2 c. finely sliced scallions 2 garlic cloves, minced 2 lg. eggs 2 Tbsp. chopped parsley 1 1/2 tsp. salt 1/2 tsp. coarse ground black pepper 1/4 tsp. baking powder 3-4 Tbsp. vegetable oil If using fresh yuca: peel the root and cut into large chunks. Put them in a medium saucepan covered with salted water. Bring to a boil; turn down to a low boil and cook until tender, about 30 minutes. Drain; cool. If using frozen yuca, follow package cooking instructions. Drain; cool. While the fresh or frozen yuca is cooking, sauté the scallions and garlic in the oil in a small skillet. Cook over moderate heat for 3 minutes, or until softened. Cool. When the yuca is cool enough to handle, pull the hard inner stem out of each piece; discard. Place the yuca in a medium bowl. Add the cooked scallions and garlic, the eggs, parsley, salt, pepper, and baking powder. Mash well with a potato masher until the mixture is smooth. Chill for at least 30 minutes. In a large skillet over high heat, put in enough oil to cover the bottom of the pan. When the oil is hot, scoop out rounded tablespoons of the batter and place in the pan. Flatten with the back of the spoon. Do not overcrowd, the fritters should not be touching. Cook for about 3 minutes per side, until golden brown. Drain on paper toweling. Add more oil to the pan as needed and continue cooking the fritters until the batter is gone. To keep warm: Have oven set at 200°. Lay fritters on a cookie sheet, not overlapping and not covered. Serve with Tomatillo Sauce. Peel and cut yuca into large chunks. Mash together the cooked yuca and remaining ingredients Fry fritters in hot oil (do not overcrowd) until golden brown on both sides Tomatillo Sauce for Fritters Yield: @ 2 cups Fresh tomatillos 2-3 Tbsp. vegetable oil 3/4 c. small diced onions 1 poblano pepper, cored, seeded, cut into small dice 2 garlic cloves, minced 1 lb. fresh tomatillos, skin peeled and cored, cut into 1/2” dice 1/2 tsp. salt 1/4 tsp. coarse ground black pepper 1/4 c. fresh chopped cilantro In a medium saucepan over moderate heat, cooke the onions, poblano, and garlic until onions are translucent. Add the tomatillos. Sauté with the vegetables until they begin to soften. Cover, cook until the tomatillos are soft. Season with salt and pepper; adjust seasoning to taste. Using an immersion blender or a traditional blender, purée the sauce until it is smooth. Blend in the cilantro. Peel the papery husk away from the flesh. After removing the cores, cut tomatillos into chunks. Cook vegetable mixture down until very soft. Purée using an immersion or traditional blender. Put in a bowl and serve on the side of the fritters.. Bonnie Fishman attended the Cordon Bleu Cookery School in London. Later, she owned and operated Bonnie’s Patisserie in Southfield, Mich. and Bonnie’s Kitchen and Catering in Bloomfield Hills, Mich. She has taught cooking for over 35 years and created hundreds of recipes. She is now living in Northern California.

By Andy Borowitz September 2, 2026 Nic Amaya on Unsplash WASHINGTON (The Borowitz Report)—Demonstrating his seriousness about declaring war on Canada, on Wednesday Donald J. Trump obtained a medical note from his new podiatrist exempting him from military service. The podiatrist, Dr. Mehmet Oz, indicated in the note that a “Vietnam War-era issue involving bone spurs” would prevent Trump from participating in an invasion of America’s northern neighbor. “President Trump’s bone spurs would become dangerously inflamed if exposed to Canada’s frozen tundra,” Oz wrote. “If he decides to put boots on the ground, his feet should not be in those boots.”

By Amy Lennard Goehner / Hudson, N.Y. The author and her big brother Jeff in their Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn childhood home The sibling bond is something my former Time magazine colleague Jeffrey Kluger discussed brilliantly in a TED talk that I first watched 15 years ago. He said, “Our parents leave us too early, our spouse and our children come along too late. Our siblings are the only ones who are with us for the entire ride.” That sibling bond runs through my veins. Several years after we adopted our son Nate, who has autism, I had this conversation with my late husband Fred: Me: “I really want to adopt another baby.” Fred: “What if he or she has special needs?” Me: “Then we’ll be experts!” I then said something that sealed the deal and led to our welcoming Joey into our lives three years later: “I want Nate to have a sibling. I cannot imagine my life without my brother.” In the case of Jeff, my older brother, and me, our parents didn’t exactly leave us, but neither were they always present. We never doubted they loved us, but my dad Jerry was often on the road and when he was home, weekends belonged to him. While I eventually figured out the way to spend time with him was by watching sports together, that came later. The author and her brother Jeff on their only visit to Santa, somewhere in Brooklyn Growing up, he never said things like, “Get in the car, kids, let’s go on a picnic!” That kind of picnic-going dad drove a station wagon. Jerry favored Cadillacs or Thunderbirds (including a two-seater which he backed into a tree, ripping the door off.) And a picnic would have taken place on a weekend, when Jerry played golf or gin with the guys at the club. One of Jeff’s earliest memories was of Jerry taking him when he was 4 to Coney Island. And then plopping him in the sand when Jerry went to play handball nearby. My mom Emily and I never cooked together or did mani-pedis, which is what I assumed girls did with their moms. I recall my parents taking us to exactly two movies when I was growing up. The first was The Vikings, the film where a hawk gouges out Kirk Douglas’ eye and Tony Curtis gets his hand cut off. I was six. And the other was West Side Story, rife with knife fights, shootings, and a sexual assault which still haunts me. I was nine. But luckily, those grown-up movie memories were drowned out by the countless TV hours I spent every Saturday night when my brother Jeff babysat me. We would watch non-scary fare like Lawrence Welk and Have Gun–Will Travel. I was just so content to be with Jeff. I so wanted to be like him! To this day I eat left-handed. Why? Because Jeff is a lefty. (On hearing that, I recall my therapist scribbling furiously.) The author and Jeff in Chicago at a Cubs game near his family's home, decades ago Throughout the years, it has always been Jeff I called during dark times, including the darkest night of my life. On a night in June 27 years ago, as my husband Fred lay beside me, he yelled out loud once and then was silent. I later learned a heart attack is what led to his lapsing into a coma. Ten-week-old Joey was in his bassinet at the foot of our bed, and 5-year-old Nate was asleep in his room. After frantically calling 911, I called Jeff. He took the next plane from Chicago to New York to be with me. And the next night as Fred lie in a hospital bed, Jeff and I were in the next- door room, stretched out on couches. “Fred can’t die,” I sobbed to Jeff. “Who will give Nate his injections? And I don’t know where he stores the Christmas ornaments.” Fred died that night. And at his service that Sunday, on Father’s Day, I never let go of my brother’s arm. My parents were there but I only remember holding tight to Jeff. The author’s sons, toddler Joey and 6-year-old Nate And today, I see that fierce bond between my sons Joey and Nate. In all the years after Fred died, I had to give so much more to Nate because of his special needs. Joey could have resented Nate, and I would have understood that. But I’ve never seen anything but pure love flow between them. Though Joey never knew his dad, there’s a kind of dad-like instinct in him. When Joey was 8, and Nate 14, I remember taking them once to buy shoes. Before we got to the store, Joey said to me, “If Nate has a tantrum, I can handle him. I’m better at handling tantrums than you. No offense.” None taken. He was absolutely right. In a favorite photo when Jeff was around 6 and I was 3, Jeff is tightly holding my hand and I’m standing as close as possible to him, my head touching his arm. My big brother, watching over me. Nate and Joey on a visit to Mom and stepdad Rick in Hudson, NY In another favorite photo, 6-year-old Nate is closely clasping toddler Joey. The big brother, guardian of his little brother. Only of course the opposite is true between them. But both those photos tell the same story. An unrivaled loving bond with the only one with us for the entire ride. Amy Lennard Goehner has always had Lady Luck on her side in landing dream jobs — in Korea as a Peace Corps volunteer. and then as a GED instructor to soldiers on a U.S. Army base, and years later as a reporter at Sports Illustrated, covering boxing and horse racing. That luck continued with reporting jobs at Sports Illustrated for Kids and at Time magazine. She is currently a contributing writer to AARP’s Livable Communities, writing about people who make life better in their communities. Amy lives in Hudson in upstate N.Y. with her husband Rick Remington and their collection of permanent and on-loan dogs.

By Dr. Nancy Fishman / Morgan Hill, Calif. It started with misplaced household items. The hand mixer never found its way back to the appliance garage until her husband retrieved it from the refrigerator and returned it to the place it had occupied for 40 years. The car keys that were always on the entry table next to the coat rack had grown wings and were discovered at times in the dishwasher, behind the toaster, and in the trash. Missed appointments and meals, lack of hygiene and cleanliness were early signs that changes were happening to a woman whom I will refer to as Ellen. This was more serious than forgetting names of people, books or movies. It was more alarming than walking into a room to do something, only to forget the intended task. It was oddly eccentric, quirky really. These incidents would have been laughable, but Ellen’s’ husband, whom I will refer to as Larry, and two adult daughters and their families could no longer ignore the ways she attempted to coverup her memory malfunctions. Sadly, Ellen could not admit she was struggling. If she forgot to show up to a luncheon, she would blame Larry for not telling her it was on the calendar. There was never an attempt to take responsibility for her missteps; after all, if she did, Ellen would be admitting she was in decline. This family, like millions of others, was watching a loved one lose cognitive abilities. That’s not like the instant change a stroke can cause, but rather a slow decline that allows room for rationalization and denial. Ellen’s family asked me to help them mediate the difficult, but necessary conversations they were having about her. In my practice as a psychologist and strategy consultant, I have worked with countless families on issues that evoke tension and conflict. This family was particularly challenging for me because some of them were in serious denial about the likelihood that Ellen had some type of dementia. This was illustrated by the following conversation between her two adult daughters: First daughter: Mom sure is forgetful lately. She must have a lot on her mind. She needs more sleep. Second daughter: Do you think she has dementia? First daughter: No! It’s just a little forgetfulness. All her friends are like this. The term “dementia” is common in our vernacular. Since I am not a medical doctor, and dementia is not my field of expertise, I did research to provide me with the knowledge I needed to help this family in crisis. What I learned is that there are actually several types of memory loss we often group together and call dementia: The most common is Alzheimer’s disease. The Center for Disease Control’s website states that Alzheimer’s comprises 60-80 percent of memory loss cases. Alzheimer’s begins with short-term memory loss. The U.K.’s Alzheimer’s Society asserts that Alzheimer’s begins years before the first symptoms appear and causes damage to the brain, which presents as memory loss, language problems, thinking skills, everyday tasks, and mood alteration. The second most common type of memory loss is vascular dementia. Symptoms include difficulty in planning and concentration, sudden confusion and problems completing sequential tasks. A third type of memory loss is called Dementia with Lewy Bodies. Symptoms of this type include delusions, lack of focus, and problems with sleep and movement. A fourth type of memory loss is Frontotemporal dementia. Sometimes referred to as “Pick’s Disease,” its symptoms include difficulty with language and personality changes. Dementia can also be diagnosed as mixed, a combination of more than one type. There are also less common, but very specific types of dementia, such as Parkinson’s Disease dementia, alcohol-related dementia, and others related to cognitive impairment and learning disabilities. After I had several conversations with the family, they all agreed Ellen needed an evaluation Their choice was to accomplish this without telling her the real purpose of her doctor appointments, which they creatively made to ease her anxiety. Ellen believed that most people her age had exams like these to prevent memory loss. She gladly agreed to have the evaluation.. At the conclusion of the evaluation, she was diagnosed with mixed dementia--a combination of Alzheimer’s and vascular dementia. The family opted to withhold this information from her believing she would suffer too much anxiety if she had an actual diagnosis. They knew she would be happier and easier to be with if she were less agitated. They pulled together and designed a schedule of caregiving that would allow her to live a normal life with proper care and nutrition. They adopted a way of talking to her that minimized her anxiety about forgetfulness. For example, when she repeated herself, they would no longer remind her she was being repetitive. They simply removed any shame and allowed her to be the person she has become, even if the repetition became annoying. Dementia should be diagnosed by experts in the field, usually through a series of exams performed in a medical setting such as interviewing, cognitive testing, and brain imaging. Only with a comprehensive diagnosis can a person with dementia receive proper care. The first step in the treatment of dementia is the family’s awareness and admission that there are very real changes occurring in their loved one. Like the family in this story, some family members usually recognize the problem while others prefer to believe the symptoms are merely typical signs of growing older. Dementia is a family issue. When one family member has it, all are affected. Approaching evaluations and solutions in a concerted effort yields the best outcomes. Seeking professional help to have guided conversations can bring families closer together as they share the burdens and privileges of caring for a dementia patient. This column is devoted to psychological topics that speak to the human condition, such as relationships, family, love, loss, and happiness. The ideas, thoughts, philosophies, and observations expressed here are personal and not meant as professional advice. Names and identifying information have been changed to protect the privacy of real people. Dr. Nancy Fishman moved to Santa Clara County in 2016 from Michigan, where she was a practicing psychologist. Currently, she is a strategy consultant to individuals, families, businesses, family law attorneys and their clients, working on coping, managing, reorganizing, pivoting and innovating. She is the founder of Forgotten Harvest, one of the nation’s largest food recovery operations. She is also the creator of Silicon Valley’s A La Carte food recovery and distribution initiative, and the organizer of Feeding Morgan Hill. Nancy lives on a family compound with her husband, sisters, brother-in-law, and a pack of dogs. NancyFishmanPhD.com ForgottenHarvest.org

By Stan Fischler / North Golan Heights, Israel Water carves the land and family shapes the soul. Three generations strong: (left to right) the author, his son Simon, and his grandson Ariel this month at Banias Falls, the largest waterfall in Israel. I haven't heard our air raid siren for a while here at Kibbutz El-Rom. That's a good sign -- sort of. Recently, I’ve gained a reassuring familiarity with what we in our little village about 3,000 feet up from Israel's Galilee call a "safe room." When the sirens wail, that's where up to six family members crowd on either a large mattress or a couple of makeshift ones, waiting for the all-clear signal to be heard. Sometimes the wait is interminable, which meant that we all "safely" try to sleep–sardine-style–until dawn breaks and we can resume what amounts to normal work. My means of making a living at age 94 consists of writing at least one three-part column about the sport of major league hockey and its mother hen, the National Hockey League. I do it with a rare blend of uncertainty and stay-alive zeal. For the past four war years, I have never missed a daily deadline because of a combination of rent-to-pay motivation and sheer luck. While the motivation speaks for itself, Lady Luck arrived in assorted forms. Since the North Golan Heights is shoulder-to-shoulder with the Lebanese border, hostile Hezbollah ravage with incessant rocketry such villages as Metula where all of my grandchildren practice their ice hockey. Metula's Canada Centre, a gorgeous array of sports such as swimming, bowling, ice skating and workout rooms, has to be off-limits, as well as the little town Kiryat Shmona, a larger community where our family shops. The town was targeted daily until it became another ghost town. Yet–as pure luck would have it–El-Rom was spared. Mind you when I say "spared," it refers to actual bombing. We never were spared the incessant fear that we were next. As they say, "You never know." But chance-taking is quite de rigeur as part of our lifestyle. When my son Simon and I required a trip to bombarded Kiryat Shmona, we drove there, hoping for the best. And got it. Not long after we loaded up on groceries and medical supplies, a rocket hit the very street where we shopped. Another time, we visited our favorite falafel joint and discovered that it was partially boarded up–a direct hit–but still serving their herby and earthy Israeli eats despite the damage. The "ceasefire" is such that we never know when it will cease. We drove through Metula as it rebuilt after an earlier ceasefire, only to be blasted by more rocketry once the ceasefire ceased. Arguably the most refreshing aspect of the conflict, from my point of view, is the positive manner in which the general public has energetically maintained what my mom Molly called a "grin and bear it" attitude. Wherever I've turned–and I've done my share of whirlwinding–war-weary citizens continue to rebound. Exhibit A was our visit to heavily blitzed Kiryat Shmona, where Simon and I met Ariel and his gal pal, Adel Kogen. Kiryat Shmona has a fresh look, and new enterprises are growing like wildflowers in the Golan. We pulled up to a vintage Leyland truck that was turned into a much-loved pizza place. Before the war, the pizza truck stood alone. It has since been moved to a formerly empty area the size of Yankee Stadium. But here's the trick: an assortment of eateries is now spread in a circle with the pizza truck at home plate. Suffice to say, I savored the best burger of my entire life at -- what else? -- the new concentric food-filling station. At the moment, calm prevails and my computer is doing what it did during the worst of times–working. Our family, thanks to Simon and his wife Lilach, not to mention the kids, has found a way to carry on through the whole ugly mess. But we don't kid ourselves for one half-second that the latest ceasefire will be reduced to "fire" and the ugly song of the sirens will again be heard. And the "safe room” will become a temporary bedroom air-raid shelter once more. Stan was gifted with a silver hockey stick when inducted into the USA Hockey Hall of Fame by the Islanders in 2020 Stanley I. Fischler (born March 31, 1932) is an American historian of hockey and the New York City subway, as well as a broadcaster, author of over 100 books, and professor. As a broadcaster with MSG, Fischler has won seven Emmy Awards (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stan_Fischler)

By George Guidall / White Plains, N.Y. In 1961, the author, as a young actor, went on a U.S. government-sponsored 17-country tour with a troupe that included famed actress Helen Hayes I called her from Palm Beach. “Mom? Mom!” “Yes, what? What’s wrong?” “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. It’s…” “So why are you calling?” “Mom, listen. I’m going to Europe. 17 countries! I got a job! I’m going to…” “Listen, Georgie, that’s not funny! Don’t joke.” “It’s not a joke! I got a job. It’s my first real job as an actor, Mom! It’s a European tour! Three plays sponsored by the State Department. And it’s with Helen Hayes and June Havoc and a lot of other…” “With Helen Hayes? You mean it? Helen Hayes? They’re paying you?” “Of course they’re paying me. I’m in the union now. Listen, I can’t talk now. I’ll call you later and tell you more…” “Wait! Wait! I want to ask if you…” “Can’t talk now, Mom. Just wanted to tell you the news. Love you. Bye.” So! I was now certified. Verified! I was a professional among professionals. Assistant stage manager and understudy for key roles. Thrilling, though when I was about to sign the contract, I was asked by the company manager in a tone that carried no smile if I was aware of the unrest in the Middle East. This was 1961. There was unrest all around that area. Israel, The United Arab Republic, Egypt, Jordan. I felt there was budding conflict in the whole region. I was well aware of the situation. The man’s look grew more intense. His eyebrows drew closer together as he informed me that our entry into Egypt was presenting a problem, since we were scheduled to enter Israel first. Then I heard, “While we’re at it, did you ever think of changing your name now that you’re at the start of a theatrical career?” I smiled, signed the contract, and admitted that I had already been thinking about doing that. I smiled again and left. In fact, I had been playing with my name awhile. George Parker? George Swift? I was searching for a suitable standout for a Broadway marquee. The night before I signed the contract, I had discussed this with a friend. He was a member of the Catholic Actors Guild and he said he thought Jewish people received Jewish or Hebrew names at birth “They do,” I replied. He grinned. “That’s great.” I sat thinking. “But my name is Gedahlyah! I can’t be George Gedalyah. On a marquee? Are you kidding?” He lit a cigarette. “What’s wrong with that?” “Hey, wait. What about George Gedal? No. No. Not quite.” I glanced at his pack of Pall Mall cigarettes on the table. “How about George Gedall, pronounced like Pall Mall? No?” He stared at me.” It’s Pell Mell.” “OK! George Gedall, but fancy, like Guidall, rhyming with Pell Mell, but keep the a!” He extended his hand to shake mine. “That’s it! George Guidall like Pell Mell!” “That’s it!” I grabbed his hand. “George Shapiro is now...drum roll, please... George Guidall like Pell Mell!” So that was that. And we never did play in Egypt And my passport read: George Shapiro, KNOWN AS George Guidall But no matter. Mr. Guidall was touring 17 countries with Helen Hayes and June Havoc. And he was bringing his mother to meet Helen Hayes! At Kennedy Airport, in a room filled with so many famous faces of Broadway, I caught my mother as she entered, eyes wide open. She raised her eyebrows with a huge smile as if to say, “You made it, Georgie!” I took her hand and walked over to Helen, (yes, HELEN), and said, “Mom, this is Helen Hayes! Helen, I’d like you to meet my mother.” Helen smiled graciously. “I’m so happy to meet you. We’re so happy to have George with us.” Mom moved closer to her, eyes fixed on a very noticeable cross on a pedant Helen often wore. “Well, Mrs. Hayes. It’s nice to meet you, too. Very, very nice.” My mother paused, raised those eyebrows, and with a glance towards me said: “But listen. Mrs. Hayes...maybe you can talk him out of it?” I don’t think I’d ever seen Helen Hayes smile so…grandly. I was struck deaf at the moment. I don’t recall Helen’s reply, but I’ll always remember her smile. I still do. It turned out that Egypt didn’t welcome us. We were scheduled to go to Israel first. That was considered a slight to the Egyptian officials, so we never got there. But George Guidall was touring Europe. 17 countries. George Guidall played the gentleman caller in Glass Menagerie in front of an audience of silent Turks in Ankara. And George Guidall sent postcards from each country to his mother, signed, Your son, George Guidall. George Guidall in Germany. I took German as a foreign language. It was an easy A. I had even won the New Jersey State German elocution contest, though Mom never knew. Germany was a dreaded cave of darkness in her mind. She stayed away from it. I stayed away from mentioning it. As we circled Dusseldorf in the plane before landing, Mom and Dad were on my mind, their faces frozen in a silent stare. We were then informed that the usual welcoming party, government-sponsored, would be held in the Hilton Hotel on its roof garden. I was to help unload at the theatre in case their crew was weak on English or ours was weak on German. A beautiful sunny day. The German crew members were glad to see us and spoke a pretty good English. One standing next to me in jeans, a leather vest and a red beret spoke to me. “Welcome. Welcome to Germany.” ‘Thank you.” “You have been here before?” “No. Not really.” He smiled. “You have brought much material, sir.” “Yes. we have.” “And you have a very big party tonight, yes?” “Oh, yes.” I had broken out in a sweat. “It’s on the Hitler Roo…NO! NO! The Hitler Garden, the Hitler...” He frowned, then smiled again, nodding his head slowly. “Oh...you mean the Hilton Roof? He looked straight into my eyes and repeated it slowly. “HIL…ton.” With that, he smiled again, differently, turned away slowly, still nodding, and headed towards the loading area behind him. I just stood there, thinking. George Guidall may have been touring Europe, but George Shapiro was in Germany. I followed him in. George Guidall is an actor and one of the most prolific audiobook narrators in history, having recorded over 2,000 books. Guidall has built a successful 40-year career in theater, performing on Broadway and winning the coveted Obie Award Off-Broadway. Known for an expressive baritone and exceptional emotional nuance, he has brought life to classic literature from Homer’s Iliad to Cervantes’ Don Quixote to the works of Dostoyevsky, as well as a wide range of bestsellers. He has received multiple Audie Awards, a Lifetime Achievement Award, and recently was honored by the Audio Publishers Association with an induction into its Hall of Fame.

By Ben Leeds / Tampa, Florida Mortarboard in May Ten days after walking off the stage as a graduate of Marist University in Poughkeepsie, N.Y., I stepped onto a plane, taking me to a new city and state, a new world for that matter. Three weeks before graduating, I had received a formal offer from the United Soccer League (USL), North America’s largest professional soccer organization, to be a digital content specialist at the league's office in Tampa, and to write and edit articles for its websites. I know I’m one of the lucky ones. Entry-level journalism jobs, especially ones in sports, are increasingly difficult to find by recent college graduates. During Marist’s senior week, filled with festivities leading up to graduation day, when people asked me when I would start my new position in Tampa, I watched them raise their eyebrows when they heard that my flight to Florida was on the following Monday. I tried not to think about it much, focusing instead on enjoying the fleeting time with the people who had made my college experience so special. The goodbyes were hard. There were so many, so fast. While many college students can relate, the element of moving a thousand miles away put things more into perspective for me. When saying farewell to my closest friends, ones I knew I’d stay in touch with, it was sad to not know when I might see them next. For other friends, it dawned on me that I truly had no idea whether I’d ever see them again. I blinked, then all of a sudden, I was peering out the window as my flight headed south to Tampa International Airport. With uninterrupted time to myself for the first time in what felt like forever, I scrolled through my iPhone, looking at photos from the previous month, trying to remember the portion of my life that I was leaving behind. The author in Tampa in June, awaiting the arrival of his new furniture Starting from Scratch There’s no “welcome week” in the real world. Obviously, I didn’t expect there to be, but it was hard to grasp the fact that I was just… there. One of the millions of adults in the country who support themselves with a full-time job. I’m a sports fan at my core, but I never truly got into soccer at any level of fandom beyond casual. I played the sport from age four to six, and after my lengthy career in the sport, I all but abandoned it. Yes, I watched the World Cup when it rolled around and vaguely knew some of the big names playing in Europe. But to be honest, I got most of my soccer knowledge from watching the show Ted Lasso, the TV comedy based on England’s Premier League and the second-tier English league, the EFL Championship. I certainly knew nothing about the USL. I did research ahead of job interviews and upon getting my job offer just to familiarize myself with the many leagues that make up the company, but when I started, I still had a lot to learn. Now, two-and-a-half months later, I think I’ve hit my stride. My co-workers have been very welcoming from the beginning, and I’ve settled into covering the USL and the game of soccer. I’m pretty confident in my skills as a sportswriter, so I knew that in time, I’d adapt to writing about a new sport. I love writing about an undercovered league. It reminds me a lot of what I did in college. Marist University, and the conference in which it competed, received little to no media attention, and that presented me with an opportunity to build a unique brand for myself as a writer. It’s similar at the USL. Though most teams across the country have local media who cover them, I still believe my voice has the potential to reach fans of the USL around the country, and I take pride in that. And, of course, it’s more fun to be a writer who is being paid to cover sports. I loved my job as a sportswriter and editor for my school’s publications, but the unpaid work often felt grueling, with little tangible reward, especially given how small our staffs were. There are still so many people at my company I haven’t met yet, like the professionals in the operations and broadcast departments. It’s interesting being a small part of a much bigger equation; as one of just a handful of staff writers, it makes my responsibilities feel large, even in a big office. Newsroom and new colleagues in July Becoming a Floridian I spent my first few weeks in Florida astonished by the weather. Every time I stepped outside, it felt like I was walking into a wall of heat. The humidity down here is no joke. But I experienced enough brutal winters along the Hudson River in Poughkeepsie that I’m okay trading bitterly cold winters for overly hot summers. Florida, and Tampa itself, are not entirely new to me. My grandparents live about two and a half hours away in Bonita Springs, and I’ve visited them a few times with my family during the winter. Additionally, I traveled to Tampa twice with my dad; once to cross off Tropicana Field, the home of the Tampa Bay Rays, from our bucket list of seeing all of the MLB parks, and the second time to see our favorite team, the New York Yankees, play at their spring training site. But not once in any of my previous trips to the Sunshine State did I imagine myself living here. Though I loved the warm weather and Tampa’s modern, up-and-coming vibe, with beautiful areas like the Tampa Riverwalk along the Hillsborough River, I loved being from the Northeast even more. Been there, done that At school, I was used to being a big fish in a small pond. At Marist, a school with just over 5,000 undergraduate students, I ran the student-run sports reporting publication, Center Field, and also helped run the on-campus newspaper, The Marist Circle. Every time I walked to class, I’d see someone I knew – a close friend or someone I had met in passing, or anyone in between – and that was comforting. Though everyone at my office has been welcoming and kind to me, and I enjoy going to work each day, it feels like something is missing. It’s as though everything I spent the previous years building for myself is somewhere else now. I’m back to square one. I try to remind myself that I’ve been here before, and that I found my way out. It took me a while to settle in as a college student. Though I made friends with people during my first semester, I didn’t have anyone with whom I felt a genuine connection yet, and or much of a purpose at school. I had an interest in making a career out of my sports fandom, but I had no idea how. Then I joined Center Field during my second semester. My passion for writing developed quickly, and I earned a position on the board for the upcoming school year. There. I had found my purpose. I see similarities between the way I felt then and the way I feel now, starting the rest of my life. Once I leave work, socially, my day ends. I go for a run, and I don’t speak to anyone. I go to the movies by myself, and I don’t speak to anyone – besides ordering popcorn. It’s allowed me to focus on making a strong first impression at work and giving my career everything I have. Naturally, I’m spent by the time I get home. It’s nice to relax, lie on my couch and watch a movie or show, and not have to coordinate plans with friends or overthink a text message from a girl I’m interested in seeing. I guess that this is my second semester, this time in the work world. I’ve got my nose to the grindstone, learning my craft, and wondering what this semester will bring. Ben Leeds, a Trumbull, Connecticut native, lives in Tampa, Florida, where he works for the United Soccer League (USL) as a digital content specialist. He graduated from Marist University in Poughkeepsie, where he studied communications and was the editor-in-chief for Center Field, Marist’s student-run online sports reporting publication, and a managing editor of the campus newspaper, the Marist Circle. Previously, Ben interned at the Highlands Current, reporting on news in the Beacon, New York, area and with Forever Blueshirts, a website covering the New York Rangers.

By Lydia Hope Wilen / New York City If you’re expecting a story by The Maiden and The Maven, you’ll get them, but in this issue, we won’t be joined at the hip or the lip. The Maven will be giving you insight, an education and a tour that only he can do. And so, this is my Maiden voyage, letting you in on three show biz experiences that should make you glad you’re otherwise employed. The Pilot That Didn’t Clear Takeoff Sweethearts Stiller and Meara Bob Stewart, TV game show genius creator/producer (google him and be impressed) gave me my first TV writing job on a celebrity-driven game show called Personality, followed by a year of writing material for Three on a Match. By then, Bob knew my sense of humor and my work ethic and hired me as head writer of a pilot for a comedy show called Off the Wall starring Jerry Stiller and Anne Meara, a successful husband and wife comedy team. Eager to get started, I wrote a dozen blackout gags, each to precede the opening credits. A couple of examples: ANNE I want to wear something that makes me look pencil thin. JERRY Put on a yellow leotard that says Fort Ticonderoga. JERRY Honey, it’s our anniversary. Let’s go out and have some real fun tonight. ANNE Good idea. If you get home first, leave a light on in the hallway. The opening gag turned out to be a closing gag. Due to a disagreement, the network fired Bob Stewart and pulled the pilot. Off the Wall was off the network’s new season schedule. And the Plot Thins "With some tweaking, this will make a helluva good sitcom." One day, I got a surprise call from Steve Weiss, my William Morris agent. He was the one surprised. Bill Cosby looked at the agency’s list of comedy writers and pointed to my name. “She’s the one to write my idea for a TV sitcom.” I looked at the list, and my name was the only nonrecognizable one… the only one without any sitcom credits. (In case you’re wondering, this took place in the late 1970s, long before Bill’s criminal woes came to light, along with trials, sentencing, prison and his eventual release in June 2021.) Bill and I met in the agency’s conference room. He told me his idea: a man would be the family dog. He acted out being that talking dog, dealing with members of his family. I couldn’t stop laughing, all the while taking notes based on his funny performance. He was really funny. My deal was to write a treatment laying out a cold open (a teaser), then three acts, and end with a tag line (a stinger). Once the treatment was approved, I was to write the script. Since I was not yet a member of the union (Writers Guild of America East) the network and my agent agreed that I would be paid $10,000. I was thrilled … and naive, entering into this agreement without a union contract, or any contract. I wrote the treatment in record time, handed it to my agent who submitted it to Bill. The following day, while I was out, Cosby called. My mother answered the phone and had a great conversation with him. He promised my mom that he would introduce me to a nice Jewish doctor. But first, he told her to tell me to write the script. Halfway through the assignment, my agent called and told me the network nixed the project because Cosby didn’t want to play the lead … the dog. “But I’ll still get paid, right?” The agent told me that it’s not smart to ask for the money. He said, “They’ll never want to use you again.” I didn’t ask for the money and–you guessed it–they never used me again. By the way, Bill Cosby never did fix me up with a Jewish doctor. Little did we know, he’d be needing a Jewish lawyer. Brought to you by the letters “N-O” Paul Dooley––recognize him? PBS had The Electric Company; a program intended for children who had graduated from Sesame Street and were ready for more mature humor. Paul Dooley, the head writer, wanted to hire another writer for the show. Paul and I were clients of the William Morris Agency and so my agent made an appointment for me to be interviewed by him. The meeting went well and I left with a fun assignment. On my short walk home, I figured out how to humorously handle the intended lesson. Once I was home and in front of my typewriter (that’s how long ago this was), I was on a tear. In no time, I completed the audition, walked back to Children’s Television Workshop offices and dropped off my pages. The following day, my agent called to tell me the bad news. “Sorry, but you didn’t get the job. Dooley hired someone else.” That evening, the phone rang and it was Dooley. I thought he changed his mind and is giving me the job. WRONG! He apologized for NOT hiring me. I asked, “You found a better writer?” He said, “Oh no. I hired a man who’s married and has a kid.” And then, while I was steaming, this yutz had the nerve to ask me out to dinner…the real reason he called. A few years later, Dooley left The Electric Company and became a successful character actor. He’s 98 now and living in California. If I could talk to him, I’d ask how he would feel if a man in a hiring position treated either of his daughters the way he treated me. DOOLEY NOTED! Looking back at the jobs that fell through, I realize they made room for better opportunities that followed. That's how it seems to be, especially in Show Business. Legendary actor Mickey Rooney, whose career spanned nine decades, summed it up perfectly when he said, “You always pass failure on the way to success." Lydia Hope Wilen began her professional career as a comedy writer on Personality, a celebrity-driven game show. Her greatest gig was her extremely successful collaboration with her late sister Joany as nonfiction bestselling authors (18 books), which led to the sisters becoming popular TV personalities. They continued as journalists (NY Daily News Sunday full-page feature, Celebrity Surveys for Cosmopolitan Magazine, cover stories for Parade Magazine) and got the opportunity to write and talent coordinate a Nickelodeon series hosted by Leonard Nimoy. The Wilens had an unusually versatile writing range from Reading Rainbow episodes, to off-color comedy skits for Dr. Ruth Westheimer’s TV show, Sexually Speaking, plus three optioned screenplays. And that's just for starters . . .

By Martin Johnson / New York City The first time I stumbled onto a photograph of a naked woman in a magazine, I had an unusual epiphany: "I want to do that," my pre-teen mind screamed silently. I was probably nine at the time (I think it was 1969), and the response was utterly logical. I was wearing two sweaters and corduroy pants in my parent’s Chicago home and still a bit chilly, as Windy City winters lived up to their freezing reputation. The magazine was almost certainly Playboy, and Miss December or some such was walking nude along a beautiful beach. Lust would arrive later. I just wanted to be as comfortable as she looked. Not just soaking up the early morning sun, but comfortable in her skin. She was physically self-confident in a way that I could barely (double entendre intended) imagine. The thought of objectifying her was secondary. To me, she was the latest example of women like Gloria Steinem and Shirley Chisolm who were breaking the limits set for women. I reflect on that moment almost six decades later, and it’s fascinating to see how things have changed. While far from the norm, men and women are looking at the female nude differently. How did we get there? First let’s look back. My journey might be instructive. My discovery was an honest stumble. I grew up in a home so stuffed with reading material that it might have been a fire hazard. Bookshelves with classics lined the living room, which was full of coffee and end tables overflowing with copies of Time, Newsweek, and The New Yorker. I was an avid reader (my dad used to bring me Pauline Kael movie reviews to read of films I was far too young to attend). I may have perused a profile of an anti-Vietnam war activist or a review of a Miles Davis record in Playboy before finding the centerfold. In the following weeks and months (and years and decades), it was made clear to me that my perspective was not widely shared. The mainstream view was that Miss December and her successors were weak, not strong. I found a few exceptions like the work of Helmut Newton or Veruschka that kept me believing, but it was an argument that didn't seem worth the effort. So, I silently admired the poise and flamboyance in the models of Playboy and a newcomer named Penthouse. In my early adult years, living in New York City and working as a journalist and cheesemonger, the fitness boom hit. Suddenly, millions of women took to the streets in leggings and sport bra combos and a few bold souls even adopted unitards as their daily garb. Their confidence and casual authority were inspiring. I immediately saw the parallels to my magazine idols –these women believed in themselves and refused to let societal restrictions define them. But there was a key difference. Whereas a male nude might be viewed as predatory, a man in leggings or a unitard, was simply choosing to play on the tougher side of the bracket so to speak. At long last, I escaped the nerdist prison of my youth and became a fitness buff. The gym or yoga studio was a daily stop on my itinerary, and a bicycle became my primary form of transportation. In the process, I scrapped my jeans and t-shirts for many varieties of Lycra wear, and if queried, I'd tell people that women were strong in many ways that men should emulate. And many men got it! One night biking home from my retail job, wearing a Nike maroon unitard with a cool set of stripes down the side, a pair of young men catcalled me as I waited at a stop light. When they realized that I was a guy, they recoiled. I balanced the dialogue by telling them that I didn’t think of being thought of as either female or gay was an insult, just inaccurate. Before we parted ways, one of them told me, “you have a bad ass and an even more badassed outfit.” I smiled and pedaled away. In the early 2000s, I was physically self-confident enough to abandon jeans and make my primary wardrobe leggings and catsuits. The one by Jean Paul Gaultier I reserved for special occasions. The author resplendent in his Gaultier garb (2002) That was a comfortable plateau, but about 10 years ago, just as my fitness devotion was starting to wane, I stumbled upon a new level of inspiration while perusing social media. Women like Laetitia, Liz Crosby, Fanny Muller, Jasmin Rituper, Poppyseed Dancer, and the fitness trainers of the AudriAsana.com crowd, especially Michelle Hanson and Rhyanna Watson, presented powerful representation of my original belief that a nude woman is like Michelangelo's David, the embodiment of courage and confidence. Their photos were nudes in nature, in urban spaces, and of course in dancerly and yogic poses. Most of these women were already in middle age, and happily debunking stereotypes. The comment sections, rather than a cesspool of negativity, were full of praise, compliments and awe, many if not mostly from men who clearly identified with rather than objectified the women. The timing couldn't have been better. Due to the vagaries of age (ouchies and minor injuries) and an overloaded work schedule, I had fallen off the fitness wagon. The presence and poise these women possessed reminded me of why the gym and yoga mat had been my happy place. I began to build a routine again imagining that I was honoring my inner Jasmin or inner Michelle or other inspirations. I even pitched a memoir about it, but literary agents missed the point, which reinforced my belief that these bold souls were still ahead of their time. Nevertheless, the path toward enlightenment and possibly happiness seemed clear and accessible again. It was reinforced two summers ago, when both of my roommates went away for a month. My apartment became a clothing optional zone, and I experienced the enormous self-validation that comes from allowing your body to interact with the surrounding environment. I began to aspire to nude fitness and even vacations. And more importantly, I became completely convinced that my 9-year-old self was right after all. Martin Johnson has been a New York-based freelance writer since 1984. During that time, his work has appeared in the New York Times, New York Magazine, Rolling Stone and many other publications and websites. He presently writes regularly for the Wall Street Journal and NPR’s “Fresh Air.” He also manages 67Gourmet, a cheese-and-specialty grocery shop in Manhattan.

From Judge Napolitano's "Judging Freedom"